Virginia Henley (27 page)

“Cold water is excellent for curbing impulses. Remember it.”

Shortly after they remounted, Catherine remarked, “This is lovely country. The hills seem to be getting steeper.”

“These are part of the Lammermuir Hills.”

“Up ahead look more like mountains than hills. Who owns them?”

“We stopped for lunch on St. Clair land. This here belongs to the Cockburns, and where we are going used to be Hepburn land.”

“Used to be?” Cat questioned.

“Bothwell, my father, was charged with treasonable conspiracy against His Majesty and as a result all his lands and castles were forfeit. His real sin was flaunting his power—it made enemies.”

“But you still own Crichton.”

“Yes, my father agreed to exile on condition that I be allowed to keep Crichton. It was heavily mortgaged, but I finally managed to pay it off. Mortgages are to be avoided like the plague.”

“You’re free to ride on the Hepburn land that you once owned?”

“Most certainly. King James gave Hailes Castle and its land to the Earl of Lennox, who paid off the mortgages. Lennox seldom visits Hailes; it is too ancient and dilapidated. Robert the Bruce gave it to the Lord of Hailes, who was a Hepburn, almost four hundred years ago. Some of the land has tenant farms, but most of it is wild and untamed.”

They rode on in companionable silence for more than an hour, over hills and through vales. Finally, it was Patrick who broke the silence. “We are now on the ancient Hepburn lands.”

Catherine had a sudden revelation. “You take the wild herds you find here because you feel entitled to them.”

He nodded. “Perhaps. I believe the Hepburns centuries ago did it. They were always horsemen. For hundreds of years our emblem has been the horse head.”

For another hour they rode over Hepburn land and Catherine was becoming saddle-weary. Sensing it, in the late afternoon Patrick looked for a place to make camp. He stopped beside a stand of Douglas firs, close by the river Tyne. He gestured toward what looked like a mountain. “That yonder is Traprain Law. I believe you’ve ridden far enough for today. We are not likely to flush out the horses this late in the day.”

“Good! My bottom is sore. Does
law
mean mountain?”

He shook his head. “
Law
is Scottish for hill or mound. Hailes Castle lies beyond the law.”

“Hailes Castle lies beyond the law. That sounds exciting and provocative. Do you mean literally or figuratively?”

“Both. Certainly when my father was put to the horn.” He dismounted, relieved Valiant of both saddle and saddlebags and turned him loose to crop the grass between the trees and river.

Catherine followed suit.
God forbid he thinks I want him to help me, though it would have been gallant if he had offered.

He pointed to the trees. “If you’ll gather wood for a fire, I’ll set a snare. Hot food would taste good.”

Before she was finished collecting fallen branches, he took the axe that hung from his saddle and chopped a tree trunk into logs. Then he kindled a fire with fir needles. “Don’t let it go out,” he warned, and then took himself off to the river.

The sky was streaked with a scarlet sunset by the time he returned with a small salmon. Then he went back into the trees and emerged carrying a lifeless coney he had snared. Before she could mourn for the furry creature, his words stopped her.

“Will you clean the fish or skin the rabbit?”

She stared at him, aghast, for a moment. Her heart was bleeding for the little creature. “The fish,” she blurted.

Gingerly she unsheathed her knife, secretly appalled to even touch something that smelled
fishy.
Then she caught the glint of amusement in his eyes and steeled herself. She cut off its head and tail, then slit and gutted it. Without a word she went to the river to wash her knife and hands and left him to cook.

When the food was ready, Catherine deigned to eat some of the salmon but adamantly refused to even taste the coney. Instead she nibbled on some cheese and accepted graciously when he offered her one of his oatcakes. She was amazed when he produced a wine skin and delighted when he showed her how to drink from it.

Patrick tethered their mounts for the night and brought their cloaks to the fire. “The night will get cold, Catherine.”

She was excited at the prospect of sleeping outdoors. She’d never done it before. The wine and the close presence of Hepburn heated her blood. The jest he’d made about sharing his bed came back to her, making her pulse race and her heart beat rapidly. Suddenly she felt nervous about liberties he might try to take. She touched her knife to make sure it was there.

Without a glance in her direction, Patrick put a couple of logs on the fire, and then wrapped himself in his cloak and stretched out on the ground. “Good night, Catherine.”

She felt highly offended.
Damn the lout; I’ll never crack his indifference, let alone shatter it!
“What about wolves?”

“Not in summer—prey is too plentiful.”

Cat pulled on her cloak. “Do you mind if I come closer?”

The darkness hid his wolf’s grin. “Come and lie next to me, if it makes you feel safer,
cherie.
”

Chapter Sixteen

C
atherine was convinced that she would never be able to fall asleep on the hard ground. Some of the excitement of the adventure evaporated as she became aware of the lumpy earth digging into her soft flesh. All her senses seemed alert as she watched the flickering flames, heard the flowing water of the river, smelled the piquant evergreen firs and felt the powerful presence of the man who lay beside her. But finally she slept.

When she awoke in the morning she was alone, but an impression of arms that had enfolded and protected her lingered. She persuaded herself that she had been dreaming.

“Good morning, sleepyhead.”

She saw that he was coming from the river and by the look of his wet hair he must have swum. He was wearing the damned sheepskin that left his muscular arms bare and he was unshaven. Cat stood up on stiff legs, and when she staggered a little he reached out to steady her. The moment he touched her, her knees turned to wet linen. Catherine felt shy and tongue-tied.

“Your snores woke me early.”

Her shyness fled as her outrage soared. Then she realized he was teasing the devil out of her. “Your humor isn’t wicked; it is evil. As penalty, Lord Stewart, you may get my breakfast while I attend to my toilet.” She walked off with the hauteur of a queen.

Cat removed the soap, hairbrush and fresh undergarments from her saddlebags, then on impulse pulled out the kilt.
If he can display himself in a bloody sheepskin, I can certainly wear my Winton hunting plaid!

She removed her boots and stockings and dipped a toe into the water. She pulled it out quickly and shuddered, wondering how on earth Hepburn had submerged himself. She washed herself a little at a time, replaced her doeskin riding skirt with the kilt and leisurely brushed her hair. She couldn’t fashion it into the upswept style she had worn yesterday, so plaited it into a thick braid. She gathered her belongings, then hesitated. Before she returned she covered her shocking attire demurely with her cloak.

Patrick handed her a stick with hot meat skewered on it and gave her a cup of wine. Since her belly growled with hunger she found it expedient to ignore her scruples and eat the coney.

He eyed her cloak. “Surely you’re not cold? It’s a glorious day—even warmer than yesterday.”

“Do you think we’ll locate the herd today?”

“I’m certain of it. Finish your wine and I’ll saddle up.”

Cat put her belongings into her saddlebag and took Chestnut’s reins from Patrick. He cupped his hands, and when she put her boot into them her cloak fell back to reveal all.

He stared at her in disbelief. “A kilt, begod!”

She swung her leg across, sat in the saddle and lifted her chin. “I don’t need your permission to indulge my impulses!”

“You fling my words at me with the same abandon you fling your kilt.” He threw back his head and laughed until the corded muscles of his neck stood out.

“You were right, Hepburn. It’s a glorious day and I certainly won’t need this.” She whipped off her cloak, rolled it up and secured it beneath the straps of her saddlebag.

As he mounted Valiant he couldn’t keep the grin off his face. She was everything he’d ever called her and more besides:
spoiled little bitch, hellcat and cock tease.
He realized he wouldn’t want her any other way.

Their mounts climbed up Traprain Law and the two riders drew rein on its peak. At its foot in the valley below sat the ancient pile of stones known as Hailes Castle. On three sides it was surrounded by a moat, whose water glittered like gold from the reflection of the sun. On the fourth side, the river Tyne lapped at its walls. Catherine glanced quickly at Patrick wondering if he still mourned its loss. In repose his face looked dangerous, then he caught her glance and his amusement returned.

He did not ride down the valley toward Hailes, but led her west toward the river, knowing that horses instinctively ranged within an hour’s gallop of water. As they slowly made their way through the hills, Patrick occasionally dismounted to examine horse droppings, touching the piles with the toe of his boot to see how recent they were. He grunted with satisfaction, knowing he was getting closer.

They were in the river valley when he cocked his head and listened. The rumble of hooves grew louder and he shouted, “Catherine!” He closed the distance between them, reached out a powerful arm, swept her from her pony and deposited her before him in the saddle. “Hang on tight!”

Cat only had time to gasp before the herd thundered into the valley on the opposite bank of the Tyne. There were at least thirty horses of all colors and sizes, led by a wild black stallion. Hepburn increased his speed to theirs, keeping pace on this side of the Tyne. She was laughing with the pure exhilaration of the ride as he joyfully shouted an ancient battle cry. Her blood sang with the thrill of the race, her spirit gloried in the untethered freedom of the chase.

“Hold tight!” His lips brushed her ear and his arm tightened about her as he spurred Valiant into the river to cross to the opposite side. The water swirled up about her knees and splashed her face before they gained the far bank. Then the pursuit was on again as they dashed headlong to catch up to the wild horses. Slowly, surely, Valiant closed the distance that stretched between them. Then, unbelievably, they became part of the herd, riding on the wind, galloping in tempo until their hearts beat with the same rhythm as the horses. For one shining moment the same silver thread of exhilarating, primal life connected them all.

As they gained on the black stallion, suddenly Cat could not bear the thought of the magnificent creature being captured. “Patrick, no! He is wild and untamed. Let him go free! Please don’t attempt to capture and tame him.”

“He’s mine!”

“Patrick, please! Let him remain free for another year. Leave him untamed for just one more year!”

He looked down at her and in that moment they were one. He nodded. “Yes!” He grinned. “I will!”

Though Valiant did not seem to slacken his pace, gradually the herd pulled ahead of them. Catherine’s hair had come loose from its braid and it flew up to brush against Patrick’s throat and his face. She turned her head to look up at him and saw that he was as intoxicated by the incredible adventure as she was. He dipped his head, his black eyes devouring her face, then his mouth took possession of hers in a demanding kiss that ignited her desire.

Her arms slid up about his neck and her mouth arched up to his with fiery intensity. Her fingers threaded into his hair, holding him captive for her mouth’s ravishing.

With pressure from his knees, Patrick slowed Valiant to a canter, then a walk. He bound Catherine tightly with one arm and slipped down from the stallion’s back. She clung to him fiercely, yielding to his great strength, trusting totally in his ability to shield her from danger. He took her down into the tall grasses of the valley floor, imprisoning her small body atop his to cushion her from the ground.

Cat lay prone on top of him, dizzy with desire, frenzied with arousal, insatiable to kiss him, taste him, lick and bite him. She quivered from the sensations coursing through her body and craved for more and yet more as her need curled tightly, hotly about her vitals. She lifted her mouth from his, panting from her intense, uninhibited gyrations.

He gazed up at her, enthralled.
Holy God, she is a firestorm!

He brushed the back of his fingers against her cheek. “Hellicate.” It was Scots for
hellcat
and meant wild and untamed. “Hellicate fits you perfectly,” he whispered. The sensuality he had aroused in her almost enslaved him. He rolled her on her back in the grass, taking the dominant position. His smoldering gaze swept from her disheveled curls to her short kilt. “You look sinful.”

“Holy God, Hepburn, have you any idea what you look like ... a six-and-a-half-foot giant with a savage face and wild hair, blacker than hell?” she panted. Her golden eyes glittered. “You rode like a centaur.” She reached up and grabbed his bare arms, squeezing and kneading the bulging muscles, relishing the strength and power he possessed.

“You are so eager, Cat. Can you not wait until we rid ourselves of our soaking wet clothes?” He removed her boots.

She pulled his head down to hers and spoke against his lips. “I had no idea I was wet.”

He reached beneath her kilt and drew off her soaking hose and drawers. Her hands began to tear at his sheepskin, trying to rid him of the impediment. He shrugged out of it, then stood to remove his boots. He unbuckled his belt and peeled off his wet leathers, closely watching her exquisite features for a sign of denial.

The look on her face was avid, feral, displaying no fear at the size of his cock and balls as he towered naked before her. He went down on his knees, straddling her bare thighs, then slowly, deliberately, he unfastened her bodice and removed it, rendering her naked save for the tantalizingly short kilt.