The Scotsman (3 page)

Rebellion flared in her, and might have spewed unwisely forth had Nicholas not intervened, leaning from his great mount to say in a soft voice, “They are my captives and I will see to them, kitten. Do not tweak our father’s nose for what you cannot change.”

“Very well, but only because you ask it of me.” With a
fleeting glance at her father, she turned angrily on her heel and ascended the stairs of the forework.

Lady Warfield met her just inside the entrance to the great hall, and a glance at her expression made Catherine sigh inwardly. Were there never any secrets at Warfield?

Exasperation edged Lady Warfield’s cool rebuke: “Must you behave like the lowest scullery maid, Catherine? Look at you. Garbed in a filthy gown, hair uncovered, flying loose and as wet as cat’s fur—hardly the conduct of a lady.”

Catherine held her tongue and stared down at her ruined slippers. Sodden velvet toes peeped from beneath the frayed and muddy hem of her gown. The contrast between her appearance and her mother’s could not be more vivid—Lady Warfield was elegant in the gilt barbette atop her head and thinly woven gold threads of the crispinette that held her hair, down to her small embroidered slippers encrusted with pearls and gilt. Her mother’s grandeur made her achingly aware of her own disheveled state. She focused on her feet while Lady Warfield delivered a scathing lecture, allowing the French language preferred by her parents to drift over her head until one particular remark captured her attention.

Catherine’s head snapped up with consternation as the countess finished, “… and hardly suitable should your betrothed witness your unbefitting demeanor. God grant, he is not yet arrived, but with the date so soon now—”

“Soon? What date do you mean, my lady?”

Lady Warfield’s elegant features remained stern and unlined. “It is unseemly to be so rude, Catherine. Must you interrupt me?”

“I crave your pardon, madam, but I do not know what you mean by the date being so soon.”

“No doubt. Nevertheless, you will go immediately to your chamber and allow Bess to ready appropriate garments for the morrow. Wear the blue velvet gown, as we expect important guests. You are required to behave with decorum and not as if you are no more than a rebellious serf. I am certain that you understand me.”

“Of course, madam, but I—”

“Your father will wish to see you in the solar right after Prime is rung in the morning. I insist that you heed the customs you have been taught, and act accordingly.”

Catherine stared after her mother as the countess turned to move away in a familiar, silent glide, as if her feet did not touch the floor. No one would listen to her. She was trapped, and her freedom was slipping further and further away.

Lord Warfield did nothing to lessen her apprehension the next morning when Catherine stood silently awaiting his attention in the solar. Her father pored over a parchment, goose quill in one hand and a pot of ink at the ready. The family seal and a carved box of sand waited at his elbow; when the document he studied had been signed, it would be sanded and sealed. After what seemed an eternity, the earl looked up at his daughter.

“Bothwick’s envoy arrives today to sign the nuptial agreement. You will make ready to move to Bothwick keep, and your wedding will take place on Saint John’s Eve.”

Catherine blanched. “But I do not wish to marry!”

“Do not be foolish, Catherine. You are female, and this is your purpose in life. Indeed, ’tis long past the time for it. What else is there for you to do.”

He made it sound like a statement instead of a question but she answered: “I could live on the estate my grandmother left to me. As it borders the Solway Firth, I—”

“What crackbrained notions do you entertain in that head of yours, girl?” His brows lowered, and despite his angry tone, a glimmer of amusement lit his eyes. “Do you intend to fish for your supper? Land is not free. It costs coin to hold property.”

Her chin came up. “I am not so foolish as to think I could live off fish, sir. But I could Uve off fishermen. Off merchant ships. There is a busy harbor in the village that belongs to the land, and I am well aware that tariffs must be paid by those ships that wish to dock there.”

The earl’s eyes narrowed slightly. “This is not a matter for female discussion. You are near past marriageable age—a veritable spinster. When the Earl of Moray defected to the Scots, it destroyed the nuptial negotiations we had long held with him, and made you more of a liability than an asset. It has taken time and delicate negotiations, but I have at last arranged an excellent match for you that will cement relationships with Bothwick as well as the king. They are distantly related, and that is a vital connection.”

“It is said that you already have the king’s ear. Why is Bothwick so important that you would sell your only daughter to him?”

Lord Warfield’s palm crashed down on the table with a thundering crack that made the ink pot quiver. “Enough! You are rebellious and insolent. You will wed Bothwick’s son, and there is no more to be said about the matter.”

“I do not wish to wed anyone, and especially not a man I do not know.” Dangerously close to tears, Catherine drew in a deep breath. “You care more about position and profit than you do about my desires, and I protest.”

“It is not your place to protest, but to do as you are told. Where is your mother?”

Rising from his chair behind the long table, the earl
strode across the solar to the door and flung it open to bellow for his wife. Then he turned to Catherine. “You will go to your chamber and ready yourself. Bothwick’s envoy is due to arrive shortly.”

With her head held high and chin resolutely firm, Catherine strode silently past her father and out the door. But instead of going to the winding stairwell that led up to her chamber, she went to the doors that led to the bailey. Her mother was not yet in sight and luck was with her. No one spoke to her or otherwise delayed her as she descended the steep stairs of the forework, nor even commented as she crossed the wide, open area of the bailey to the postern door.

It creaked on oiled hinges as she slipped through it with a reassuring smile for the dubious guard. They knew her well, for she had oft used this door as a child. What must they think now? She was far too old to be going on such a lark, as if escaping her nurses as she had done so many times, usually in the company of her brothers when they were being tolerant of her presence. But that was a long time ago now, and one by one her brothers had departed Warfield to be trained in other keeps. As heir, Nicholas frequently returned from one of his other holdings to tender his knight’s service to the earl, who was, of course, his overlord. He was her only ally, yet even Nicholas saw nothing wrong with an advantageous marriage.

Catherine sighed and turned her face upward as she circled the keep and crossed the outer bridge that stretched over the moat. Sunlight danced over the meadow that clipped down and away from the keep. After the chill rain of the previous day, the unexpected warmth was enticing. A rare autumn day, indeed. Golden light shimmered, beckoning her to return to the places where she had played as a child. So long ago, or was it only a
few years? But the blithe innocence of those days was gone forever.

Slipping a little on the still-damp grass, Catherine glanced behind her when she reached the meadow’s edge. Warfield’s turrets spiked into the sky, white banners snapping in the wind. From the bottom of the steep slope, the castle looked forbidding and impregnable, a reminder of how insulated she was from the world. Sorrow and fear for the future dogged her, and her steps grew slower as she neared a copse of hawthorn hedges bordering a swift-running brook that flowed into the Lyne River. These hedges were familiar, though much taller than she remembered.

She parted the branches cautiously so as not to prick her skin on the sharp thorns, and slipped through the hedge to walk along the bank. It was pleasant to recall the times she had come here, sailing crude boats of wood-chip down the cascading stream, or in summer, wading into the middle to wet her bare feet in the cooling waters.

Those had been carefree days, filled with idle dreams of the future—was her own special place still there, in the midst of the brook? It was distinctive, a large flat rock with springy moss to cushion it, a small island in the center of rushing water that had lured her as a child. Nicholas had always teased her, but nothing daunted her when she was upon her rock. It was her citadel, her refuge from the world, a place where she was solitary queen.

As she wandered idly, the day grew warmer. It was a mild October day festooned with brilliant-hued leaves that lent splashes of color to the air. Birds chattered briskly in the trees and hedgerows, busily searching for food. It soothed her to be free, even for this brief time,
and she relished the too few moments while she could. Soon, she must return to Warfield, to the knowledge that she was to wed a man she did not know. Perhaps her mother was right when she scolded her for heeding the forbidden tales of romantic love—Lady Warfield had once remarked they were all foolish dreams with not a shred of truth to them. And ’twas also true that many of the tales ended with the lovers dying instead of being reunited … was she yearning for what would never be?

Sighing, Catherine paused to pluck a violet from its nest of heart-shaped leaves. The delicate color was faded now, but would be bright against the winter snows that would soon blanket the land. She twirled the tiny blossom between her fingers and let her mind drift as she walked.

A bird cried out overhead, a strident cry that alerted a flock of nesting rooks, and she glanced up with a start as the sky was immediately dark with feathered flight. She waited, suddenly tense with apprehension at what may have frightened them, but when several moments passed without incident she relaxed again. Rooks were notoriously skittish, oft fleeing at the slightest noise, she told herself.

As the black-hued birds began to return to the hedges crying their dissonant annoyance, she resumed a meandering path along the bank. When she spotted a large flat rock in the center of the foaming water, she paused. Green moss was draped in an inviting pillow atop the gray stone. Her emerald island in the midst of the rushing currents.

Smiling as she yielded to temptation, Catherine bent to remove her shoes and stockings before wading out to the center of the stream. She gasped a little at the icy chill of the water rushing around her bare legs. It thoroughly
wet the hem of her blue velvet gown even though she held her skirts nearly to her waist. The currents were much deeper than she recalled, and faster. When she reached the rock, she climbed up a bit clumsily, feeling a little foolish but delighted at revisiting her childhood. It seemed so short a while before, when in truth it had been ten years since she had been allowed to romp freely with her brothers.

Her velvet skirts were heavy with water now, and she wrung them out as best she could, then smoothed the folds around her to dry in the soft air. After a furtive glance around assured her that she was quite, quite alone, she tugged her skirts up to her knees to let the sunlight dry bare legs and blue velvet. It took only a moment to undo the pearl-encrusted crispinette that encased the heavy weight of her hair, freeing it to drape over her shoulders. Then she leaned back on her palms and reveled in the rare moment.

For several minutes, she sat quietly while the water tumbled melodically around her and sunlight dappled the trees and rocks. She tilted her head back to gaze up at the blue sky visible beyond shifting patches of autumnal leaf, blinking against the brightness. The rhythmic wash of water and warmth of the sun lulled her into a dreamy haze of gentler memories—the innocence of childhood. It was restoring to the soul. Her eyelids closed slowly as she let her mind drift into pleasant oblivion broken only by the sweet murmur of birds.

So pleasant, with the splashing water sending small sprays of mist up and over her bare toes and legs. If only she could stay forever, and never return to Warfield keep. Bess had often whispered to her of the fairies that were said to haunt the meadows and dance in flower rings, of how they were known to capture humans foolish enough to seek them out. Those people were never seen again,
stolen by the magical little creatures and spirited away to live forever in enchanted lands. Perhaps if she wished hard enough, she could vanish as well.…

She smiled wryly at the fanciful direction her thoughts had taken. Foolish, of course, to even dream of such things. As her father had so bluntly reminded her, she was merely a pawn and must do what she was born to do. That thought summoned a shudder, and she resolutely pushed it to the back of her mind and stretched out more fully upon the rock, lifting her arms over her head so that water spray wet her fingers.

Gazing upward, she listened to the water racing over the rocks, much louder now that she was lying down. She lay quietly in a pleasant reverie of suspended time and thought until interrupted by a loud splash and cold droplets spattering her face. Blinking them away, she sat up with a jerk, suddenly aware of how distant she was from the keep, and how alone.