by Laura Landon
“I only wanted to make their kitchen less oppressive in which to work.”
“Kevin said—”
“Who is Kevin?” she asked, frowning as she tried to recall the name.
“Our carpenter. He thinks you intend to occupy his time from now until next spring making your changes. He thinks you have no regard for the huts and cottages that must be repaired before the snow falls.”
“I only asked him to find time when the cottages were finished. Large windows in the kitchen are needed to take out the smoke and heat. It’s not that I want him to rebuild your castle.”
“I am laird here, Kate. You should have come to me first.”
“As laird, you should have already known your kitchens were hotter than the pits of hell. I only want to improve an intolerable condition.”
He could see her struggle to hold her temper. He could tell she was trying with all her might to watch her tongue. It was a battle he knew she had no chance of winning. He had no intention of helping her. “Do you have to charge into places where you are na yet welcome, Kate? Can you na give them a little while to become more accepting of you?”
“And when will that be, my lord?” She bolted from the bed and paced the room like a caged animal. “How long will it take for the people to accept me, when even their laird cannot? They all see that you do not trust me, and that I am guarded like a prisoner. How can I expect anyone to accept me when you have yet to cast an approving glance in my direction?”
“That is na true, Kate. I stood before a priest and took you as my wife. I brought you into my keep and announced to all that you had found a place with me.”
“Words,” she spat back at him. “You are nothing but a firestorm of contradictions. Do you think I don’t know the battle raging inside your head, Duncan?”
“There is na battle.”
“Oh, but there is. You thought you had no choice but to marry me because you think I have the crown. And because I gave you back your medallion. I stood up to Bolton in the dungeon and your misplaced Scottish pride won’t let you sacrifice me to such a man, knowing what he will do.”
“Do na lie to yourself, Kate. You were as fearful as I at the idea of spending your life with Bolton.”
“You’re right,” she admitted, pounding her fist against the cold, stone wall. “But I don’t look at marriage to you as a betrayal of my heritage. Or a sin against God.”
Every muscle in Duncan’s taut body froze. “Nor do I,” he denied with blatant vehemence.
“Yes, you do, my lord. You look on our marriage as your greatest betrayal. Not only to your clan and to Scotland, but more than all else, to your father’s honor.”
“You know nothing about my father’s honor. He lived his whole life doing only what was noble. He would have found another way. He would never have married an English just because—”
Katherine turned her face away from him. When she spoke, her voice was soft, edged with a tinge of pain. “Just because she had the crown?”
“I did na say that, wife.”
“You did not have to.” She leaned against the thick stone wall as if she needed its strength to hold her up. “I married you,” she said in a quiet voice, “because I was too great a coward to face the lonely life in a convent. Because I was not brave enough to face Bolton on my own, and because I…I couldn’t forget the kiss we shared in Ian’s dungeon.” She paused. “I would give anything to be able to undo my mistake and save you from your torment.”
“It was not a mistake, Kate. We are together because—”
She spun around to face him. There was anger back in her eyes. “Because I have the crown, and I was Bolton’s betrothed. The battle that rages inside you is because you cannot bring yourself to accept the fact that I am English.”
She turned and walked to the narrow arrow slit in the wall. A bright shaft of moonlight streamed through the opening, casting a golden glow to her shimmering hair. Damn her. How could this English wife understand him so well? How could she see what he refused to admit to himself?
“Will it always be impossible to want me, my lord?”
Her words slashed through him like a finely honed sword aimed at his heart. She thought he didn’t want her. Didn’t she know how hard it was for him to deny his desire to take her? Even though she was English.
With long, determined strides, Duncan crossed the room. He reached the place where she was, and turned her in his arms until she faced him. With uncontrolled urgency, he pulled her against him and lowered his mouth to hers. He would show her how little she knew of what went on inside him. He would show her how wrong she was.
Duncan pressed his mouth against hers, drinking from her, taking from her, possessing her. His kiss was deep and thorough, and he was pleased with the way she conformed to him.
He would have her. She was his. He had taken her freely and willingly, and nothing, save death itself, would take her away from him.
Her body burned his flesh like hot tar poured onto cold metal. Nothing separated her from him but the thin material of her night shift, and that was not nearly enough to disguise his desire. He felt the firmness of her breasts through his shirt, touching him, pressing against him. Another surge of molten liquid raged deep into the pit of his gut.
Duncan slanted his mouth over her, deepening his kisses, covering her with a lusty need that overpowered him. He’d wanted her from the moment she’d kissed him in the dungeon. Even when he thought she belonged to someone else, he could not deny the tangible bond that twined them together. He’d agonized over such desires then as they tortured him now.
He opened his mouth atop hers, his tongue skimming her kiss-swollen lips, forcing her to open to him. God’s blood, he wanted her. His tongue invaded her mouth, searching, seeking, finding. Raging heat plummeted deep in his belly and he pulled her up against him so she could feel how badly he needed her.
With a ragged sigh of unmistakable surrender, she wrapped her arms around his neck, returning his kisses with even greater fervor.
Duncan skimmed his hands along her sides; down to her narrow waist, lower to her rounded hips, then upwards again until the pads of his thumbs reached the undersides of her lush, firm breasts. He covered her, moving his fingers over the hardened peaks, while his tongue continued its assault on her mouth. She moaned loudly and raked her fingers through his hair, holding him tighter to her.
He wanted to touch every inch of her perfect body. Ached to be inside her. Even if she was English. Ached to plant his seed within her. Even if his heirs would forever be marked with English blood.
… forever marked with English blood.
His hands stopped moving over her breasts. The air froze in his chest. Holy mother of God.
He pulled away from her, staring into eyes glazed with passion, burning with confusion and hurt. He had given her his name, but he could not take her. He hated himself for what he was doing to her. She deserved to be made his wife. But he could not take her.
The heated chamber echoed with the rasping gasps of their heavy breathing. Like a ragged gale in a stormy breeze, her breathing cut through the turmoil. Unsteady. Shuddering.
Duncan raked his fingers through his hair and stepped away from her. He didn’t want to see the hurt and confusion on her face. He turned to look out over the rolling Scottish hillsides, bathed brightly in the silvery moonlight. He loved every foot of this earth as dearly as he valued his life. He would die to keep it out of English hands.
“Go to bed, Kate. The room is beginning to chill.”
She did not move, but stood alone in the flickering candlelight.
“Go to bed. I will be here until you sleep.”
He did not go to her. He couldn’t bear to see the expression on her face. The emptiness in her gaze.
He heard her move to the bed, then heard a rustle as she climbed beneath the covers. He crossed his arms over his chest and stared up at the stars in the sky. “I will talk to Malcolm in the morning to make sure someone goes w
ith you whenever you visit Angus.”
She did not give him an answer. He stood in the muted darkness as one after the other of her many candles flickered, then died. In the hazy blackness, the room echoed with only the crackling of the fire in the hearth and the steady beating of his heart.
…
Katherine lay beneath the covers and listened to each ragged breath he took. She clutched her arms around her trembling body and curled into a tight ball. She prayed he would go away but he did not. She prayed the tightening in her chest would go away, but it wouldn’t leave her either. She moved to the far side of the soft bed and huddled in the corner with her back to him.
He didn’t want her.
He’d married her for the crown, and because she was Bolton’s betrothed. But he couldn’t bring himself to take her as his wife because she was English.
Katherine pushed aside the memory of the passion in his kisses. She brought her fingers to her mouth, her lips still warm and tender. She would never yield to him again like she had tonight. She would never let herself want him like she had tonight.
She could not survive the debilitating pain she’d felt when he’d pulled away. A part of her had died from the hurt of knowing he did not want an English wife.
Katherine squeezed her eyes shut to stop the tears that wanted to come. He would not make her cry. Damn him. He would not make her cry.
She clutched her arms tighter around her middle and ignored the wetness soaking into the pillow beneath her cheek.
She would not let herself care that he didn’t want her.
…
“Here, lass,” Angus hollered in his gruff voice.
Katherine picked up her bag of roots and went to where he was already digging. She had spent every day of the last two weeks working with the old warrior, learning all she could. In a day’s time, he would be leaving with Duncan and the other Fergusons to get Brenna.
“See this flower?” he asked, pointing to a tiny purple bud. “This will tell you where to dig to find our angel root. We’ll let the roots dry, then grind them to a fine powder. Its powers ease a chill and take down a fever. If, God forbid,” Angus stopped to make a sign of the cross, “a plague goes through the clan, a little of this with a mixture of the feverfew is the only potion that will bring down a raging fever. Pray to God we do na need to ever use it.”
Katherine wiped the dirt from the roots and placed them in her bag. “Why haven’t you shown someone these potions before?”
“The time was na right.”
Katherine sat back on her haunches and looked up at him. “Why did you agree to share your knowledge with me, Angus? Duncan doesn’t like it. He doesn’t think an English should learn your potions.”
“You are our laird’s wife. It’s your duty to protect your people.”
Katherine lowered her head. “I think it’s a duty I will not be very good at.”
“Aye. You already are. You have always felt the need to protect your sister, have you not?”
“That’s different. Elizabeth has never been as strong. She has always needed someone to take care of her.”
“Like you take care of all around you. That’s why you risked your life to free Duncan from Bolton. You wanted to gain his help to protect your sister and her babe. You will use the powers with just as much care.”
Katherine lifted her gaze and looked him in the eyes. “There are others who care, and they are Scot.”
“Aye. But they are na the laird’s wife.”
Katherine did not say the words that would tell Angus that she wasn’t either. Not really. Duncan had yet to take her in the way that God intended a woman to be bound to her husband. His Scottish pride would not let him.
During the day, he was considerate and caring and… distant. It was impossible not to see it. She knew everyone noticed. They all watched for some shared sign of affection between their laird and his bride. They found none, and the looks they exchanged said as much.
At night, long after he thought she’d fallen asleep, he came to her room and sat with her. He didn’t come to her bed, or hold her in his arms. Or kiss her as he had that first night. It was as if even touching her was too painful.
Each morning, before the sun rose in the sky, he left. She didn’t let him know she was awake. But she was.
Angus’ voice brought her from her thoughts. “Tomorrow we’ll gather the leaves of the stonecrop. I’ll show you how to make a poultice to heal open wounds. It’s what I put on your back and the laird’s chest. Pray to God we do na need to use it.”
Katherine stood up and stretched her limbs. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then,” she said, and stepped out of the cottage. She looked around for her guard.
Malcolm stood over by a large tree, honing his sword for the battle in two days. Today was his turn to watch her when she went beyond the castle walls. “Are you finished for the day, mistress?” he said when he saw her.
“Yes, Malcolm. I promised Morgana I would be back early. I want to show her what we used in Eng—” She stopped. “I want to show her what we used to make the rushes on the floor smell sweet.”
“We would all appreciate that, mistress.”
They walked toward the castle in silence. Malcolm was either not a great conversationalist, or he preferred not to talk to her.
“Do you have a wife, Malcolm?”
“Nay, milady.”
“Is there anyone special who has stolen your heart?”
Malcolm’s gaze hardened, and he stared ahead without looking at her. Katherine suddenly felt as if she’d stumbled onto dangerous territory.
“I can never hope to have the lass who has stolen my heart.”
“Surely you do not mean that?”
Malcolm didn’t answer for a little while but his feet set an even faster pace. “Do na think on it, milady. It is the way of things. Would you like to stop at the kitchen on the way to the keep? I think Kevin is finished with one of the windows.”
His abrupt change of topic was a closure to any discussion concerning his personal life. “I would love to. I can’t wait to see what it will look like.”
Katherine said no more. Tonight she would ask Duncan who the lady was who had stolen Malcolm’s heart. Maybe all was not as hopeless as he thought.
Together they walked to the carpenter’s shop. The hostile stares and whispered comments she heard and saw as they passed groups of Fergusons still hurt, but she refused to let Duncan’s clansmen know it. She held her head high and walked among them as if she weren’t aware of their hatred.
The completed windows for the kitchen were perfect. She couldn’t wait to see them all done. Even if Anna and Margaret wouldn’t admit that her idea improved their kitchen, she would know it. Every time she saw the windows propped open, she would know the workers were cooler.
Suddenly, her whole day seemed brighter. Today it didn’t seem to hurt nearly as much when Carmen Lachlan pulled her little twin daughters behind her skirt before Katherine could speak to them. Nor did it bother her when the old woman who lived in the hut close to Angus stepped to the other side of the bailey, rather than pass too close.
When they reached the keep, Katherine left Malcolm on the front steps and entered the wide opening that led to the great hall. She was looking for Morgana, but stopped when the sound of loud voices reached her. One of the voices was Duncan’s. The other she couldn’t place, even though she knew she’d heard it before. It was a woman’s voice, and the woman was angry.
“How could you bring an English here? How could you marry her, Duncan?”
Katherine stepped away from the opening and pressed her back against the wall. She should leave. She didn’t want to hear this.
“You will na talk about your mistress so, Regan.”
“Mistress! Ha! She is nothing to me.”
“You refuse to give your oath of fealty to your laird’s wife?”
“I do! I refuse to accept that she is your wife. I should be your wife. I should be the one to
have your name, and share your bed, and bear your children. I am the one you love. Not her!”
“Do na talk like that, Regan. I have never—”
“Nay! Do na say you never said you loved me, or asked me to be your wife. You did na have to. Not after all we shared.”
Katherine closed her eyes and let the waves pound against her ears. She should not listen to this. She did not want to hear it.
“Why did you marry the English woman, Duncan? Your hatred for them runs too deep. You will never learn to care for her.”
“You do na need to know why I chose the English woman for my wife. Just know that I did. Know that I chose her freely.”
“You did not choose her freely. I know you did na. What does she have that you want? The crown?”
Katherine waited for Duncan to deny it. There was only silence.
“Ha! She will never give it to you. She will keep it hidden until she can give it to her English king, and you will never see it.”
“I will get the crown.”
Katherine leaned her head back against the stone wall. The crown. Why did everything revolve around the crown?
“Is it true, Duncan, that your English wife was betrothed to Bolton?”
Duncan did not deny it.
Regan laughed, a harsh, bitter sound. “What better way to strike back at the man who killed your father than to turn his betrothed into your whore.”
“Enough! Leave me, Regan. And do na come back.”
“I will leave, my laird, but you will soon beg me to come back. When you tire of your wife lying cold and lifeless beneath you at night, you will remember how good it was between us, and want me back. I will wait.”
Katherine pressed her hand against her mouth, then ran up the stairs to her chamber. God help her.
She closed the door and pressed her back tightly against it. She stood there for a long time, then walked on legs that barely supported her to the small chapel at the end of the hall.
Why did you marry the English woman, Duncan? You will never learn to care for her.
The sun streamed through the two narrow windows on either side of the altar, showering the small room in a muted array of golden streamers. Katherine walked to the front and stared up at the statue of Jesus. A desperate voice echoed deep inside her and she fell to her knees before the altar.