The Scotsman (7 page)

Oddly, the captive in the tower reminded him in some way of his mother. Perhaps it was the unusual shade of hair they shared, that coppery glow like sunlit bronze that caught the eye. Or perhaps it was that Lady Catherine’s name was the English form of Catriona. Another similarity that was both striking and disconcerting. Yet the differences were just as obvious, as this Lady Catherine had a more prickly nature than his mother’s sweet temperament. Ah, God, how he missed her, even after all these years. Her death had dealt him a harsh blow.

So long ago now, even before the Fraser estates had been deseisined by Edward I, before his father had died in another attempt to reclaim them from the English. It was a bitter fact that he had been not long dead when his son had finally managed to wrest their lands back from English hands. But he would hold them this time, though the ancient title that had once been his heritage was now
worn by one of Edward’s nobles. It was galling, that the enemy used that which was rightfully his.…

“Whsst, Alex lad, where have you gone? You put me in mind of a lost puppy with that long face.”

Alex smiled, and he looked up at Robbie with a shrug. “I
feel
much like a lost puppy at the moment, Robbie. I had hoped to bring Jamie back with us.”

“Aye, but we have the next best thing in Warfield’s bonny lass. If the Border Lion can be brought to his knees, she should do it. Of course, there are those who say Lord Warfield has no fondness for anything other than English dirt and stone, unless ’tis his gold.”

That was what Alex feared—that the earl would prefer the value of Scottish hostages to the value of his daughter. After all, King Edward would pay well in coin and favor for Robert Bruce’s cousin, and if a worthless Scottish youth happened to be part of the prize, then so much the better. It was not a pleasant thought.

Nor was it a pleasant confrontation when he approached Catherine the following morning. She stood silent and pale in the chamber, the brightness of her hair a vivid contrast to her colorless face as he spread the parchment on a table and held out a quill.

“Make your mark at the bottom of the parchment, so your father will know you are alive and well.”

“Unless I pen words to that effect, he will still know nothing more than he does at this moment,” she snapped.

Alex stared at her with rising irritation. His head hurt. His eyes were scratchy from lack of sleep. He had lain awake all night planning his strategy. Now she refused his request, another irritation, albeit minor.

“’Tis of no difference to me if you will not put your mark on this parchment, but it might very well ease your father’s mind. Do you not care for his repose?”

“No more than do you.” Her brows lifted slightly when he swore at her. “I daresay my father will lose no sleep over this. He will do what he thinks right, as he has always done, and trouble himself no more over the matter. It is a trait of his that I have often admired, and more often abhorred. But it is the way of it, sir.”

“What of your mother? Does the countess feel as he does? Or would she like reassurance that you are alive, do you think?”

Her lower lip quivered slightly, but she shrugged. “My mother will think what my father tells her to think.”

“Will she? Lord Warfield is a most formidable man, if he is able to govern the thoughts of another person.”

“Yea, he is indeed most formidable, as you will soon discover to your regret.”

“That remains to be seen.” Curse her, she defied him to the teeth. Frowning, he slowly drew his fingers along the sleek length of the goose quill. “I have been known to be formidable myself when crossed, my lady. If you value your skin, you will make your mark on this parchment and be done with it.”

“I refuse to be a willing accomplice to my own imprisonment.” Though the telltale quiver of her lower lip betrayed apprehension, her chin jutted out with defiance.

Goaded, Alex tossed aside the quill and closed the narrow space between them in a single stride, drawing a
sgian dhu
from his boot top as he did. He grabbed her by one wrist and swung her around when she would have turned away, holding the sharp dirk up so that she could see it.

“Nay, lass—if you will not sign, I must have some way of assuring your father that I do indeed have you.”

Her eyes widened, soaking up light from the window slit behind them. She flicked a glance at the gleaming
blade of the dirk, then back at him. “Will you send him my head? Twill hardly convince him that you mean me no harm.”

“Nay, but ’twould convince him he had best agree to my offer if he desires to see the rest of you.” His grip tightened when she tried to twist away, and he muttered under his breath, “Hold, you silly goose. Would I slay my only advantage? I am not so foolish.”

Using his weight as leverage, he pinned her against the edge of the table. She leaned back and away from him, her breasts straining against the tattered velvet gown. He briefly glimpsed creamy skin, and he lifted his gaze from the tempting sight with determined indifference. He raised a silky loop of her bright hair in one hand, then deftly sliced it free with his dirk. She did not move as he held up the dangling lock of hair.

“A token for your father, my lady. Pray he accepts my offer.”

He stepped back from the table and looked down at her. She half sprawled on the table, palms behind her to prop herself up, her face a study of defiant fear. “I pray only for my deliverance from unholy men,” she whispered huskily.

Insult battled with anger as Alex stared down at her. Curse her, she wore a face like a martyred saint! Did she think him so crude as to defile her? To send her back with a Scots bairn in her belly? Yet, leaning backward half atop the table as she was, her body draped almost seductively over the wooden surface, he found her infinitely enticing—and dangerous.

He gestured with his dirk. “Now, my lady, perhaps you will be so good as to remove your garments for me.”

Her ashen face paled even more. “I will not.”

“Yea, you will, whether it be willing or no. ’Tis up to you if you do it, or I do it for you. But I warn you—I will not be gentle.”

“I do not doubt that.” Her lower lip quivered slightly and quickly thinned to a harsh, straight line. “Yet I have no intention of disrobing for you, or for any other man.”

A sardonic smile touched the corners of his mouth. “I have told you, my fine lady, that I would not soil myself with your virgin’s blood, and I meant it. Do not fear that I mean to ravish you. I find your garments of much more value than I do your maidenhead.”

Outrage flashed in her eyes, turning them from light violet to a deep purple. “If you mean, to insult me, you are far from the mark. I would sooner die than allow a vile Scots savage to put his hands upon me, and you are the—”

Before she could finish, he put a harsh hand on her shoulder. “’Tis best for your continued good health that you leave your opinions of me unspoken. I want only your garments. Disrobe before I begin to think your protests are just coy flirtations.”

There was another moment’s tension, then she twisted free of his hold and rolled gracefully from the table to stand beside it and gaze at him with disdain.

“Very well. If ’tis my humiliation you think to gain, however, you will be disappointed.”

“I think to gain only your garments.” Impatient, he indicated the gown with a raking sweep of his dirk. “’Tis of no matter to me if they are intact or in ribbons, so do you set to work before I do.”

She bent her head, and the coppery fall of gleaming hair fell forward to hide her face from him. Alex smothered an involuntary spurt of sympathy. Her hands were slender and fine-boned, the fingers long and well manicured,
trembling as she fumbled with the side laces of her gown. The outer garment was loose over her tighter undergown, the scooped neck embroidered with gilt thread that was now frayed. She gave a quick yank, and the tangled side laces parted. As the blue velvet crumpled to a puddle at her feet, her fingers curled into the thinner undergarment. It was made of flimsy stuff, fitting closer to her body. The torn bodice was unraveled, with loose threads of pale blue lying in a linen web against her breast. Without looking up at him, Catherine unfastened the ties that bound it around her, and he glimpsed a silken shift beneath. His mouth twisted. Well-guarded maiden, armored with layers of clothing against masculine intrusion.…

“All of it,” he said gruffly when she hesitated, and her head flung up in an angry shimmer of loose hair.

“Yea, Sir Blackguard, so you have said.”

He watched dispassionately as she twisted out of the undergarment and flung it to the floor atop the velvet. She stood there before him garbed in only the thin silken shift that reached to mid-thigh. He waited until he saw in her widening eyes that she at last understood what he wanted.

“If you think the sight of my shift will move my father to agreement,” she said through stiff lips, “you are much mistaken. Twill only anger him,”

Alex shrugged. “I do not care what moves him to come to your aid, only that he does.”

Her laugh was strangled. “Yea, and I would not give you odds that ’twill be to your satisfaction.”

“The shift, my lady. Your maidenly protests and delays bore me, and I grow weary of the wait.”

It was a lie, he knew as he said it, for the sight of her creamy skin and shivering innocence was more enticing
than he had anticipated. Indeed, his body had already betrayed him, and he was glad he was garbed in braies and loose trews instead of a more revealing tunic.

More gruffly than he intended, he again ordered her to disrobe. “Lest you have grown fond of Castle Rock, mayhap, milady?”

His mocking taunt brought an angry flush to her cheeks, and the quick retort: “Nay, no more fond than I would be of any sty, I warrant.” In a graceful movement of her slender body, she shrugged out of the silken shift and tossed it contemptuously to the discarded pile of clothing at her feet.

If he had thought to humble her, he quickly realized his mistake. She stood proudly before him, her chin lifted with aloof disdain. Her arms were held rigidly at her sides as she looked past him to the narrow window slit that filtered gray light into the chamber. Alex stood still, suddenly aware that if he moved at all, it would be to caress the tempting curves before him. Saint Jerome, but she was a beauty, temptation painted in cream and rose, high firm breasts with up-tilted nipples knotted into tight rosettes, a tiny waist that needed no stays or binding, slender hips, and thighs with a nest of red-gold curls at the juncture—despite the chill in the air, heated blood pulsed through his veins with thundering urgency.

Chagrined, he knew that ’twas he who was humbled, not this pale creature who was his brother’s only hope. With difficulty, he bent to retrieve her discarded garments, wadding them into a bundle beneath his arm as he finally met her icy gaze.

“If I were as unholy as you seem to think, no pleas or prayers would save you. Remember that, milady, when next you pray for your deliverance.”

Violet eyes regarded him with unblinking animosity. “It has been said that the devil garbs himself in the guise
of a man at times, feigning kindness to the unwary. I do not intend to waver in my prayers for deliverance.”

“Then we both pray for the same thing, for as I said before, the earl’s answer may deliver us all.”

Jaw tight, Alex left the chamber without another glance at her, slamming the door behind him.

As the echo of the slamming door faded, Catherine’s legs buckled and she crumpled to her knees on the cold stone floor. She was shaking, her hands trembling as if with the ague. For a moment she had thought he would take her atop the table with the utter disregard of a man taking a field whore. Another shudder racked her body.

It had taken all her strength not to curl into a ball in front of him, modesty shrieking at her to hide herself from his intrusive gaze. But it was what he expected from an Englishwoman, and she would not give him that satisfaction. Nay, she would give him nothing but contempt, even if he killed her for it.

Still shivering, she pushed herself to her feet and moved to the narrow cot against the far wall. The blanket was thin but big enough to cover her, and she draped it around herself as a cloak. Bare toes curled up from the chill of the stone floor, and she thought of her fine-woven hose and soft slippers, left by the banks of the stream beyond the hedgerows. What would they think when they found them? When they received the Scotsman’s demands?

It was easy to imagine her father’s fury, her mother’s tight-lipped acceptance, even her brothers’ vows of retribution. More difficult was imagining the earl’s acquiescence to any proposal from the enemy. He hated the Scottish with a passion that bordered on insanity, in her opinion. Usually her mother sent her from the table when he began one of his diatribes against the savages to
the north, but not before she’d gleaned enough to know how he felt about them.

As the uncontrollable shivering eased, weariness seeped into her limbs. She sagged into the hard mattress and buried her face in her open palms. Why was she now so exhausted? Despite her fear and the cold chamber she occupied, she had slipped into a deep, dreamless sleep the night before. She had not wanted to wake. If not for the cheerless servant named Mairi, she would have pulled the rough wool blankets up over her head and stayed in the narrow cot all day.

But Mairi had forced her to rise before the sky was more than a pale gray, to wash her face with cold water from a cracked pitcher and bowl, then eat a morning meal of oat pottage. Surprisingly, she had found it tasty, though she was reminded of her brother’s wry assertion that Scots ate more oats than did all the horses in the entire kingdom.

Now the long day stretched endlessly ahead of her like the promise of eternity. Catherine willed herself to motion. She could not lie abed all day. It was not her nature to be idle. Always, she found something to do, whether sneaking dusty volumes of ancient books from her father’s library, or simply talking in the kitchen with Cook, she could not be inactive. Was she now doomed to stare at four walls all day, with nothing to do but dwell on her hopeless situation?