The Scotsman (26 page)

Clutching at him, Catherine flexed into his thrusts with matching fervor. Her back curved, heels digging into the mattress for leverage as she clung to him with both hands clasped around his neck, her soft cries echoing in the room until they were swallowed by shadows. Enveloped by heat and passion, he moved inside her with mindless strokes that sent shivers of anticipation down his spine. Sheer ecstasy, sweet torment, God he must be insane to so lose himself, but he was already lost, drowning in the honeyed depths without a prayer for rescue … and it did not matter. Nothing mattered but this moment, this woman, when all else could be forgotten for a little while.…

Then she was crying out, a soft keening wail of pleasure that triggered his own release, and the delicious friction shot him over the edge into that white-hot haze of oblivion that he sought. Panting for breath, he sagged against her, his face buried in the curve of her neck and shoulder. Lavender filled his nostrils and gratification loosened his muscles so that he held her that way while the fire burned low and candles guttered. It was enough to just hold her like this, to feel her damp heat around him and her breath soft against his face, to breathe her in and know that he was not alone.

Rain pelted them as they rode across the lowered bridge and away from Castle Rock. Douglas was whistling a merry tune that grated on his temper, but Alex said nothing. He forced his attention onto the coming assault
and away from the lady he had left sleeping in his bed. As they rode on in the dark hours before dawn, the rhythmic pounding of the horse beneath him and the upcoming promise of battle began to lift his spirits. It had been overlong since he had been able to do something to ease his frustration. For the past four months, foul winter weather and circumstances had kept him bound with inactivity.

“Since all of Lothian province is seething with dissatisfaction these days,” he said to Douglas as they rode, “it may be difficult to discern who is for Bruce and who is against.”

“Yea, their situation is unhappy at best.” Douglas shrugged, his words muffled by the edge of his plaid, wrapped over the bottom half of his face. “The people of the province are said to be within the King of England’s peace, yet they receive no protection from him. Bruce regards them in the same manner as the northern counties of England and demands tribute or they suffer retribution.” His laugh was whipped away by the wind, and after a moment, he spoke louder. “When the people of the province pay Bruce his tribute, the garrisons of the English-held castles raid their homes and shops and seize their goods and hold prisoners for ransom, all on the grounds they have been dealing with the enemy, of course. Devilish awkward position, do you not think?”

“To say the least. What of their feudal lord? Does the Earl of Dunbar not protect them?”

Douglas laughed. “Oh, aye, he protects them as best he can with his quill and parchment. Dunbar and the Lord Chief Justice, Adam Gordon, appealed to Edward with their pitiful plight, and he sent reprimands to the governors of his castles. Of course, the reprimands were
duly noted and ignored, as any good Sassenach would do. The people are still oppressed, and have no one to turn to in their time of need.”

“And we go to relieve them.”

Even in the dim light afforded by the palest glimmer of the rising sun, Alex could see the glee reflected in James Douglas’s eyes as he nodded. “Aye, Alex lad, that we do. We shall liberate loyal Scots and traitorous alike, some from their oppression and some from their lives of treachery.”

“It is a bad position, to be forced to choose sides when your title and lands depend upon English law.”

“Aye, but you did it quick enough.” Douglas slanted him a curious glance. “You may have taken back your lands, but your family title is worn now by the enemy.”

“Yea, I have my lands, but only because they are in Scotland instead of England. There are those who have lands in England who have lost all, or joined the English to keep from losing all.”

“These are times that men must choose sides, and not ride the fence.”

Alex did not answer for a moment, but rode silently over the narrow, muddy track. It was bitter cold even for February. Where the road was not mud, it was frozen to hard ruts. Ice crystals glittered in the furrows dug by wagon wheels and pounding hooves, reflecting chips of sunlight as dawn broke. In the distance a dog barked, and there was the smell of smoke in the air.

“Tell me,” Alex said when they slowed to a trot to pass through a sleepy village, “what you think the chances are that Bruce will succeed.”

“One in ten,” Douglas said promptly, then laughed.
“But that is all that is needed. One chance. The nine are behind us now, and we have one chance to win all, as on the toss of the dice. Will we? Is that what you ask? If you ask Edward, he would say no. But if you ask Robert Bruce—aye, lad, we will win all. And my heart and my sword are with the Bruce, whether we win or no. And you, Alex Fraser? Where is your heart?”

“It has always been with the Bruce, since I was a lad of fifteen and he picked me up out of a bog and set me on my feet. I thought then that he was the finest warrior in all of Christendom, and I still do. When I was fifteen, I fought for my father and for my home. Since I met Bruce, I fight for my king.”

“He has that effect on men.” Douglas laughed softly. “And an even stronger effect on women.”

“So I have observed. Women swoon at the sight of him, and are known to follow him from camp to camp in hopes of a kind word—or sleepless night.”

Douglas grinned. “And ’tis plain you had your own sleepless night. Was the lady wroth that you left her warm bed for the cold?”

“The lady was too exhausted to do more than pull up her blankets when I left.” He paused, thinking of her sleep-tousled hair and drowsy eyes, and how delicious she had looked lying there with the glow of a single candle washing over her ivory skin. He had not been able to resist waking her in the time-honored tradition men oft woke their lovers, and after her first sleepy protest, she had wakened enough to respond in a most satisfying manner. He would miss waking beside her of a morn, feeling her warm body curled into his with trusting innocence.

But he had no intention of letting James Douglas know how he felt, and shrugged off the teasing jests. There were other, more important concerns to deal with
now. The problem of Catherine of Warfield would have to wait for his return.

For now, they must conquer the entire garrison of Roxburgh Castle with only sixty men. And here as well, the odds might be one in ten that it could be done.

Catherine felt Robbie MacLeod’s gaze on her, and her shoulders tensed. Finally she looked up at him. “Must you stare at me?”

“Aye. ’Tis my duty tae protect ye.”

“For the love of all that is holy, do you think a band of villains is about to fall upon me here in the midst of the hall? ’Tis doubtful, though I am certain Sir Alex will greatly appreciate your loyalty and sense of duty.”

Robbie did not respond, nor did he move from his position against the wall. He leaned back with his arms crossed over his chest, but remained in the same spot.

“Stubborn Scot,” she muttered to herself, and looked back down at Tam. “You are doing excellently, Tarn. Sir Alex will be proud when he returns.”

And when would that be? She fretted with each passing day, and wondered if anyone would bother to tell her if they knew when he would return. Or if he would not … oh, Holy Mary, Mother of God, she could not start thinking such things or she would go mad.

To keep her mind from straying, she kept busy. Now
she worked with Tam. But later? What would keep her from dread visions of what might happen … not even the pleasure of reading was enough to divert her from the fears that plagued her when she thought of all the possibilities she now faced.

She was with the steward asking about the proper food for the approaching Lenten season when Robbie suddenly made a soft noise in the back of his throat and snapped to an upright position from the familiar slouch she had grown accustomed to seeing. Curious, she followed his gaze.

Across the hall, bearing down on them with grim purpose, was Mairi. The older woman was disheveled, her normally tidy gray hair in disarray and her clothing flapping about her body like a loose blanket. Catherine felt the steward take a step backward as Mairi reached them, but she held her ground.

Halting in front of Catherine, the woman’s face was distorted with rage and hate. “I curse ye, whore of Babylon, for poisoning Sir Alex wi’ yer witch’s mind and body….” Silence fell in the hall. Spittle laced Mairi’s mouth, and her eyes were wild. “If no’ for ye and yer wicked blasphemy, I wa’d no’ hae been sent frae my place here!”

“I did nothing to you.” Catherine’s voice was calm despite the rapid thudding of her heart. “Nor did I ask to come here.”

“A lie! Ye hae been sent here by the Sassenachs tae spy on us, and murther us all in our beds … I hae tried tae tell the laird, but he wa’ bewitched by ye and wa’d no’ listen tae me….”

Robbie moved at last, coming to speak to Mairi in Gaelic, his voice rough and low. The woman shook her head vehemently, and glared at Catherine as she lifted a trembling arm to point at her. “’Tis true … and ye
know it well, ye scheming harlot … d’ye think the laird wa’d hae taken ye tae his bed otherwise? Nay, he wa’d no’ do it, no’ after he swore tae leave ye untouched. But I heard him tell tha’ Sassenach lordling wha’ ye call brother tha’ he wa’d no’ long leave ye virgin if there wa’ no answer aboot Jamie, and ye maun hae known there wa’d be no answer … ’twas a trick tae hae him lie wi’ ye, tae bewitch him so ye can open the gates o’ a night tae let the murtherers in tae slaughter us all in our beds….”

Robbie took her forcefully by the arm, speaking rapidly to her in Gaelic as he pulled her with him. He said something to those nearby, his voice sharp, and Catherine saw the fear and suspicion in the faces watching her. Even Tarn looked askance, as if uncertain she could be trusted not to leap at them with a weapon.

She stood still, unmoving as Robbie evicted Mairi from the hall. She did not speak when he returned to her side and suggested she retire to her chamber, but accompanied him silently from the hall to the winding staircase that led up to the second floor. Echoes of Mairi’s ravings seemed to resonate off the walls in eerie repetition, so that she heard over and over again that Alex had only taken her to his bed as vengeance against her father’s delay.

It was not until she stood in the center of the chamber she shared with Alex—his chamber, with high bed and thick hangings, tapestries on the walls, and a constant fire with a decent chimney to draw the smoke—that she finally spoke.

Turning, she looked hard at Robbie. “Is what she said true, Robbie? Did Sir Alex tell my brother that if he did not soon receive an answer about Jamie he would take my virginity?”

Robbie glanced away. “I was no’ in the room when
’twas said, milady, so I am no’ the man to ask. Ask Sir Alex when he returns.”

“Nay, that will not be necessary, for you have answered the question more completely than you know.” Anguish made her hands tremble, but thankfully her voice was steady. “I would like to rest now. Please shut the door when you leave.”

He hesitated, but something in her face must have convinced him, and he nodded. “Aye, but I will be outside the door should ye need me, milady.”

It was not often he left his post, and she knew that he trusted few to relieve him, fearing perhaps that harm would come to her and he would be blamed. She watched mutely as he left, and waited until the solid door clicked with finality before she collapsed onto a low stool.

What a fool she was. She had hoped—thought—that Alex must feel some tenderness for her, or he would not be so attentive, would not have been so gentle. But now she knew it was not love, it was nothing more than lust that kept her in his chamber—it had never been anything but lust. He had warned her. She should have listened when he had said lust and love were equally dangerous. It was true. Oh, God, it was so true, and she had been so blind, so caught up in the unfamiliar emotions and physical urges that she had convinced herself he cared.

Yet the truth brought no real anger with it, only a grief as if someone she loved had died. There was a sense of pain along with it, that she could now see so clearly what she had blinded herself to before. But no anger. No self-righteous rage that he had lied to her, or at the least, not been entirely honest. She could not hate Mairi for telling the truth, and could not even hate herself for being deceived. It had been self-deception, after all, for he had not pretended to love her.

And perhaps that was the worst of it.

Pressing her fists to her mouth until she tasted blood, Catherine sat for a long time as shadows crawled across the room and squatted in corners like predatory beasts; the fire died and the candles guttered, plunging the elegant bedchamber with its silk hangings and embroidered tapestries into utter darkness. It felt right to sit where there was no light and no hope. It felt familiar.

A fluttering in her stomach kept her tense and on edge, but she betrayed nothing as she listened to Robbie MacLeod talk to the guard outside her door in Gaelic. He was leaving her with a new man as guard, a rare occurrence as Robbie had remained almost unfailingly at her side until now. Only on occasion would he leave her with another, and then for short periods of time.