by Blair, Willa
He fought down his protective instincts. She deserved some time spent feeling uncomfortable. She’d made him miserable enough. “Ye are the one who agreed to be betrothed,” he challenged, recalling the pain the news had caused. How it stayed with him—and how furious he’d been after hearing it, driving him, foolishly, to leave for France.
“I did no such thing. I was forced…”
“So ye are married now.” The confirmation stung. He took her hand and ran his thumb over her finger where a wedding ring should be. Her hand was ice cold in his, betraying…what? “Why no ring? Where is yer husband?” He let it go.
“My…? Nay, I am no’ wed. Though Da has tried often enough. I came here to avoid his latest attempt.”
The upwelling of joy in Kenneth’s chest nearly overwhelmed him into reaching for her, pulling her into his lap and kissing her senseless. But he couldn't do that to her. He had to know.
“I heard ye were betrothed to a Mackintosh.”
“The first time.”
She still stood before him, one arm crossed over her chest, protecting herself; the hand he’d released crumpling, then smoothing the front of her skirt. “I convinced Da to break it off. Then again, and again.” She took a step closer to his chair.
“What do ye mean?” He suddenly needed to stay seated while she explained herself. He wasn’t sure his legs would support him, now he’d found out Cat was a free woman.
“Da has tried his best to find an alliance—and a husband—I would accept,” she continued. She fisted her hands and glanced around the room as if making sure they were alone. “The only husband I want…the only man I ever wanted…is ye.” She took a breath. “I wanted ye, but ye never came. So why have ye no’ come for me? We had an agree…”
“Childish fancy,” he said, cutting her off before her words could wound him any worse. She’d waited for him, fought her father to honor her promise to him and his to her. Kept herself pure. All the while he’d been fighting in France, and whoring with Marilee and others he could barely recall. He was not worthy to have her regard, much less her love.
She blinked at his curt remark and took a step back.
It hurt him to say what needed to be said nearly as much as it probably hurt her to hear it, but Kenneth could not let her get involved with him again. Not while he languished in Albany’s care, and given his past, not ever. So he twisted the knife. “Ye were a wee lassie, and I no’ much more grown.”
Her lips thinned.
Kenneth expected her chin to wobble as she fought back tears, but instead, a muscle in her jaw jumped.
“And we are so much older now, aye?” she retorted. “Or ye are so much more experienced, a lass like me can no longer satisfy ye…”
Ach, Cat. Still spitting and hissing and going after what she wanted. She made him proud, and terrified him.
She should not be here. What if someone came in and found them together? He glanced toward the door.
“So ’tis true.” The hunger was gone from her gaze now, replaced by cold and damp despair.
He rubbed the bridge of his nose long enough to close his eyes and shut away the sight of the pain he caused her for one blessed moment. “What is true?”
“Ye never meant to offer for me. Iain forced ye to say the words, thinking we’d…done more than we had. Ye never wanted me. Only what we did…”
“Nay, lass.” This was too much. He could not lie about those days “I did care. Iain had nothing to do with it, save agreeing. My offer was sincere…”
“Then. But ye wouldna make it again now.”
He waved a hand around the room. “I’m not exactly in a position to.”
“Are ye truly a prisoner? Ye said ye are no’ here by choice.”
“Of a sort.”
“Ach, Kenneth…” This time, she reached for him.
He ignored her hand. “If ye want to help me, do what I asked the other night Send a note to Iain, telling him where I am.”
She blinked.
He'd surprised her with the sudden change of subject. Yet, she might be the only person in St. Andrews he could trust, no matter how his words hurt her. Hell, she might not even believe what he’d said. He pulled a sheet of vellum from the drawer in the table next to him and dipped a quill in ink. “Will ye do it?”
He’d thought to have her write it. A woman’s hand might escape notice, but if she got caught with the information he wanted to give Iain, it would be better if she could claim ignorance of its contents.
She nodded, still wordless, but still willing to help him, despite his hurtful claims.
He bent to work writing a brief note Iain would understand, but would not get a courier in trouble if caught with it.
While he wrote, Cat found her voice and told him about the Highland ships she’d been seeing at the harbor. “I dinna ken when the next will arrive or when they’ll leave. But ye could sail for home with them,” she added.
She was so strong. After what he’d said, how could she even form words meant to offer hope to him? She should have stormed out, cursing his name. He finished the note with a trembling hand, folded and sealed it with wax from a candle while Cat waited silently. He was tempted by the picture she painted. If only he could escape without putting Brodie—and Cat—in jeopardy. He cleared his throat, and then spoke. “I canna do it, lass. But ye can. Go with them. Take this to yer father. He’ll see it gets to Brodie.” He handed her the note, and she slipped it into the pocket of her skirt, yet her gaze remained on him.
He couldn’t hide his longing for her. He was sure it filled his gaze and, even when he managed not to reach for her, revealed how his heart swelled at her nearness. He tried to force it back, to turn his thoughts to how daring for a lass to make her way about the castle alone. His Cat had always had more courage than was good for her. His Cat.
“We both could go.”
She must have seen something in his face, in his body, that gave him away. “I canna,” he insisted, fighting the urge to cross himself for speaking the lie under the bishop’s own roof. Possibly, he could escape the castle and the town walls, but there would be consequences he did not want to be responsible for. “And ye must no’ be seen with me. I’m no’ here because I wish to be. So flee, Cat. Go home.”
“Catherine…I’m called Catherine now.”
He ignored her attempt to take on the mantle of maturity and dignity. What he had to tell her was too important. “And dinna speak to me, or of me, again. Yer da will do what is best for ye.” He waved a hand as if pushing her away. “I canna.”
Tears glimmered even though the fierce frown never left her face.
“Ye were always what was best for me.” She shook her head and held up a hand when he opened his mouth to object. “Why do ye think that has changed?”
Damn it, he was going to have to tell her. She would never give up if he did not. “My feelings for ye changed when I lay with a lass in France.”
Cat’s hand flew to her throat, and she gasped as if he’d punched her in the belly.
“She taught me everything a wee country lass like ye never could,” he continued, fury at having to hurt her this way making his voice gruff and sharp. “Now any lass I bed must…”
“Teach me.”
Kenneth’s throat closed on an icy knot of shock. It quickly melted into burning—unquenchable—desire. He heaved a breath. He should have known better than to trade challenges with Cat. She’d always taken any dare of his and thrown it back in his face. She’d just done it again and by God, if they were anywhere else, if there were any chance at real privacy, he’d do just what she asked, and make her his—forever. But they weren’t.
He’d always enjoyed their battles of wits, but not this time. This time, there was too much at stake. “Nay. I willna. Ye are too good for the likes of me. I’m no longer the lad ye kenned.” He stood, forcing her back a step while she shook her head, denying his words. “Ye deserve a man who has no’ done what I have done. Who has no’ seen what I
have seen.”
She moved in, giving him no quarter. Instead, she lifted her arms and pulled his head down for a kiss, her body pressed fully and firmly against his. “Teach me,” she demanded again, but softer this time, then her lips found his.
They moved over his like velvet over steel, Cat’s determination evident even in her probing kiss. His hands roamed over her back of their own will, stroking, pulling her closer, delving under her hair to cradle her nape with one while the other cupped her bottom. He hadn’t realized how keenly, how acutely he had missed her until her kiss brought it all slamming back; the longing, the heat, the intoxicating taste of her. It took all of his willpower to release her, to turn his head aside instead of plundering her mouth. Even that simple kiss brought back everything they’d shared two years ago; her taste, her touch, all the ways they’d helped each other learn what the other liked. Her brief kiss fired his blood and left his heart pounding. He recalled the geography of her body, the hills and valleys and secret places he’d delighted in exploring, the heat in her kiss and, most of all, the hunger in her eyes he had refused to satisfy. His cock hardened at the memories and the scent and taste and heat of that woman standing before him now, panting, with desire and hurt warring in her gaze. If only he had taken her then. They might be married now, and he would not have gone to France. “I willna teach ye,” he choked out. “I canna do that to ye, Cat. No’ when I will never be able to do what’s right by ye. To marry ye. I’m hostage here for Iain. I dinna ken how long I’ll be held here. The letter for Iain—he thinks I’m in Sterling.” He expected that would make her flee, or at least, make her cry in earnest, but she simply regarded him, studied him, and waited for him to capitulate. If he had no honor, he could hate her, teach her, take her, and leave her. Seeing her was torture. Her offer, shocking. Her kiss…devastating. He wanted more.
“I hear what ye didna say. I ken ye well enough to believe ye are trying to protect me.”
Nay! Her understanding would unravel the knots of his resolve. He clenched his fists. “I am,” he admitted. From myself.
She backed up a step, her expression grim. “Then I will go now. But we will…”
“Nay, lass, we will no’. Ye will return home and obey yer da. ’Twill be the best for ye.” Now the knife was twisting in his own gut.
Cat shook her head, tears again glinting in her eyes, as though she found everything that had just passed between them impossible to believe. Then she turned, her back straight, and walked to the door.
“Ye havena seen the last of me, Kenneth Brodie,” she said without turning her head. She spoke to the oaken door, sounding for all the world like a seer making a vow to a sacred tree. Before he could reply, she slipped out.
At that moment, he realized this was the second time he had failed to ask her why she was here. He’d been so determined to keep Cat safe when she accosted him in the hallway during the feast, he’d failed to ask her why she was in St. Andrews. She mentioned a cousin and the tailor. Could that be where she was staying? Surely her father had not sent her as hostage for Rose. He shuddered to think what might happen to a lass put in that position. Nay, Cat was here for another reason. She’d said she came here to avoid her father’s latest attempt to betroth her. But why St. Andrews? Because it was as far from James Rose as she could run and have kin to live with? His heart broke for her. For the desperation that drove her here. For the lad and the lass they used to be—when being in love was simple. Nay, her presence in the bishop’s town had nothing to do with him, or she would not have been so surprised to encounter him.
Was she even free to leave St. Andrews?
He realized her last words were as prophetic as he’d imagined. He would have to find a way to talk to her again after all. Finding her here was a complication he didn’t need, yet she could be in as much danger as any Highlander. How could he think of escape if in doing so, he left her behind?
* * *
To Catherine, passing under the portcullis and through the castle gates felt like breaching a wall between her past and her future. Tears had threatened since she closed the library door behind her, but she’d forced them back, refusing to flee the castle distraught and embarrass herself in front of all those priests and guards and servants. If only she could look forward and forget the past. Forget Kenneth and all he’d meant to her, all they’d shared. The dream of a life with him that had kept her stubbornly defying her father. Forget all the heartache of not knowing where he was, and when, or if, he would return for her. Forget the embarrassment, no—mortification—of begging him to teach her what he’d learned from whores in France.
One taste of him, one simple kiss, and her body had melted with desire. Dear God, what had she become, to stoop so low? Would her sisters recognize her? She barely recognized herself. No man was worth surrendering her dignity in that way. Not even Kenneth. Most certainly not Kenneth, the man who’d failed to fight her father’s hidebound notions of what was best for the clan and convince him to let them wed when he had the chance. The man who had disappeared and left her to be bartered away by her father, not once, not twice, but three times. Were all men so heartless?
By the time she reached the North street, she’d worked herself into a state of indignation to match the storm clouds amassing on the horizon. She dared not return to Abi’s place. Instead, she turned downhill and made her way through town, away from the harbor, toward the long beach bordering the coastline. Without meeting a soul, she could walk for miles along the wide stretch of sand while the northerly wind tore at her hair and dress. She could walk into the sea and let the waves claim her life. It wasn’t worth much to her right now, not if it didn’t include Kenneth. The one man she’d thought she wanted, the one man she’d thought she loved, didn’t want her.
Or she could stiffen her spine, turn around, and do what she’d planned when she first contemplated leaving Rose—make something of herself. Without her father, without Kenneth, without any man. Women could earn a living at many honorable pursuits in a town such as this. She had no special skills, but she was intelligent and a fast learner. She would adopt a common practice of the students at the university. She would find a mentor. She would find a way.
Her boots were coated with sand and the hem of her dress soaked with sea spray by the time she’d calmed enough to start back up the hill into town. There was still the matter of the letter in her pocket. She might be angry with Kenneth, but she would do what she could to help him. She’d send it in her own letter to Annie. No one in St. Andrews would think to care about a letter from one sister to another. Then Annie could safely give it to Iain. Catherine would not send it to Mary. Her father might intercept it and discover where she’d gone.
Resolved, she continued on her way. Her hair had come loose from its braid while she walked and now streamed around her head, so she turned to face the wind and gathered it in both hands as it blew out behind her, and then twisted it into a coil at her neck. That would hold long enough for her to get indoors.
“Good day, sweet Catherine.”
The voice sounded just behind her. Surprised, she whirled, swinging a fist, intent on defending herself, before she registered the voice—and the words she should have also recognized—belonged to Cam Sutherland. He easily blocked her with an open palm, the sound of her fist smacking his warm flesh making her cringe. “Cam! I’m so sorry. Ye startled me.”
“I can see that.” He grinned and shook his hand as though she’d hurt him, then put his hands on his hips and leveled a stare at her. “What has ye so fashed, lass, ye are ready to do battle? Ye’re out here by yerself, windblown and—have ye been crying?”
“What? Nay. The wind made my eyes water.”
“Indeed.”
Well, it had. She was sure it must have at some point.
He gestured toward a nearby pub. “Let’s get an ale—or some stew,” Cam amended when the clouds finally let loose a torrent of rain. “Stew it is. Then ye can tell me what has happened.”
The nearest pub was of a respectable sort frequented by town ladies and university scholars rather than the rough crowd inhabiting the pubs near the harbor. Cam claimed seats at a small table near the window. Catherine appreciated his regard for her reputation. Anyone passing by would see nothing amiss. Two acquaintances come in out of the rain, sharing a meal on a chilly afternoon, nothing more. Still, she could hope word would get back to Kenneth she’d been seen with another man. A large, handsome Highlander, too. She found herself studying him as he gave their order to a serving girl. Charming, when he wasn’t being arrogant. A merchant’s factor—or something more.
“What’s amiss, lass?”
Cam’s question interrupted her musing. She hoped she hadn’t been staring at him while she pictured Kenneth’s reaction to the imaginary gossip. “’Tis nothing—and everything,” she amended. “A painful lesson hard learned and an uncomfortable truth—best forgotten.”
Cam eased back in his seat. “That sounds intriguing.”
“Aye, well, ’tis naught I wish to share. But I appreciate yer concern for my well-being.”
Cam eyed her, seeming to consider her words. “Have ye thought about what we last discussed? About leaving St. Andrews and returning home? Even now, ye should never be on the street without Abi. She’s a Lowlander. Yer speech marks ye as a Highlander—as does mine.”
Once again, he’d changed subjects with lightning speed. Catherine wondered if that was an indication of his intelligence—rapid and wide-ranging—or an impatient nature. She wasn’t ready yet to give up her fantasy of skewering Kenneth by her association with Cam. Nor had she seriously considered leaving this town, despite his warning. She knew of no danger to her here, save as Kenneth kept insisting existed if she was found with him. She’d rather wonder if she could make Kenneth jealous. Then again, after today, why would she want to? Especially with Cam sitting right here. He could be pleasant company when he wished to be. Solicitous, even.
“I have had no’ thought about leaving, nay. Such news seems…unreal…given nothing seems to have changed.” She gestured at the window and the people passing by, hoods pulled over their heads to keep off the cold rain.