The Scotsman (35 page)

Yet the Scots going to meet Bruce near Stirling made travel perilous for Devlin and his men, and slowed them so that he fretted he would not reach Fraser before Beakin’s men set up the ambush. He wanted to be there, and would have been there now had Hereford not balked. Curse him. The earl had also dallied far too long
in conducting a petition to the king to ransom Catherine, and so had let slip away any chance she might have had. For when Alex Fraser began to so ruthlessly harry northern England, the king refused to consider any clemency for his brother. It was a miracle de Brus and young Fraser were still alive, and a credit to him instead of Hereford that he had managed to convince the king to stay their executions until after the coming battle.

Hereford’s laughter after the unpleasant interview with Edward had been unkind and nasty. “Had you not such a pretty face, my lord Devlin, you would not have gained concession.”

It angered him, but he needed Hereford’s favor and did not let it show. Shrugging, he had replied that for whatever reason, he was glad. “To execute them now would invite a dire fate for Lady Catherine.”

“Do you think so?” Hereford’s brow had lifted with languid amusement. “A Scots bastard in her belly, perhaps. You and your sister are both too pretty to suffer too dire a fate. Ah, do not look so harshly at me, Devlin, for ’tis the truth. The king was most taken with you.” He’d paused, then laughed again. “Yea, a dire fate indeed, I vow, for we have all seen what happens to the king’s favorites.”

Nicholas still smarted from that conversation. He needed no reminders of the fate of Piers Gaveston, the king’s murdered favorite. It was said Edward still harbored a fierce grudge against the Earl of Lancaster for the deed, and only bided his time to retaliate. For now, Lancaster’s quota of cavalry and footmen were sorely needed.

“M’lord.” Beakin snared his attention, pointing to the road below. “ ’Tis clear. Shall we ride?”

“Yea, for we have wasted much time already waiting
on Scots to pass. Curse them. By the time we reach the troop following Fraser, they will no doubt be done and gone, and I will not be cheated of my satisfaction.”

Putting spurs to horses, the troop rode from the wooded copse and into the valley of the Clyde River that wound through green hills and rugged slopes. Not far distant was a keep loyal to the English, one that had been held by Edward since 1311. There, Nicholas was certain, he could leave Catherine safely until he was able to escort her to England himself. Once this was all over, he would see that she was allowed to retire to a nunnery as she had once wished to do. It would be the best resolution, for now she would never be able to make a proper marriage, and the earl would never forgive her.

But still, his heart was heavy at the prospect, and he was bitter at the vagaries of fate.

Rain fell softly, pattering on leaves and ground, making mud of the narrow road they traveled. Alex turned to glance behind him. Catherine huddled in her cloak like a little wren with feathers fluffed against the wet gusts that blew through the valley. She bore the travails well, not complaining when the rain slashed down on them or they slept on the ground. There was no time to erect tents or travel comfortably, for the English waited for the unwary.

They followed the Tweed River north, crossing hills and fording near Broughton on their way to Biggar. Beyond, the land dipped into the lush, verdant valley of the Clyde that still showed traces of the ravages of both armies. English and Scot alike fought for the ground, tugging it back and forth like a dog with a bone.

Most of the English were gone now, save for a few scattered strongholds that had managed to resist or recapture their keeps. Some of these barons were loyal to Edward, many because of long feuds with the Bruce or one of his nobles, others because of extensive holdings in England.

As daylight waned, the weary horses were halted in a thick wood riddled with caves. They sought shelter there rather than risk alerting villages or towns to their presence. With less than fifty men in his company, Alex had no intention of attracting unwanted notice. He had thought Robbie and the others would catch up to them by now, and worried at their delay, as did John Elliot.

Fires were lit inside the mouths of the caves, small ones that would not signal their location. Catherine crouched by a tidy blaze and held out her hands to warm her palms, rubbing them together and looking up with a smile when he approached her.

“Good eventide, Sir Alex. Do we rise with the birds again in the morn, or linger in our blankets like slugs?”

He grinned. “If I choose to linger in my blankets, ’twill not be to play the slug, milady. I could think of more entertaining sport.”

“No doubt.” A faint flush pinked her cheeks, shaded by the edge of the hood drawn over her hair. Her fingers wiggled against the fire’s heat. “But ’tis not private enough for the sport you prefer. I do not care to have two score onlookers observe our intimacy.”

“No? Odd little catkin.” He knelt on one knee beside her, his voice low and intimate. “What if I told you we could find privacy nearby? Wouldst thou then consider a bit of sport with me, milady?”

She looked at him askance, though he could see by the heightened flush in her face and gleam in her eyes that she was intrigued. It was one more thing that endeared her to him, this natural, open reception instead of coy delay and protests. What had been only an idle jest became earnest, and his blood quickened when she gave him a small, secret smile and nodded.

“Aye, if you can find any privacy in this wild land, I will be pleased to join you, sir.”

He glanced around. Finding privacy should be simple enough, but avoiding the notice of his men would be more difficult. Many still resented Catherine, and he was careful not to present her to them in less than a noble capacity. He had kept his distance from her lest it remind them of what had passed, for any respect they felt for her status as an earl’s daughter would be diluted then, and make her seem too accessible. It was a fine line he walked, made doubly difficult by the fact that all knew he had taken her to his bed. But he would not tolerate insults directed at her, and it would only cause trouble if he were forced to punish any man who dared. So to avoid conflict with men who needed to keep their minds on the coming battle instead of on past confrontations, he had to be discreet. Very discreet.

“Do you not feel the need for personal privacy, catkin?”

Immediately, she grasped his meaning and nodded. “Yea, ’tis true that I am in need of some privacy, sir. Which way do you think I should go?”

“Perhaps a little east, as I saw a secluded ravine not far away that is blooming with small yellow flowers and thick vines beneath an oak. A most inviting site.”

Putting her hands on her knees, she nodded, and the edge of her hood slipped slightly so that loose curls fell free to dangle against her cheek. They glowed like copper silk in the firelight. A faint smile tucked one corner of her mouth inward, and she rose slowly to her feet to gaze down at him where he knelt looking up at her.

“If you will excuse me, Sir Alex, I must depart your company for now.”

He stood and gave her a courtly bow. “You have my leave to depart, milady.”

Moving away with slow grace, she passed through the mouth of the cave to the shadowed glen beyond. Some of
the men’s heads turned to watch her pass, then glanced back at him, ever wary of his watchful eye. They were quick, furtive glances, and he ignored them. He kept his gaze on the dancing tongues of fire, low-burning flames that slowly consumed the slender sticks of wood.

When enough time had passed, he moved in the opposite direction of the thicket where Catherine waited, and spoke to John Elliot about the sentries he had posted around the perimeter of the camp. Slowly, he made his way around the men in caves and rolled in blankets on the ground, until he had achieved a half circle. Then he moved down the same path she had trod, into the deep, quiet greenness of the wood around them.

It closed around him like a favorite soft glove, holding him in the palm of silent expectation, and he felt both comforted and excited. The gloom was darker beneath the spreading arms of oak and birch, with his steps muffled by thick layers of fallen leaves. She waited for him at the bower he had described, standing beneath a spray of yellow flowers that looped over her hair like chips of sunlight. He paused, and she smiled.

“Can you smell them?”

“Yea.” He moved to her, and she looked up from beneath the cap of dainty blossoms. Pollen dusted her hair in a lacy froth. She wore it loose now, as he liked it, curving around her face in wisps. Reaching out, he touched a dangling tendril with his fingertip, and a delicate bloom drifted free at his touch. “The flowers smell sweet in your hair,” he murmured as the scent wafted toward him. “As do you.”

She smiled, a slow, languorous curve of her mouth into a seductive agreement. The days were longer now, and fading light graced her face with faint shadows as she studied him in the gloaming. The hood of her cloak was folded on her shoulders, and a carved gold pin held the
garment closed at her throat. He lifted his arm to unfasten the pin, but she caught his hand, her voice a low murmur.

“Let me, sir.”

Smiling a little, his hand fell away as he watched her. Her slender fingers were pale against the dark wool of the cloak, working to unfasten the pin. Then the edges of the cloak parted, and he drew in a sharp breath of surprise and instant arousal.

Beneath the cloak, she wore only her pride, and he stood in stunned silence and admiration for what seemed an eternity. Outlined against the black fabric, her body seemed to shimmer with ivory enchantment. Gauzy shafts of ephemeral light trickled through the canopy of trees and gleamed with final fading beauty on her skin and in her hair. Her breasts were alabaster crowned with rose, her waist a feminine curve to slender thighs and a silky nest of copper curls. His mouth went dry, and he moved at last with a jerky step forward.

“You are beautiful, catkin … so bloody beautiful … I do not think I can … God, do you know how you look standing there like that, with your hair unbound and your body open to me?” A groan came from deep within his chest, and he felt a peculiar ache begin to spread and grow. “A pagan goddess. Like the ancients … they would build a temple to honor you.”

“Alex….”

It was soft, a little shaky, but filled with an emotion he tried not to hear, and he knew suddenly that he could not listen or he would be destroyed. If he let her say it, he would become too distracted from his purpose to be of use to the Bruce, and all would be lost. If she loved him, he would be too loath to leave her as he knew he must do.

So he moved to her and slid his arms around her,
crushing her to him and slamming his mouth down over hers with a desperate ferocity that abolished everything but the moment. The fragrance of sweet flowers filled the air, and her skin was soft as velvet beneath his hands. He lifted her, pushing her against the broad trunk of the tree behind her, reveling in the little sound of shock and pleasure she made. Then he leaned into her, pulling her legs around his waist and lifting the edge of his plaid. He plunged into her with a powerful thrust, and she gasped.

It was madness, exultation, arrant sensuality as he held her astride him, her back cushioned by the cloak behind her, the tree a solid brace for his thrusts. Her breath grew faster against his ear, her cries muffled by his sherte, and she bucked into his pounding lunges. His arms cradled her thighs, and her ankles were locked behind his waist as she strained against him. Swiftly, fiercely, they reached the end at the same moment, his back arching as he hammered into her in one final convulsive thrust, and dimly heard her sobbing cry as she clutched him.

Panting, he leaned his head forward into the fragrant mass of hair and spring flowers, using the sturdy oak to hold himself up. She still clung to him, her legs quivering around his waist, her breath gradually slowing.

Then, with a soft little laugh, she said into his ear, “Now I know why you enterprising Scots wear nothing beneath your plaids….”

Helplessly, he began to laugh with her, holding her close to his heart, drained of passion but not tenderness. It did not ease him to know that he would miss her most in the days to come. No one had ever touched the part of him that she did, and he was baffled and chagrined that the woman who finally mattered to him was the daughter of his worst enemy. Fate was perverse, and he could see no future for them.

Pulling back, he eased her down, tugging the edges of the cloak around her and pressing his lips to her forehead. “What folly, to lie in wait for me this way, catkin. What if another had come upon you here?”

“I would not have opened my cloak, sir.”

Her prim retort made him laugh again, and he nuzzled the top of her hair with his chin. “Catkin, ah, God, catkin.” It came out in a sigh, and he could not speak for several moments at the surge of emotion that filled him. Then he murmured as he lay his cheek against the crown of her head, “Did you know that a catkin is the carnal member of a plant, my sweet? Within it lie all the special powers to bloom, to flower and share the beauty that will renew life. As do you.”