by Diana Cosby
He hesitated. “But you agreed to help me free my king and queen.”
“We are desperate to find who is behind the murder of my uncle, and I believe due to circumstance, my decision will be supported by my father.”
“And what of my question?”
She shook her head. “Regardless of my wishes, with the upheaval between the realms, ’tis a marriage I canna change.”
Tender green eyes watched her as he stroked the soft curve of her cheek. “But what if you could?”
Images of them living in Scotland flickered through her mind, of their laughter, the joy of waking up each morn by his side, and their nights of making love. She exhaled a shaky breath. What was she thinking?
“We met but yesterday,” she replied, frustrated she’d allowed herself to consider his words, more to be enticed by them. “I know little about you. By your actions I believe you are a man I can trust. But”—she shot him a warning look—“do nae think my attraction to you keeps me from noting your other less desirable characteristics.”
“My other less desirable characteristics?” he asked, the hint of a smile driving her frustration deeper.
“Aye, one being your arrogance.”
His smile faded. “Arrogance?”
Fine, let him be upset, ’twas safer. “Arrogant if you would think I would sacrifice my realm’s peace for you.”
A slash of red colored his cheeks. “My question nae has any consequence unless ’tis your desire as well in wanting what I ask.”
“I . . .” Her anger fell away. She was ashamed she’d become unsettled on but supposed circumstance.
He muttered a curse. “My apologies, ’twas nae my intent to upset you.”
Lord Grey was right. If her desire wasna the same, his question wouldna have mattered. “I was being foolish.”
He watched her for a long moment as if deliberating the safest way to reply. With a sigh, Lord Grey laid his head back and closed his eyes.
Frustrated at his silence when her mind lay in turmoil, she tugged the cape tighter. “Are you going to sleep?”
He peered out of half-open lids, then closed them. “Nay, I was thinking.”
“About?”
“How to conceal my identity.”
“Oh.”
“Methinks,” he said in a teasing tone, “’tis a prudent topic.”
And one she should have raised. ’Twas dangerous to linger on topics of them.
“I will shave my beard,” he said, “which should change my image enough for the brief time we will be in Stirling Castle.” He opened his eyes and drew his hands through the well-groomed curve of rust-colored hair. “Though, I will miss its warmth.”
His last comment pulled a smile to her lips.
“You find my freezing funny, lass?”
At the false despair in his voice, her smile grew. “’Twill grow back quick enough.”
He shifted to his side. “Easy enough for you to say, you have never had the luxury of a beard, nor the irritation of having to regrow one.”
A laugh slipped out. “Nor would I. ’Twould stir more than one tongue.”
A smile, full and wide, curved his handsome mouth. “It would.”
Her thoughts shifted to Stirling Castle. “If the castle is a massive labyrinth, how will you find out where King Alexander and his queen are being held?”
“I believe they will be held in the royal residence.”
“And if nae?”
He shrugged. “Then we will have to search, which is why I mentioned before that ’tis best to slip inside Stirling Castle late at night. There will be minimal guards about and most residents will be abed. The last thing they will expect is but a man and a woman to try and free King Alexander and Queen Margaret.”
True. Catarine took in the fading light outside the snow-smeared opening, the rough chill that, despite her every attempt to block it, slipped through her cape. She shivered.
“Are you cold?”
“A bit. More concerned for the safety of your king and queen.”
His mouth tightened into a grimace. “As am I. King Alexander will never comply with the abductors’ demands.”
And he and his wife would be murdered. Coldness swept Catarine, understanding too well the dangers a sovereign faced, her uncle’s murder and the current threat to her family proof.
“Are you hungry, lass?”
At the reminder of food, her stomach growled. Heat slid up her cheeks. “Forgive me.”
“’Tis naught to be embarrassed about.” He reached beneath his cape and withdrew a small wrapped leather bundle, then unrolled it.
In the dim light, she tried to discern the contents. “Bread?”
“Oatcakes,” he replied.
“I have never heard of them before.”
“A staple of Scotland. They will sate the worst of your hunger.” He glanced outside, where the wind howled. “As much as I would prefer a heartier fare, with the storm blowing and the snow cutting off any ability to see more than a pace ahead, ’tis foolish to try to weather the storm to snare a rabbit.”
She took the offered round, took a bite, and chewed. “They are made with honey?”
“Aye, to help bind the oats when they are baked.”
“My thanks.” She took another bite.
In silence they ate. Every so often, a blast of wind hurled errant flakes into the cave’s entry.
Another gust of wind swept past, and a large flake whooshed inside, spiraled deeper, and one landed on the tip of her nose.
Amused, Trálin reached over and wiped the flake away. “You look like a pixie,” he teased.
“Mayhap because that is what I am.”
The humor of the moment faded. “That you are.” In silence, Trálin ate his last bite. As if knowing she belonged to another made him want Catarine less? He cast a covert glance toward her.
Alone.
With naught between them but long dark hours ahead. And to stay warm, they needed to lay with their bodies close. Before, they’d had the warriors’ presence to smother any desire. Now, they had no one.
Catarine cleared her throat and edged closer. “’Tis best if we conserve our body heat.”
His body stirred, and he struggled to tamp down the desire. Failed. Bloody hell, they’d lain here but moments and he was in pain. By morn he would be in agony.
Tense silence fell between them.
She shifted. “The snow is coming down fast.”
Working to ignore the softness of her body against his, he studied the steep slope, the buildup against the large angled rocks. “’Twill be difficult travel for us and your warriors.”
“I pray they have found shelter as we.”
“If nae,” Trálin said, “no doubt they have built one similar to that we made last night.”
“Though I know my men will be fine, I canna help but worry.”
He sat up, secured the cape around her.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Too much wind is coming in from the side,” Trálin said as he walked to the exit. “I need to stack a few rocks and sticks to make a windbreak.” And however practical, also to take a reprieve from lying next to her.
Boots upon rock scraped as she tossed aside the cape and started toward him. “I will help.”
An argument came to mind, but he dismissed it. She’d long since assured him of her independence and would nae appreciate his gallantry.
In short, they worked together to haul loose rocks and sticks to the western edge of the overhang, the icy wind quickening their pace.
As they settled back on their pallets, he reached inside his cape. “Did you want another oatcake before you go to sleep?”
“I am fine.” Catarine loosened her braid. Her blond hair spilled out in luxurious disarray.
Images of her naked and in his bed slammed into his mind. His body hardened. Bloody hell.
Her hands slowed. “What is wrong?”
Her innocent question served to f
uel his lust-filled fire. “Wrong?” Trálin asked, fighting to sound normal.
“You look as if you are in pain.”
Pain? Nay, ’twas a poor choice of words for the way his body was burning for her. “’Tis only that I am exhausted,” he replied. “Naught that a good night’s sleep willna fix.”
“You are sure?” she asked, her voice sincere.
Blast it. If he caught more than a whit of sleep with her body flush against his, ’twould be a miracle. “Aye.”
She slipped beneath their makeshift pallet, tugged the cape up to her chin.
He gritted his teeth, lifted the cape, and climbed beneath. As if bloody decorum served him well when ’twas freezing? He lay with his body flush against hers. Heat, warm and luxurious, enveloped him—along with her scent of woman and innocence. He gritted his teeth. He could do this. Aye, he was a man who’d fought many a war, faced the toughest warriors.
Catarine snuggled closer.
Desire surged through him. “Lass,” he all but roared.
She sat up, the cape spilling to her lap. “You are hurting?”
“Nay,” he said, his voice a bit rougher than he’d meant. “Why are you shifting about?”
She hesitated.
“Tell me,” he said, frustrated with himself. ’Twas nae her doing that’d landed them here alone.
“I am cold.”
He almost laughed. Warmth, she sought but warmth, nae his touch or to have him slip deep inside her wetness, a sure way to forget the cold. He almost groaned at the thought.
“Come back under the cape, lass.”
“After you.”
“I am nae the one sitting up.”
“Oh.” With an exhale of exasperation, she lay beside him.
He tugged the cover back up over them both. “Good night, lass.”
Catarine turned her back to him. “Good night.” After a long moment, her soft sigh wrapped around him like a caress. What would it be like to go to bed each eve with her by his side? To have her turn to his touch? A fine dream, lad. She’s a fairy and you’re a human.
“Trálin?”
Her sleep-thickened voice was a luxury unto itself. One that he could listen to forever. “I thought you were going to sleep?”
“I will,” she replied. “But I just realized I have nae asked about your family. Do you have brothers?”
“Why do you ask?”
The cape rustled as in the dim light, she turned to face him. She shrugged. “Curious.”
“One. Faolan.”
“Gaelic for wolf,” she said.
“It is,” Trálin replied. “On the night he was born, a wolf was howling outside the castle. Our father thought it an omen. Hence his name.”
“Are you close to your brother?”
Memories of him and Faolan growing up flickered through his mind. “Very much so. Though I am firstborn and inherited the title of earl along with Lochshire Castle, ’tis nae a point of contention between us. He lives there now, caring for our home while I am away.”
“I am pleased to hear such,” she said. “Many a time the lust for power ruins a family’s close bond.”
Wind roared outside as Trálin folded his hands behind his head, laced them. That his brother chose to remain at Lochshire Castle and ensure it was well guarded pleased him, but how long would that be? Though their bond was strong, his brother had made known his wish for his own title and lands. Nor could he blame him.
“Trálin?”
The soft wisp of her voice wrapping around his name made him shudder with need. “Another question?”
“But one. Is there a . . .”
“On with it, lass.”
“Are you engaged as well?”
Stunned by her question, he stared at her murky form in the fading light. “You are a fairy and engaged, you know that I am attracted to you, and you want to know if I am betrothed?”
Catarine cleared her throat. “I never should have asked.”
Understatement. As if he needed a reminder that they were damnably attracted to each other.
Catarine rolled over, again putting her back toward him.
Thankful, he started to tug the cape up, when she inched back, her beautiful bottom a hair’s breadth away. As if a man sentenced, he exhaled. “Are you settled?”
“Aye.”
“Get some rest, lass. With the upcoming trek in the morn, we both will need all we can get.”
Silence, fractured by the howl of the wind, echoed through the chamber.
“Catarine?”
Her soft breaths fell out.
Hair slightly mussed, in the fading light, she looked every inch the fairy. Except, he’d witnessed her wield a blade. A fairy mayhap, but far from the delicate image from the tales bards told around the campfire. And for the next few days they’d be together. After, she would return to her world. Sadly, however much he wished otherwise, he’d have to let her go.
Catarine opened her eyes.
Blackness.
Curious what had awoken her, she pushed on the cold stiff cloth and sat up, bumped something firm. Memories rolled back in.
Of Trálin.
Of their sleeping together throughout the night for warmth.
“Are you okay, lass?”
His sleepy burr rumbled through her, and awareness ignited. She shoved the dangerous thoughts away. “Aye. I woke up and for a moment wasna sure where I was.”
He shifted closer. “’Tis cold. Come back beneath the cape.”
With a shiver of need, Catarine slid beneath the thick cover.
The wind howled outside.
“No, I have no woman I care about.”
Heart pounding, too aware of him in the dark of the night with naught around them but each other, she stilled. “Why are you telling me now?”
“You asked.”
As if knowing there was no other woman in his life helped put him out of her mind? “I asked you hours ago. You are a frustrating man, Trálin MacGruder.”
“So I have been told.”
The smugness in his voice ate at her composure. “And may I add charming,” she said dryly.
“And what did you expect my mood to be hours before the sun rises?”
A valid point. Outside the entry, as her eyes adjusted to the darkness, meager moonlight reflected off the vast expanse of white, the shadows of the forest as if smears against the pristine swath.
She glanced at the Scot, found hints of moonbeams slipping across his handsome face. “What is the favorite place you have visited?”
“You are still awake?” Lord Grey asked, his voice gruff.
“We will soon be with my men and the chance to talk about your past will be lost.”
“Mayhap for the best.”
Sadness touched her. “Is it?”
He hesitated. “Catarine, do you think ’tis wise for us to share more about ourselves?”
She lay back, closed her eyes.
“Catarine?”
“I am thinking.”
He laughed.
“You are making fun of me.
“Nay,” he replied. “I am trying to decide if I am going crazy.”
She turned, touched his mouth to feel his smile.
He stilled, gave a slow exhale, and his smile fell away. “’Tis dangerous.”
Her entire body vibrated with awareness. “I only wanted to feel your smile.”
Trálin shifted, his body now aligned with hers, his breath warm and soft upon her brow. With a slow, delicate sweep, his thumb slid across her cheek.
“That is nae my mouth.”
“Aye,” he replied, “with how I’m feeling about you this moment, I dare nae be foolish enough to touch it.”
Too aware of him, Catarine swallowed hard. “Why?”
“Because I might kiss you, and with as much as I want you,” he replied, his voice rough with desire, “I am unsure if I would stop.”
Chapter Seven
As Trálin forged through the snow, hi
s words from last night to Catarine rolled through her mind. What would it be like making love with her? Though she was innocent of a man’s touch, with the depth of her feelings for him, how could it nae be amazing?
“’Tis knee-deep up here,” Trálin called.
“Better than the thigh-deep snow we traveled through earlier this morn,” she replied.
Against the morning sunlight crafting prisms in the new snow, he scanned the trail ahead. Since they had departed at first light, wind continued to whip the frozen slide of the ben, shaking the leafless branches with brutal disregard. “Aye,” he replied, tugging his cape closer, “but we still have a long way left to travel before we reach Stirling Castle.”
“How close are we?”
The hope and fatigue in her voice made his frustration grow. When she’d agreed to aid him in setting his king and queen free, ’twas but a short journey. Instead, she’d become separated from her men and had almost died. Neither did the attraction flaring between them help an already tense situation. “With our slowed pace,” Trálin replied, “mayhap another day.”
“I will pray that like us, the abductors have been slowed by the storm,” Catarine said.
A hope he held as well. Trálin turned and trudged forward. His boot slid on the slick surface, then caught purchase. With a crunch his foot sank into the snow as it had with his every step since they’d departed the cave.
He scanned the crisp layer of snow. Throughout the night the air must have warmed and allowed the surface to begin to thaw, but the sharp drop in temperatures early this morn had hardened the surface into a blanket of thin ice as they’d traveled. As if they needed the blasted hindrance? They’d barely made half the distance they needed to this day.
At his next step, the crusted snow splintered beneath his step, slid over the side. With a shuddering scrape, the fractured chunk plummeted toward the bottom. As if an omen, it slammed against a ledge far below and shattered. Catarine stared down to where the shards lay. “’Tis a long way to the bottom.”
Trálin damned the worry in her voice.
“Is there a shortcut we can take?”
“None that I would consider,” he replied.
“Because of me?”
Bedamned, why did the lass have to press? “Because ’tis too bloody dangerous.”