Should he mourn that fact, or rejoice that it was so? It didn’t matter anyway. Lady Catrin uerch Dafydd, blood kin to Welsh royalty, cousin to Prince Llywelyn himself, was not for the likes of him. If she knew the truth of his origins, or how he’d lived until four years ago, she’d likely spit upon him.
He deserved nothing less.
He should be beaten for even daring to think of her as he had the past few days—nay, since the first moment he’d seen her. And it didn’t seem right to lust after a decent woman, although that thought flew straight out of his mind when he was near her. If her brother—the Dragon—discovered the liberties Nicholas had taken with his sister…
Likely he’d slay him on sight.
Idris whined.
“You’re right, we should be about our business.” He stood, shaking his head. It wasn’t his way to ponder life, or to find himself awash in maudlin thoughts.
As he looked down the hill at the scene spread out before him, he felt a familiarity about it. He shrugged; mayhap ’twould come to him later.
To catch anything substantial, he needed a weapon. Catrin’s dagger was a fine blade, but not enough for what he had in mind.
He set several snares in the bushes along the trail, fashioned from bits of thread and supple branches. With luck—and time—they’d catch something there. For now, though, he’d try for something larger. Perhaps a young boar; all he’d need to fell one was his knife and a stout, sharpened stick.
He found just the right stick beneath an ancient oak and sharpened it against a rock. He hefted it, tossing it in the air, and shaved a bit off the end until he was satisfied with its crude balance.
The past few days made him question his ability as a warrior—Catrin’s tongue alone could do that to a man. He was ready to pit himself against an adversary, to test his skill and cunning. Grinning, he sent Idris in search of prey.
The dog soon picked up a scent. Blood warming to the chase, Nicholas set off after him.
Catrin dragged herself from her resting place and snatched up the cup Talbot had left filled. Her arms trembled, she noted with disgust. She had turned into a weakling!
Ignoring the way the movement pulled on her wounds, she sat up and raised the cup to her lips. By sheer determination she drained the water without spilling any, though it was a near thing. Minor though the feat had been, she counted it as progress.
The poultice seemed to have helped her back, for though the wounds still hurt, they no longer throbbed so badly. ’Twas good, for she could not linger here for long; Gillian would need her help soon, and she intended to be at l’Eau Clair to give it.
She wished she could remember what she’d done when Talbot found her wandering earlier. The present had become twisted up with the past, and she couldn’t unravel the memories.
No doubt Madog had gone straight to hell after she and Mab had helped him on his way. She hoped he burned there still. The dream had seemed so real. She shuddered in remembrance.
For a long while after she had escaped Madog, little things—a sound on the edge of her awareness, a scent, a man’s touch—jolted her back into the horror. In recent months, thank God, her reaction had eased. But last night, she’d endured it again, every detail the same.
Would it ever end?
The experience colored everything she’d done or felt since. Even after four years, she remained convinced that she could never share her life with a man—not that any man would want her, after the things Madog had done.
She could live without a man in her life.
But she wanted children.
Whenever she saw Gillian and Rannulf, their contentment so clear as they awaited the birth of their child, Catrin felt a hunger so deep it hurt. She did not begrudge them their love, their joy.
But she hated the emptiness she felt in the dark, lonely depths of the night—nights when she ached for a lover, and the child they’d hold safe between them.
As she’d done so many times before, Catrin folded her arms across her chest and forced her longings deep inside. She knew better than to dream of what she could never have.
Perhaps she should blame Talbot for making the yearning reappear.
Since she met him last year at l’Eau Clair, something about him had held her thoughts, her attention—made her uncomfortable whenever he was near. Though she hadn’t the sweetest temperament to begin with, in his presence she often became a veritable shrew. He brought out the warrior in her, made her challenge him, clash with him.
She didn’t care who won their battles; ’twas the exhilaration of the fight she enjoyed.
She pulled her cloak about her shoulders, frowning as she considered that startling thought. When they sparred with each other, she felt alive, more alive than she’d been since Madog took her captive.
Was it right that she feel life so keenly, when she had killed a man?
Madog deserved to die. She felt no guilt for killing him—nor remorse, either. ’Twas that which gave her pause.
Shouldn’t she feel regret for what she had done?
Nicholas Talbot made her remember what had happened to her, but she feared he also had the power to make her forget. When she matched him taunt for taunt, when he drew her eyes to his in the heat of battle, the past ceased to exist Her blood rushed through her veins, the tumult of sensation overwhelmed her judgment. She ached with the desire to touch him—with her hands, her gaze, her words.
She couldn’t permit it to continue. She didn’t deserve the pleasure she felt in his presence.
He deserved better than a woman like her, a woman with a past she carried within her like a canker eating away at her soul.
Her attention should be focused on other things—such as who wanted her dead. Only by the grace of God and Nicholas’s arrival had she escaped that inept crew of bandits. They’d have finished what they began if Nicholas hadn’t come along.
But she couldn’t think about that—about anything—anymore. Weariness drained her, her body ached with it.
She dragged herself near the fire pit and pushed more wood on the dying flames. Arm outstretched to pillow her head, she stared into the glowing coals until, with a sigh, she settled into sleep.
The swish of a tail woke her, that and the clicking of claws against stone. Nicholas and Idris, back from the hunt?
She forced her eyes open. The gathering gloom of dusk made it difficult to see. She sat up, tucking her legs beneath her, and scraped her hair back from her face.
A low growl sounded outside the door. “Idris? Come, you cannot still be growling at Talbot. Behave yourself, you old beast!”
Catrin stretched her hands toward the dying blaze, then stopped in midmotion when she saw the compact gray creature lurking just beyond the doorway. Her breath caught in her throat and her stomach tightened with fear.
A wolf stood silhouetted against the darkening sky.
The beast moved closer, into the doorway of the cave, its ruff bristling and its teeth bared. It growled again.
Shadows skulked behind it, no doubt its brethren waiting outside. The wolf came forward, teeth still bared as it surveyed her with glinting yellow eyes. It stopped just inside the cave.
She eased her right hand away from her body toward the pile of sticks Nicholas had left for the fire. There looked to be enough life left in the glowing coals to rekindle a flame.
“Begone!” she cried, outrage lending a knife’s edge to her voice that almost hid its quavering. Closing her hand about a stout branch, she drew it toward the fire. The wolf’s gaze remained fixed upon her face. “Begone, I say! Get out of here,” she ordered as she slipped the stick into the coals.
She groped at her waist for the eating knife, certain she’d tucked it into her gown before she settled to rest earlier. Her questing fingers found it, and she gave a silent prayer of thanks.
Her nostrils flared at the feral stench rising from the wolf’s shaggy body in the warmth of the cave. She suppressed a nervous chuckle. It must really stink to ove
rpower her own smell.
The scent of burning wood cut through the other odors as she sat there, still captured by the wolf’s avid gaze. She darted a glance at the stick and saw a thin curl of smoke rise from it before the wood caught fire.
Thank God! She doubted the animal’s curiosity—or patience—could last much longer.
Nor could she.
Her fingers tightened about the stick as more snarling shadows crept forward. What should she do? She dared not sit here, waiting for Nicholas Talbot to rescue her yet again.
The blood of warriors flowed in her veins; now was the time to use that fact to her advantage. A man would not wait for deliverance…he would act, no matter how uneven the odds.
She had complained about that particular masculine trait often enough. Perhaps it wasn’t so bad a habit, after all.
Catrin snatched the burning stick from the fire with one hand and whipped the dirk from her waist with the other. Despite her trembling limbs, she leapt to her feet, thrust the stick before her and screamed as loud as she could.
Nicholas climbed the path to the cave eagerly. Blood streaked his chest and chausses, and he carried a young boar under one arm. He couldn’t hold back a grin; he could not recall ever enjoying a hunt so much.
But then, it had been a long time since his stomach had been so empty.
Idris trotted at his side, a brace of rabbits carried tenderly in his massive jaws. He’d earned his keep today. A magnificent hunter, he was surprisingly stealthy, considering his size, and alert to the faintest hint of prey.
Nicholas’s spirits were high for another reason, as well. They’d traversed far afield, and he was almost certain he recognized the terrain.
He believed he knew where they were.
It had been a wonderful day. Nicholas laughed for the sheer joy of it.
As they entered the cluster of trees surrounding the hilltop, Idris stopped in his tracks and dropped the rabbits. All his attention focused on the yet unseen clearing ahead.
Nicholas dropped to his knees beside the dog and placed a hand on his shoulder, reaching for his knife with the other. “What is it?” he murmured.
The mare let out a squeal of terror, the sound followed by an unmistakable howl. Nicholas tossed the pig aside and ran, his blood frozen in his veins. Idris raced after him.
One word throbbed through Nicholas’s head in time with his pounding feet.
Wolves.
Chapter Eleven
Gwal Draig, Northern Wales
As the walls of Gwal Draig came into view on the crest of the hill, Lord Ian ap Dafydd spurred his mount into a ground-eating gallop. His battle cry bursting from his lips, he bent low over the stallion’s neck, the cloak billowing out behind him giving him a heady sense of freedom. His hair whipped about his head, the long dark strands lashing his face as he savored the familiarity of his surroundings.
Home.
Now all he needed was a tongue-lashing from Catrin to make his homecoming complete.
The gates clanked open before him, the guard’s shout nearly lost in the hollow clatter of hooves over the drawbridge. His troops thundered after him.
Ian tossed the reins to a stable lad and searched the gathering crowd for his sister. She was usually among the first to greet him, but he didn’t see her anywhere.
“God save you, milord,” someone called across the courtyard.
Father Marc hurried from the keep, wending his way through the chaos. Lines of worry etched the priest’s usually cheerful face. Ian knew a moment’s panic as he wondered what predicament Catrin might have fallen into in his absence.
Though only two years her elder, he had always looked after his sister, even before their parents’ death six years earlier. And though her years now numbered four and twenty, he had no desire to break the habit—most of the time.
Father Marc joined him at last. “Thank goodness you’re here, milord.” The priest wrung his hands, then shoved them into the trailing sleeves of his coarse brown robe.
“What has she done this time?” Ian removed his cloak and tossed it to a passing servant. He should likely discount the man’s distress, since Catrin’s actions almost always had this effect on him. At times, Ian wondered if she did it apurpose, simply to jar the serenity of Father Marc’s existence. Fighting back a grin, he asked, “Is my sister afraid to face me?”
“’Tis far worse than that, milord.” Father Marc stared down at the muddy ground.
Ian ran a hand through his tangled hair and sighed. “Tell her to meet me in my chambers, then. I can await her pleasure more comfortably there,” he said, thinking longingly of a steaming bath and a horn of hot spiced mead.
He turned to leave, but Father Marc grabbed his arm. “She cannot, sir. I’m sorry to say—”
At Ian’s look of surprise, the smaller man released him. “You can tell me the particulars inside.” Ian headed for the keep. “Although it’s probably too late, I’d rather not air our dirty linen in the bailey, if you don’t mind.”
“Lord Ian.”
Ian stopped. Never had he heard such demand in the priest’s voice. Hands on hips, he turned, giving Father Marc a stern look. “Out with it, Father. I can see I’ll not have a moment’s peace until you’ve had your say.”
“Lady Catrin is not here, milord.”
“What? I left strict orders that she not leave Gwal Draig without me.” Frustration lent an edge to his voice. Why hadn’t the priest said something before now, instead of hesitating? “Where did she go?”
“She left for l’Eau Clair two days ago.”
Ian’s exasperation disappeared, replaced by icy tendrils of dread. The niggling signs of threat toward Catrin might have no source save his imagination, but he’d learned to trust his instincts.
They seldom failed him.
Damn her!
“Dai!” he shouted, scanning the knot of men near the stables for some sign of his second-in-command.
“Right here, milord.” The voice came from behind him.
Ian turned. “Have fresh horses readied, and provisions for several days. We’ll take six men with us—that should be enough.” With a glance at the gray sky, he tried to gauge how much daylight they had left. A few hours, no longer. “Be ready to set out in an hour.”
Dai grimaced, but his pale blue eyes held resignation. “Going after your sister, milord?”
News traveled swiftly. “Aye. It seems she couldn’t wait to visit Lady Gillian.”
Dai nodded and headed for the stables, leaving Ian to question the priest.
“I tried to stop her, milord. I told her she should wait—”
“I’m sure you did,” Ian reassured him. “I also know how stubborn she is.”
Father Marc’s expression eased. “If you’ve no further need for me, milord, I’ll return to my duties.”
“Nay—come with me. I want to know who went with her and where she planned to go, among other things.”
There was no time to waste. He should have warned Catrin about the rumors he’d heard. But telling Catrin she was in danger was tantamount to issuing a challenge. He’d hoped to avoid involving her at all—or at least until he had the situation in hand.
It was too late for regrets now.
But he wouldn’t rest until he saw that Catrin had arrived safely at l’Eau Clair.
Nicholas raced toward the cave, Idris hot on his heels. He took in the situation at once. Two shaggy wolves harried the mare, nipping at her throat. But Idris leapt into the fray and turned their attention toward him.
Nicholas left the dog to deal with them and went to the mare. Her eyes rolled wildly, and blood and foam flecked her coat. She had several slashes along her neck, but the injuries didn’t seem bad. She’d weathered the attack well.
Thank God they arrived in time! He would hate to lose her. Though she didn’t look like much, she had heart; she’d proven that already. And he would need her plucky determination again soon, to carry Catrin away from here.
He had just cut the hobbles and jerked the reins free when a scream split the air.
Were there wolves in the cave?
Tugging the mare along behind him, he swiftly looped the reins around a tree near the cave. Two more wolves skulked away from the doorway as he drew near. The screaming did not cease.
Dagger in one hand, stick in the other, he crept into the cavern.
One wolf remained, larger than the others—clearly the leader of the pack. He stood halfway across the room, fangs bared, his lean body poised to attack. All his attention centered on Catrin, crouched on the other side of the fire.
Catrin looked like a warrior woman, a diminutive Valkyrie come to dispatch her enemy to hell. She held a dirk in her left hand, a burning brand in her right. Her lips were drawn back in a fair approximation of the wolf’s snarl.
Even as he feared for her, Nicholas couldn’t help but be moved by her wild beauty.
She tossed her hair back over her shoulder. “Come to me, you bastard. Go ahead—-jump. You’ll get more than you bargained for, I swear it.” She feinted with the flaming stick, forcing the wolf back a step, but he remained vigilant. “What do you want me for, you bloody beast? Take a bite of me, and you’re like to die on the spot.”
Nicholas held back a chuckle at her words. He didn’t want to distract her attention, make the beast pounce.
“Come on, you coward,” she coaxed. “You want me, come and get me. I’ll not make it easy for you—I’m damned tired of being attacked.”
The beast seemed bewitched by her voice, for he didn’t move, not even when she jabbed the stick toward him. Nicholas, heart climbing into his throat, watched her edge nearer to the wolf, still thrusting with the stick. The wolf snarled and drew himself into a tighter crouch.
He looked ready to leap.
There’d be no better chance. Nicholas clutched the sharpened stick in his right hand and launched himself onto the wolf’s back just as the beast lunged.
He heard Catrin scream, but all his attention remained upon the snarling, squirming bundle of fury caught in his arms. He dropped the stick and scrabbled for a firm grip in the animal’s thick, shaggy pelt.
Sharon Schulze Page 9