Rebel Warrior (Medieval Warriors #3) (11 page)

Her brow furrowed. “You might have warned me.”

“You fell before I could.”

Wiping water from her face, she looked up at him. Her eyes were the green of the forest around them. Light filtering through the trees added a soft glow to her pale, damp skin. His gaze dropped to her lips, the color of wild roses. He ached to kiss them.

Bending his head, he moved his lips closer to hers.

Water suddenly dripped from her hair onto her nose, causing her to sniff and step back.

Still holding her shoes in one hand, she shivered. “I… I must look a mess.”

“Indeed not, but you are pale.” Recognizing her predicament, he said, “I wear no cloak to offer you, but I can give you the heat of my body.” Taking the shoes she carried and dropping them to the ground, he pulled her into his arms and held her against his chest, ignoring the water soaking into his tunic. Her breasts pressed into his chest, warming him as his body responded to the nearness of the woman he could not dismiss from his thoughts. She might be innocent but she possessed a natural seductiveness that promised passion to the man who would claim her. And he wanted to be that man. Every warrior in the king’s hall had noticed the girl. Of all the queen’s ladies, she was the most talked about. They had taken to calling her the Rose of Dunfermline, a coveted prize for the one who would gain her hand.

He stared into her eyes as he lowered his mouth to hers, waiting for a sign he should stop. She may have been too dazed or too wet to remember the rules. Or mayhap she did not want to. Her breath came out on a soft sigh, telling him she, too, was affected by their closeness. He allowed himself the briefest touch of her lips. They were cool and soft. Drawing her more tightly into his embrace, he kissed her.

She responded tentatively, not with practiced movements but with an enchanting innocence.

He tasted of her, inhaling her scent, not unlike the clean, fresh scent of the woods around them. When the kiss ended, he raised his head. “Can it be the kiss of the king’s scribe does not offend the mormaer’s niece?”

As if she was rousing from sleep, she blinked, and placing her hands on his chest, pushed. “ ’Twas not at all proper.”

He stepped away, his lips twitching up in a smile. “Ah, but that is not what I asked you.” For a moment he was lost in the green pools of her eyes. He wanted more of her, all of her. But when he moved toward her, she backed away.

“I shall say nothing of our encounter,” she said shivering, “and, please, tell no one.”

“I would not speak of this to anyone. After all, ’twas only a brief sharing of my body’s heat to warm you, nothing more,” he lied. The flicker of surprise in her eyes told him they both knew it, but mayhap she needed the lie. He grinned. “I cannot speak for you, but ’tis certain I am warmed.”

“You are impudent, Scribe,” she said as water dripped from her hair to her face and down her lovely neck.

“Before we go, you must admit you enjoyed that kiss as much as I did.”

“I certainly did not. I was merely… allowing you to share your warmth.”

He returned her a small laugh. “If you insist.” He picked up her wet shoes from the ground and reached out his hand. “Come, I will see you back to the tower.”

She pulled away and stared down at her wet gown. “I cannot go back like
this
!”

The gown clung to her slender curves in a most provocative way. He wanted to strip it from her and carry her naked to his bed, but instead, he said, “No, I expect not. We will take the back way to the mews and you can wait there while I retrieve a cloak for you.”

“If you ask a servant, she can fetch my cousin, Fia, who will get one.”

He chuckled. “ ’Tis probably best you not be seen wearing one of mine.”

They walked back together on the sun-dappled path. Despite the summer day, she shivered with cold. Taking her hand, he let his warmth flow to her, relieved she had not noticed the sword sheathed on his other side. He was not ready for any save Rhodri to know of his practice in the woods.

*     *     *

Catrìona sneezed. Beneath her robe, her skin was chilled like a plucked goose and her shivering would not stop. “I can… cannot seem to get wa… warm.” In truth, she had not been warm since the scribe let go of her hand.

“What were you thinking that you would run alone in the woods?” scolded Fia.

In Catrìona’s mind, she pictured them as young girls. “Remember when we were children, those sun-filled summers when we ran barefoot in the woods near Atholl?”

“Aye, I remember.” Her cousin looked at her askance and, with a disbelieving shrug of her shoulders, chided, “But you are nineteen now, Cat, no longer a child.”

“I was missing those days, Fia. I just wanted to be free and without the sad memories or the limitations of life as a lady of the queen. I was enjoying myself until I tried to cross the burn.”

“You are fortunate ’twas the scribe who found you.”

Yea, very fortunate.
She raised her hand to her lips, remembering the scribe’s warm lips on hers. It was her first real kiss. She paled at the thought it was not Domnall who had given it to her, but instead, the handsome scribe. Still she would not change what had happened if she could. The kiss had awakened a part of her never stirred before.
Was it a sin to have allowed him to kiss her so? To respond as she had?

“I hate to think what Angus would say if he knew.”

She averted her gaze from her cousin, not wanting Fia to see the flush Catrìona could feel rising in her cheeks. “Like you, he would scold.”

“And rightly so.”

Catrìona ran her fingers through her wet hair feeling Fia’s eyes upon her. “How can you be younger than me and still act the older sister?”

“Hmm. Mayhap because I would not be so foolish. You had better get dressed or they will be upbraiding us for being late to the evening meal. Here,” said Fia, picking up a drying cloth. “I’ll help with your hair.”

Fia placed the drying cloth over Catrìona’s head and rubbed vigorously, soaking up much of the remaining water. Catrìona’s thoughts turned to the scribe and the way his eyes had lingered on her lips. When he had drawn her into his warm embrace, she had melted into the heat of his muscular chest. Even through her wet gown she had been very aware of his body touching hers. His strength had surrounded her. She knew she should have pulled away but, excited by his touch, she had allowed his masculine scent and towering height to engulf her. She had not wanted to flee; she had wanted to stay and draw upon his warmth. She had wanted him to kiss her.

How could that be when I am intended for Domnall?

She and Domnall had yet to experience such intimacy, but there was a shared respect between them and the knowledge he was the man her father had chosen. Surely her father had chosen well. She remembered the proud look on his face when he told her Domnall was an Irishman of noble blood worthy of a mormaer’s daughter.

Steinar was only the king’s clerk and an impudent one at that. But when his arms were around her, his station did not seem to matter.

Catrìona handed Fia the drying cloth and shook out her hair, stepping close to the brazier. Once warmed, she donned the crimson velvet gown she had chosen to wear. ’Twas a shade she was fond of that did not war with the color of her hair.

“Will you plait your hair?” asked Fia.

“If you would help me, I would plait only the sides and secure them in the back. The rest of it I would wear free. ’Tis still not entirely dry.”

“That has always been my favorite way you wear it. I imagine Domnall will like it as well. You have such beautiful hair.”

“If you like red…”

“Men do prefer the queen’s coloring, I suppose. Margaret’s flaxen locks are lovely but your hair is unusual. Men notice it.”

Fia’s compliment made Catrìona glad they were friends as well as cousins.

While Fia dressed on her hair, Catrìona recalled her meeting with Domnall and Maerleswein. She had forgotten to tell Fia about Davina’s coming betrothal. “Had you heard that Davina will be leaving the queen’s service to marry?”

“Nay, but then she is not one to speak much. Who is it to be?”

“Maerleswein, the nobleman who was once an English sheriff. Domnall introduced us and Maerleswein told me the king has given him lands in Lothian and Davina for his bride.”

“Do you think she will be pleased?” Fia inquired.

“He is a fine looking man, of noble lineage and seems well mannered. He is older than she might have hoped for, but no doubt a better man than some the king could have chosen.”

“Mayhap he conferred with the queen. Margaret knows her ladies.”

“Whether he did or not, Davina does not seem like one who would object.”

Remembering what Audra had told her when they had first come to Dunfermline, Catrìona said, “I expect there will be a new lady joining us when Davina leaves.”

“Aye, most likely.”

In no time at all, Fia had woven the sides of Catrìona’s hair into two narrow plaits and gathered them to the back of her head to entwine together in one long plait resting on top of her free-flowing tresses. The change in the way she typically wore her hair pleased her.

Once Fia was dressed, they left the chamber for the hall where they would meet the other ladies. Uncle Matad had departed for Atholl the day before, but even before he had gone, she and Fia had joined the queen’s ladies at one of the tables for meals and no longer ate on the dais. Catrìona was glad for the change. Though she missed Edgar’s company, she did not wish to be on display. Sitting with the queen’s ladies allowed her to hide among them, hopefully avoiding the leering eyes of the king’s men.

*     *     *

Steinar stood next to Rhodri at the bottom of the stairs, swapping stories about their day. Behind them, the hall was already noisy with the crowd gathering for the evening meal. Light from the open shutters spoke of the long summer days that had come to Scotland.

He had not told his friend of his encounter with the auburn-haired tree nymph and her plunge into the burn. He would keep that meeting and the memory of their kiss to himself, delighting in the one thing he had learned: she was not indifferent to him.

As he searched the crowd for the queen’s ladies, Steinar heard Rhodri’s sharp intake of breath. Following his friend’s gaze up the stairs, Steinar saw Catrìona and her cousin slowly descending. Catrìona was clothed in a deep crimson gown that dipped low, exposing her ivory skin and hinting at her enticing breasts, the same breasts he had felt through her wet gown that afternoon. Her long auburn tresses hung free, one thick strand cascading over her shoulder.

Rhodri dug an elbow into Steinar’s ribs. “Introduce me to the dark-haired one.”

Steinar had noticed the tendre Rhodri held for the girl and was unsurprised at the request.

“Ladies,” he said as the two reached the last step. “Might we detain you for a moment?”

The women paused with expectant expressions. “Aye,” said Catrìona, her green eyes shimmering like emeralds.

“Allow me to present my friend, Rhodri of Gwynedd, the king’s bard and master of the bow.”

“Rhodri, this is Catrìona of the Vale of Leven and her cousin, Fia of Atholl.”

Each of the young women held out her hand to the bard.

Rhodri bowed low, first over Catrìona’s hand. “A rare vixen,” he said smiling up at her. Then he took the hand of the dark-haired one and placed a kiss on her knuckles. “The rarest of jewels with dark sapphire eyes. Your midnight hair and fair skin make me think you Welsh, my lady and cause me to long for the land of my youth.”

The dark-haired girl blushed, seemingly flattered, as Steinar was certain Rhodri had meant her to be. His friend had won the heart of many a woman at Malcolm’s court. But the bard’s lingering kiss on Fia’s hand and his intense gaze told Steinar this woman was more to Rhodri than just another pretty girl.

“Fia,” breathed Rhodri in his deep voice. “A lovely name for a lovely woman.”

Ignoring his friend’s besotted state, Steinar offered his arm to Catrìona. “May I escort you to your table?”

Placing her hand on his arm, she flashed him a smile and whispered, “How could I refuse a gallant scribe who only this afternoon saved a drowning lady?”

He laughed. “ ’Tis difficult to drown in a few feet of water, my lady, but aye, how could you refuse?”

Steinar guided Catrìona to where the queen’s ladies were taking their seats at one end of a trestle table set with candles and pitchers of wine.

Rhodri and Catrìona’s cousin followed closely behind them.

Steinar leaned down to whisper in Catrìona’s ear, “I like your hair like that. It reminds me of how it looked when you ran through the woods.”
The way it would look spread on my pillow.

Before she could reply, he bid the ladies good eve and pulled a reluctant Rhodri toward their seats farther down the table.

On the dais, the king’s family took their seats along with Maerleswein and Davina. An older man sat on Davina’s other side. On the opposite side of the queen sat her brother, Edgar, and her sister.

“I wonder why Maerleswein sits with the king tonight,” said Steinar.

Rhodri leaned in to whisper. “ ’Tis the betrothal of Maerleswein and Davina we celebrate. The man on her other side is her father.”

A servant set a large platter on the table, drawing Steinar’s attention. “That explains our fare. ’Tis not often we dine on more than fish, duck and boar. Tonight they serve us swan and peacocks.” The birds, adorned with some of their own feathers, were surrounded by roasted vegetables and flowers set upon large serving dishes. In the rising aromas, he detected garlic and fennel. There were also peas in cream sauce, one of his favorites.

Once the hall quieted, the king rose to his feet, goblet in hand. “This eve we celebrate a great man and his betrothal to a noble Scotswoman. I bid you raise your goblets to Maerleswein and Davina, betrothed this day!”

The hall erupted in shouts as goblets were raised and their contents downed with many smiles, for the two were popular with both the men and the women. The jests, Steinar knew, would come later, after the ladies retired from the hall.