The Scotsman (38 page)

But when the door opened, no jailer or soldiers stood there to drag him up, but a cloaked figure in sweeping finery and smelling of flowers. He bunked, and the sunlight blinded him as he turned his head slightly to better view the visitor. But the moment she moved inside, he knew.

Catherine
.…

Chagrin filled him, that she should see him like this, filthy in a bed of straw with his body befouled and stinking from his ordeal. Even worse, she smelled so fresh and clean even from the doorway, and her garments were
new and immaculate as she swept into the cell in a rustle of velvet slippers over matted clumps of straw. She was holding a lace ball to her nose, and it was that he smelled as she moved toward him—a pomander such as those sold at the fairs, perfumed for ladies and gentlemen to ward off the foul odors of the city.

“Hold, milady,” the guard said gruffly when she drew close to him. “I got me orders, and there is to be no familiarity with the prisoner.”

Pushing back the hood to her cloak, Catherine turned to the guard and smiled sweetly. “Yea, sir, so I understand. Do you really think I want to be familiar with this … thing?”

The last was said with such loathing and contempt that it hit Alex hard, as if the words were a blow to the belly. The fierce rush of gladness he’d felt at seeing her altered to a wary tension as she laughed.

“La, sir, I but came to see the fierce Scots prisoner who has so abused many good English, as I told you. If you fear, perhaps more coin will ease your fright?”

The guard flushed angrily. “Nay, milady, ’tis not for coin that I fear, but that he might harm you.”

“With you standing here? I would not fear ten of him as long as I knew you were there with your sword, sir. You do seem to be a man most capable of dealing with the enemy. Are you not?”

Some of the guard’s anger eased, and he shrugged as he slid a glance toward Alex. “I could get into much trouble were it known that I allowed you to badger me into coming here. Lord Devlin gave strict orders you were to be watched closely at all times.”

Catherine pressed the pomander to her nose and breathed deeply. “And so you shall watch me, sir. I do not want to be left alone with this man, for it would frighten me, after all that I have already endured.” She
turned slightly to face Alex, and said softly, “I only came to tell this man how much I detest him, how I abhor all things Scottish, and most of all—how I hate him.”

Some of the light falling across his face shifted as he turned his head, watching her carefully. The words were of hate, but the look in her eyes was love. He did not mistake it. Could not mistake it. She had never been able to hide it from him, though he had not wanted to acknowledge what she felt. He wanted to smile, to return that love and sympathy, and to offer overwhelming gratitude that she had come to say her farewell in the only way open to her. If only he could tell her what he felt—but it would undo her efforts if he did. It was his last gift to her, this mute acceptance of the love she gave him.

So he remained silent while she insulted and reviled him until the guard was grinning and shaking his head, and all the while she was telling him with beseeching eyes and open heart that she loved him. The bars of light moved lower, striping his bare legs, and she faltered as her gaze dropped, then rose again. She turned away as if overwrought with anger, but he had seen the slight quiver of her lip and the shudder that ran through her.

Looking at the guard, she said, “The man is despicable. He is to die soon, is he not? Yea, so I thought. I would show him what an English noblewoman thinks of a man like him, a savage beast not fit to lick the boots of the most common English churl….”

As she talked, she walked toward him, and Alex tensed. Had she gone mad? The guard would never allow her so close, but even as he had the thought, she came to him swiftly, bending in a graceful movement that smelled of perfume to slap him hard across the face. His head jerked to the side from shock and the force of the blow.

Then she was straightening, and exclaiming in vexation that she had dropped her pomander … “Ah,
there it is, in this filthy straw … I have it, Saunders.” Scooping it up, her hand grazed his fist and he felt the cold press of metal.

His fingers instantly closed around it, and he felt the unmistakable outline of a key pressed into his palm. The back of his fingers brushed against something else she had dropped there, and from one corner of his eye, he caught the faint wink of jewels on the hilt of a dirk amid the straw. His mother’s dirk.…

Remaining still, he did not speak as Catherine sailed across the cell to the door and the waiting guard. Pressing the pomander against her nose, she said in a faint voice, “I feel so weak … wouldst thou assist me, Saunders? ’Tis the stench of Scot in this cell that has me in a swoon … I vow it will be midnight before I recover, and I do not want to miss the celebration in the hall this eve … wilt thou accompany me to my chamber? I still get lost, and cannot even find the east gate without help.”

Saunders was helping her from the cell with an arm around her shoulders, and Alex noted from the intense set of his mouth that he was paying attention only to Catherine’s soft loose hair and intoxicating scent. No doubt, it was the closest he had ever gotten to such a beautiful woman, and an earl’s daughter to boot.

When the cell door closed with a solid thud and the key turned in the lock, Alex leaned his head back against the wall and sighed. She had tried so hard, but still he saw no hope. A key to his shackles would only free him within the cell, and his mother’s dirk would hardly hold off a brace of armed soldiers if he did manage to escape this hole. Even if he could disarm his guard and take his weapon, then pray that he could leave the cellars unnoticed … he would be killed before he made it to the wall. Or worse—recaptured.

Poor catkin. No doubt she had spent the last three
days concocting this plan and badgering the guard. But he continued to think about it. Why disappoint her? At worst, he would be caught or killed, and where was he now? At the best—he drew in a deep breath. His hands clenched convulsively around the key.

Yea, and her idle chatter was no idle chatter. A feast meant food and drink, and distracted guards …
“I vow it will be midnight before I recover, and I do not want to miss the celebration in the hall this eve … will thou accompany me to my chamber? I still get lost, and cannot even find the east gate without help.”

It was worth a try. After all, he had only his life left to lose now.

Music from horns, harps, and flutes filled the hall, and the castellan smiled benignly upon the revelers. On the morrow, it would be May first, a day of celebration to welcome the new season. In England, it was oft celebrated with decorated poles in the village, garlands of flowers, and much laughter, singing, and dancing. But this was Scotland and a time of war, when a hostile populace surrounded them. The only concession to the usual festivities was a merry feast with music and dancing.

Catherine sat quietly beside her brother. She dared not look at him, for fear he would somehow know what she had done. Tense, she curled her hand tightly around the stem of her goblet and sipped her wine. Her trencher lay half-full, the meat untouched. Nicholas leaned close.

“Is the wild boar not to your liking?”

She set down her wine, “Yea, ’tis succulent, but I am not very hungry.”

“You must eat, kitten, and be strong enough to ride. I have delayed too long already, but we leave the day after the morrow to meet Hereford.”

Frowning a little, she gave him a curious look. “Why is he to meet with us?”

“I have arranged it. When we leave here, we will rendezvous at the abbey near Jedburgh. It should be safe enough there, as we have matters to discuss. This meeting cannot be held in Berwick, but when it is done we will continue there before I take you to Warfield.” He frowned. “I had not planned to take you with me, but this cannot be helped. I dare not trust you to anyone else.”

Putting her hand on his sleeve, she said softly, “You love me well, I think.”

He met her gaze, and in his bright blue eyes she saw the love and affection she had never received from another. Until Alex Fraser.

Nicholas nodded. “Yea, kitten, I love you well. You must know I do, or I would not have gone to so much trouble to see you safe. God knows, it would have been much simpler to let Fraser have you, but I could not.” He looked down at her hand on his arm, and put his own over it. “I have defied even our father to keep you safe, Catherine.”

She smiled. “You have defied even me to keep me safe.”

“Yea, so I have.” He grinned. “I would sooner face our father, I think. Now here, cut your meat before you eat, for it is a large piece. Where is your dagger?”

“It … was not mine. I gave it away, for it had too many memories with it.”

Sobering, he nodded. “Poor kitten. You have suffered. I hope that you will soon be eased.”

“Yea, so do I.” A little sob caught in her throat, and she swallowed it. Why must he be so sweet and understanding now, when she had marked her course? He would never forgive her for what she had done, but she
prayed that it would work even if he hated her for it. “Nicky … you know how I love you, do you not?”

“Yea, kitten, I do. Though you have a strange way of showing that love at times, I do know your sweet nature and gentle heart.” He slanted her a glance, and reached to cut her meat with his own dagger. “Are you well?”

She looked down, watching as he sliced off a portion of meat with his dagger, a swift, clean stroke as if he were cutting butter. “Nay. Oh, not anything terrible, but … but I find I weary easily. Would you be distressed if I left early to go to my chamber? I will stay if you prefer—”

Instantly solicitous, he shook his head. “Of course I will not be distressed. Percy will escort—”

“No!” She drew in a deep breath at his narrowed glance. “Not Percy. Another man, but not Percy.”
Not the man who held a hot iron to Alex
.…

She felt his eyes linger on her a moment, but then he shrugged. “Morgan will do, then. He is Welsh and a little rough, but stout. Shall I come to see you before I retire?”

“Yea, if you like.” What else could she say? If she refused, it would arouse his suspicion, but she prayed that he would decide not to, or find feminine company to fill his hours. There was a flaxen-haired maid who had been flirting with Nicholas since their arrival, and she had seen him smiling at her as well. Yea, that would be perfect, if only he would be diverted.

It was quiet in the chamber she had been given, and she was grateful. All were below in the hall, attending the May Eve festivities. Since her arrival, she had had no privacy, not even for a moment. When one of the male guards was not following her every move, one of the female attendants or ladies of the castle was set to watch her.

The man tonight was a new guard, and she wished fretfully that Saunders had been given the post again. He
was Sir Walter’s man and more lenient than the others, or she would never have been able to convince him to allow her into the dungeon. That it was managed at all was no doubt due to the fact that Sir Walter was Scottish himself, though he avowed loyalty to the English. Perhaps his men felt sympathy for Alex Fraser.

Her heart lurched. Alex … he had watched her with his beautiful eyes veiled by his lashes at first, but when he looked up, she had seen in them something of her own heart. It had near undone her. Worse, seeing close evidence of his grievous injuries had made her forget what she needed to convey to him, so that she had stumbled about and put it so badly he may not have grasped her meaning. Would he? Had he been able to free himself from those hideous chains and flee the cell?

There had been no alarm raised, and she prayed it was because his escape had not yet been discovered. The grim alternative was insupportable. Oh, it was so faulty a plan, but she was desperate. Nicholas may love her, but he was not a blind fool, and she knew he did not trust her.

Twisting her hands together, she paced the floor, moving from the fire to the window, then back. It was dark outside, the curfew keeping all quiet. But Bothwell was very well guarded, and what if she had misread the message? Or the messenger? Though she had recognized John Elliot as one of the men who had ridden with them from Castle Rock, he had not appeared to trust her. Indeed, he had stood stiff and tense when she saw him carrying a load of faggots in the bailey, and she knew he thought she would betray him.

Instead, she had managed to convey her relief that he was there, and signal that she was willing to converse. It had been understandably brief under the watchful eyes of her guard, a passing comment that Alex was in the
dungeon and needed their help. Elliot had swept a low bow as if in obeisance to her station, and murmured that he would leave her a message beneath the garden bench the next morn.

That was all, but it was enough to give her hope. She had plucked the crudely lettered message from beneath the stone bench in the bailey garden the next morn, and taken it to the garderobe to read in privacy. Tears filled her eyes when she saw the clumsy, familiar lettering in English:
Robie wil hav a hors at est gate midnit of the morrow. Tam
.