The Scotsman (9 page)

Nicholas’s retort silenced the earl’s objections, but it was plain that his father was not pleased.

“Oft, ’tis better to lose the hand than the entire arm, Nicholas. You might well remember that.”

“Yea, so I will, but if the hand can be saved, then it should be done.”

“Go then, but do not attempt to take de Brus or the Scots brat with you. They stay. Stall Fraser if you can. Tell him that you must see Catherine to ascertain that ’tis truly my daughter he has … your brothers will accompany you, and while you barter with the Scot, they can peruse Castle Rock to determine its strength and weakness.”

“I prefer to go alone. Robert and Geoffrey will only be in the way.”

“Yea, go alone and you may linger alone. Take a show of force with you, or you may end your days in a Scottish sty. You will do as I tell you. You are worth much more as a hostage than is your sister.”

It was the best he could hope for, and as Nicholas made plans for the journey north, he wondered grimly how such a man could be his sire. Harshness in war was one thing. To care so little for the fate of his own child was another. Perhaps that was why Nicholas had grown so fond of Catherine, recognizing in his sister a spirit of fire and rebellion that he had oft felt as a boy. His defiance had been curbed with harsh beatings and rigid discipline, but Catherine’s spirit was being slowly stifled beneath the weight of indifference. Both methods were equally lethal.

“Miles.” He beckoned his captain of the guards to him. “Mount a troop. We ride north before the day is done.”

Looking startled, Miles nodded. “Yea, m’lord. Do we take just Devlin men, or do the earl’s soldiers go with us?”

Nicholas thought of his father’s soldiers, well armed and trained, but loyal only to the earl, and shook his head. “Nay, we take only our own this time, Miles.”

He would not risk Catherine with more duplicity. She would need all the loyalty he could muster to save her
from a cruel fate. Tucking the lock of her hair into his sherte, he moved swiftly across the muddy bailey toward the stables. There was yet much to be done.

Catherine heard him coming down the corridor. She knew it was not Main, for the footsteps were heavy and assured, not the shuffling gait of the older woman. Tensing, she folded her hands in front of her and turned to face the door, keeping the window behind her so that her expression would be shadowed.

A key turned loudly in the lock and the door swung open with a harsh creaking of hinges. The Scot ducked slightly to enter, his height greater than the doorway. He surveyed her coolly with his light eyes, his expression unreadable. Her heart lurched, and a thousand thoughts streaked through her mind, a thousand different fears.

To her surprise, he bowed slightly, a gesture of courtesy she did not expect, and said, “Good morn, milady.”

Cautiously, she inclined her head in the barest of acknowledgments. “Good morn, sir.”

A faint smile curved his mouth. “It has come to my attention that you find your visit here lacks excitement.”

She stiffened. “Nay, what I said to Father Michael was that I find your household wearisome. But then, I would prefer boredom to certain notions of entertainment.”

“No doubt. Since Father Michael reports your spirits to be withering without proper company, I thought to relieve your tedium.”

“With
your
company?”

“If I choose.” His cool reply was guarded, and she noted a small flicker in his eyes that betrayed his chagrin at her derision. So, he was not as immune to insult as she had begun to think. It was a worthwhile bit of information to file away for future use.

“Perhaps your company is better than dying slowly of
tedium, but I prefer a slow, uncertain fate to a swift, certain one.”

Leaning back against the oak portal, he crossed his arms over his chest and regarded her without smiling. “Do not be so sure of that, milady, until you are faced with the choice.”

Silence stretched awkwardly, and Catherine studied him with a slightly lowered gaze. His trews were faded, his sherte of fine quality linen that showed age, and his knee-high boots were scuffed and muddy. A sword was strapped around his waist, dangling with lethal promise at his side.

Impatience edged his words as he said, “I see my long absence has not improved your opinion of me. ’Tis of little consequence to me if you languish here alone. I came only to offer you relief from your solitude, but if you prefer—”

“Pray, pardon my sharp tongue, sir.” She said it quickly as he pushed away from the door with the obvious intention of departing, desperation overcoming her natural aversion. “Since Father Michael can no longer come, I find the days overlong and unbearable without some task to fill them. I can weave, if you care to have a loom brought to me. I can spin wool into yarn, or knit garments … I am not accustomed to being idle for so long.”

Pausing with one hand on the door latch, he looked at her for a long moment, his gray eyes serious and considering as if calculating her sincerity. “I was told you read.”

His abrupt comment startled her, but she nodded. “Yea, ’tis true.”

“Do I have your word of honor that you will not attempt escape if I allow you from this chamber?”

Hope flared, but she gave him a cautious reply. “Am I so feared a captive then?”

“Nay, but none here have the inclination to waste time dragging you back should you attempt flight.” A flicker of impatience knit his dark brows into a frown. “I am not a tolerant man, milady. Do you give me the answer I seek, or linger here with only your own company to fill your days. ’Tis your choice.”

“With so gracious an invitation, I can do naught but accede to your request. Of course you have my word that I will not attempt escape. Where would I go? I am in an alien land peopled by the enemy.”

“See that you keep that in mind.” He stood back and gestured for her to precede him. After the briefest of hesitations, she crossed the chamber and moved through the door. Even knowing she was still a hostage, freedom from the tiny circular chamber was cheering.

The corridor was short, but with long windows that allowed in light on each side. Shutters were opened on the gray day, and a brisk wind carried in the smell of rain as they traversed the hallway to the stairwell. It spiraled down in a tight coil, narrow steps and dank closeness lit only by oil lamps in small niches. Light flickered and wavered over the stone steps as she made her way down cautiously, ever aware of the towering presence just behind her.

Silently, he guided her down another corridor off the stairwell, to a heavy door. Reaching past her, he pushed it open and it swung noiselessly into a large, airy chamber. Catherine stepped inside, trepidation melding into astonished delight.

“Oh, what a lovely room this is!”

“My father had it built.” Alex stepped around her to the windows, shoving one open to allow in fresh air. Lit candles danced in candle stands, and a horn lamp burned steadily beside a bolstered chair obviously meant to welcome an occupant. Shelves lined one wall from floor to
ceiling, holding volumes of leather and wood-bound books.

“May I?” Catherine indicated the books with an uplifted hand.

He shrugged. “You did say you could read, I think. Choose a volume that interests you.”

There was an undisguised challenge in his tone, and she understood immediately that this was a test of some kind. She had pleaded for rescue from her boredom, and this was his answer.

Catherine did not deign to reply verbally to his challenge, but moved instead to the bookcase. The inevitable Greek tragedies were there, with treatises in Latin and French. After studying several dozen titles, she chose a slim volume of French poetry. She could feel him watching her as she flipped it open to peruse the lettered pages. It was beautifully copied, with flowing script and intricate drawings on the thick pages.

“Pray, read to me, milady. It has been some time since I have heard a woman read poetry.”

She looked up at him with a cool lift of her brows. “I do not care to read aloud.”

“No doubt.” A cynical twist of his mouth accompanied his advance toward her. “Humor me, if you please. If for no other reason than because I have temporarily freed you from your chamber.”

“Very well. Shall I read in French, or translate it for you?”

“A translation would be satisfactory.”

“If you insist.” She riffled the pages a moment, both resentful and amused by his skepticism of her ability to read, then cleared her throat and began to translate: “‘The story I shall tell today Was taken from a Breton lay Called
Laustic
in Brittany, Which, in proper French would be
Rossignol
. They’d call the tale In English lands
The Nightingale.’”
She felt his eyes on her, but kept her gaze firmly fixed on the stiff pages of the book as she read further. “‘There was, near Saint Malo, a town Of some importance and renown….’” He remained silent as she read more, unmoving until she reached the lines, “‘They were much happier than before And would have asked for nothing more But lovers can’t be satisfied When love’s true pleasure is denied—’”

“Enough.”

Catherine halted and looked up. He was staring at her with a strange expression. She shrugged carelessly. “There is much more to read, sir.”

“I know that. I am familiar with this particular ballad. Twas composed by Marie de France, I believe.”

“Yea, so it was.” She closed the volume with a crisp snap, and held the leather-bound book to her chest. “I admit I am surprised that a man such as yourself would read this land of verse.”

“No more surprised than I am to find a woman who reads it so eloquently, I should think.”

“Or one who reads at all, I infer.”

A faint smile flickered. “Aye, ’tis true enough, I vow. I did not expect to harbor an educated female.”

“Not exactly educated, but not ignorant, either.” She ran a fingertip over the closed volume’s edges. “Men are said to be illiterate if capable of reading in only one or two languages. For a female to read at all is a vaunted skill and quite useless, I have been told.”

“And who would be so ignorant as to say that?”

“My father.” She smiled wryly. “He shares the opinion of many men, who think a female should use her skill for the creation of children and tapestries, and little else.”

“I cannot say I completely disagree with that opinion, though ’tis not likely that I would agree with Lord Warfield
on much else. I would prefer meeting him on a battlefield to a bargaining table.” Clasping his hands behind him, he moved across the room in strides as loose and easy as a large cat to stand in front of the windows, staring out.

Catherine watched from beneath her lashes, more than a little curious about a man who in one breath professed to read poetry, and in the next spoke casually of war. There were depths to him she had not considered. Was it possible he was not just the crude, savage Scot she had first thought him? If he was civilized, there may yet be hope for her.

“Of course, my father also said that Scots are vicious, untaught barbarians prone to devouring their own children if their larders are empty,” she commented, still watching him from beneath her lowered lashes.

Alex turned sharply, and his dark brows crowded his eyes in a scowl. “I have no doubt Warfield would make such a remark, but am surprised that you dare repeat it to me.”

“Are you? I beg your pardon. I thought we were being candid.”

“Candor is for the captor, not the captured.”

“I see. Honesty avails only those holding the sword, is that right, sir?”

“Usually.” His mouth quirked into a tight smile. “It has been my experience that prudence is more useful to those beneath the blade.”

“Yet the Scots still defy their rightful king. Would not prudence be of more use to you than arms?”

“Not if it involves yielding one hide of land to a king who has stolen the crown with lies and deceit.” Crossing the room to the hearth, where a fire burned brightly, he leaned one arm on the stone mantel and regarded her
with a brooding expression. “You are a cheeky maid, to speak so boldly to the man who holds your life in his hands.”

She looked up at him, lifting her brows in feigned astonishment. “Again, you must forgive me. I was under the impression that my life was in my father’s hands.”

“No. Your fate is in your father’s hands. Your life, I hold.”

“Of which fact you relish reminding me.” She placed the book on a table, feeling his eyes follow her as she crossed the chamber. Candle glow brightened the meager gray light streaming through the tall windows. Tiny rainbows danced across the floor in wavering patterns. The opened window allowed in cool air that smelled of imminent rain and distant freedom.

Alex laughed softly. “Next, I suppose you will claim that your father is a noble human being with the morals of a saint.”

“I am not a fool, sir.” Catherine clutched the back of a chair with both hands, the dark wood smooth beneath her fingers as she held it tightly. “Nor am I blind. I am well aware of my father’s faults, as I have told you. But at least he did not sneak like a thief into your home to take your brother. Your brother, youthful as he may be, chose to engage in violent conflict. Do you deny it?”

“Nay. Jamie chose to leave the protection of his home, where you did not. But if I can save him from certain death, I mean to do it, whether you agree or no.”

She wanted to say that her father would not kill his young brother, but did not. It was a he, and he would know it. Instead, she chose another tactic. She would see how far she could go with this man.

“Truthfully, sir, Robert Bruce is to blame for your brother’s capture.”

Irony marked his expression. “Is he? Twould greatly interest me to hear how you reached that conclusion. Pray, share with me your reasoning, my lady.”

“Very well.” She traced a carved vine with one finger, watching him to gauge his reaction. “If Scotland were to be reasonable and acknowledge Edward as their true and rightful king, none of this conflict would be necessary. The Earl of Carrick would retain his lands and peace would reign. Instead, Robert Bruce has lost his earldom and will soon lose his Ufe, along with the lives of countless men, women, and children who have fallen victim to his ruthless depredations.”