With that, Vera left the astonished serving maid, content that her task was well done.
* * *
Catriona had refused him.
Malcolm was shocked.
And it was because of Ian, the man who haunted her dreams.
It was not reasonable for him to feel jealousy of another man, particularly one of whom he knew so little, but Malcolm disliked this Ian intensely even knowing little about him. If Catriona’s regard for him was returned, why was he not by her side?
Surely it was not Ian’s son she bore? Catriona had said the child had been conceived in violence, but Malcolm could not believe that she was the manner of woman who thought it acceptable for a man to mistreat her. Certainly she would not have had any fondness for a man who had raped her.
Perhaps she had become vulnerable to the violence of others because of Ian’s absence.
Or even his death.
Perhaps she would never love another, for she had loved Ian best.
Malcolm could not blame her for being honest in that, even if it meant his own disappointment. He could have offered to take the boy and adopted him, even without Catriona, but without a wife, much less a widow to defend the boy’s interest, there would be little point. Nay, Malcolm would wed Catriona and adopt her son.
Perhaps after Catriona slept, she would see the advantage to her son in accepting Malcolm.
Perhaps he might yet speak with her before she continued to Kinfairlie and argue his own case anew.
Malcolm hoped his suit was not destined to failure, for the more he knew of Catriona, the more convinced he was that his holding would be in good care in her hands.
But for the moment, he had guests and a final inspection of the masons’ work to do before their payments were granted on the morrow. Malcolm had more than sufficient labor to occupy him.
Though thoughts of the woman sleeping in his solar—and the memory of her sweet kiss—would triumph over them all.
* * *
Catriona was exhausted, yet she could not sleep.
Her son was crying in the hall below, the women trying to console him without success. The sound of his hunger tore at her heart and made her fear that she found reason to decline the laird when there was none.
He was called the Hellhound.
She bit her lip, indecisive as she seldom was.
She closed her eyes and willed herself to sleep, calling it a weakness that she strained for the sound of the laird’s voice.
Servants understood the true nature of those they served, and Catriona knew it well. There could be no secrets from those who lived intimately in one’s home, much less from those who oft passed unobserved. That Vera defended the Laird of Ravensmuir so vigorously could only mean that his nature was as honorable as the older woman insisted. She had known him all his life, after all. If he had turned against his own character to secure his future, then Catriona had to believe that he could choose to be honorable again.
Indeed, he treated her with unexpected courtesy.
Never mind that his experience could be of aid to her. Vera was more right in that than she could guess. Catriona had vowed to take vengeance for the sake of her brother, and she could think of no better vengeance than the death of the villain who had betrayed them both. A mercenary prepared to do violence on demand was precisely the man to best aid in that.
Even the man’s reaction to her rebuff spoke in his favor. She had declined him, in his own keep, nay, in his own solar. He could have taken her unwillingly or kept her captive at Ravensmuir, if lust was at root of his offer.
Instead, he accepted her refusal and evidently would let her continue on her way.
A man of honor.
Catriona rose from the pallet with some effort, her posset finished, and stood at the window. Her gaze fell, predictably, on the laird himself, who discussed some matter with the lead mason. The workers must be near the end of their day’s work, and it appeared some complication had arisen. The mason gesticulated, while the laird was utterly still. Catriona had no doubt that he listened with care, that he was considering all sides of the question, that his eyes were vivid green.
As they had been every time he had pledged her safety in his hall.
As they had been when he had argued the merit of his proposal.
The mason finished whatever he had to say and flung out his hands in frustration. The laird looked left and right, paced a distance, pointed to the new wing and asked a single question. Catriona had no doubt that his tone was reasoned and his judgment fair. The mason was skeptical of the suggestion, but the laird persisted and explained in greater detail. The mason looked, he walked, he considered, then he asked a question, his visible excitement making Catriona smile. In but moments, the pair shook hands, some new course decided upon, and the mason happily strode back to his men.
Here was a man who saw an issue resolved, and to his satisfaction, before he moved on.
She had simply to be bold and choose her course. Wedding this man could be dangerous, but it also looked the best opportunity to both fulfill her vow and to give her son a better future than she could have imagined.
Catriona would wed him.
As if he had guessed her resolution, the laird looked up at the window. Perhaps he had such powers that he knew her very thoughts. Catriona froze, her heart thundering with the audacity of what she meant to do. He did not look away, so she raised a hand and beckoned to him.
What cheek she had, a mere serving woman, to summon the laird to his own chamber—especially as she did not mean to surrender what many a man would assume she offered. He eyed her for a moment, as if considering her change of manner, and she feared he would decline her invitation.
Catriona did not dare to take a breath.
Then he strode toward the hall with his usual purpose.
He came! Catriona spun away from the window, feeling jubilant and excited. She seized her kirtle and donned it again, wanting to be as presentable a possible wife as she could be. Then she waited, hands clasped and heart thumping.
She did not have to wait long.
* * *
Malcolm glanced up after an exchange with the lead mason over one last detail to find Catriona at the window of the solar. He would have expected her to be asleep, but she stood there, openly surveying him. When she raised her hand and beckoned to him, he could not believe his good fortune. He would not be so foolish as to let this opportunity, whatever it might be, pass.
Catriona awaited him in the solar, on her feet and dressed in her kirtle again. She looked tired and pale, and her hair had worked itself free of its braid. Her feet were bare and there was a tremor in her hands. Malcolm halted on the threshold, uncertain how to proceed when she looked uncharacteristically vulnerable, but she raised her chin with that resolve he already came to recognize.
“I would reconsider my reply, sir, if you would permit it.”
Malcolm was intrigued. He leaned in the portal, watching her. “Why should I not permit it?”
“You might be vexed with me,” she said. “You might think, as others do, that I should be compelled to live with the results of my folly.”
Others? Belatedly, Malcolm recalled passing Vera on the stairs and wondered what she might have said to Catriona. “Do you mean to tell me that Vera made a more compelling case than I did myself?”
“Servants know more of those they serve than most imagine, sir. I was uncertain of your nature, but Vera was eloquent that my knowledge of you this far was truth.”
“Indeed.”
Catriona took a shaking breath, but continued with a conviction he admired. “Should you still wish to wed, sir, I would be the best wife to you that I know how to be, and I would learn as much as I could to fulfill such obligations better. I would surrender my son to be your heir and I would strive to give you at least one blood son in short order.”
Her gaze was unswerving, fixed upon his own. Malcolm felt his pulse leap, for she was ensuring that he knew she accepted t
he fullness of his terms. He was awed that she would swear as much, given her history, and more than a little flattered.
“And what of Ian?” He had to ask.
She frowned and he noted the pain that flashed through her eyes. “Ian is why I would make one request of you, my lord.”
Malcolm wondered at this but before he could speak, another voice interjected.
“A request!”
It appeared that Vera was once again listening upon the stairs. Malcolm rubbed his brow with exasperation, then considered that the serving woman was being of aid in her indignation. He held his tongue, then, letting Vera have her say.
Vera stepped into the solar, her disapproval more than clear as she glowered at Catriona. “What right have you to make a request of the man who will raise your son, give you a home and a warm bed, an honorable marriage and security besides? You are an ungrateful wench, that much is most clear…”
Malcolm held up his hand and Vera sputtered to silence. “Tell me,” he urged with no small curiosity.
No matter what Malcolm had expected Catriona might say, he could never have prepared himself for what she did say.
Resolve lit in her eyes and her jaw clenched. “I wish to know how to kill a man, and how to do it so quickly and with such surety that there is no chance of his survival.”
There was silence in the solar, the silence of shock and astonishment.
Was Ian not Catriona’s beloved? Malcolm could not understand why Catriona would cry Ian’s name in such pain unless she had loved him.
Perhaps Ian had deceived her.
Perhaps he had done her injury.
Or perhaps she wanted his death avenged.
Either way, the request was one he would meet, but he would know the truth of it.
“You would kill this Ian who haunts your dreams?” Malcolm asked.
Catriona shook her head with vigor. “I would avenge his death, for it was undeserved and wicked.”
Malcolm knew he should not have been relieved that Ian was dead, for if Catriona held that man’s memory fast in her heart, his demise did not matter. He noted the determination in Catriona’s stance and guessed its root. She believed she would not survive this act of vengeance she meant to undertake.
But she knew it to be just.
Malcolm understood that perspective completely.
“You need not learn such a skill. I could do the task for you,” he offered to Catriona. “Any man of merit would do as much for his lady wife.”
Catriona’s surprise was evident, but then she shook her head. “I must do it myself, sir. It would only be right.”
He understood why she would not permit him to take her vengeance for her—though he was determined to see the matter resolved and her safety assured. Again, he felt time sliding through his fingers and knew he would have to either achieve this or prepare for it to be done.
As for her request, he was content to fulfill it. In truth, it would serve Catriona well in future to know how to defend herself and her interests.
“Right?” Vera cried. “How can murder ever be right? And murder by a woman’s hand? It is outrageous and scandalous and…”
“I accept your terms, lady mine,” Malcolm said, sensing an opportunity that he did not wish to lose. “We will wed in the morning, after you have slept.”
“Aye, sir, that would suit me well,” Catriona agreed.
“Madness!” Vera cried. “This is madness! My lady Eleanor and lady Vivienne, please come and halt your brother from his folly!”
Catriona wilted then, just a little, and Malcolm knew it to be relief. He caught her hand in his and squeezed her fingers, well pleased that he had understood her. That they thought similarly seemed to him to be a good portent for their shared future.
However long that future might be shared.
Malcolm kissed Catriona’s fingers, letting his lips linger on her skin until her eyes widened and she inhaled sharply. He then turned to the group now gathered at the top of the stairs, their expressions ranging from Vera’s dismay to Eleanor’s surprise and Vivienne’s satisfaction. Eleanor held the newborn boy and he cried even though she rocked him. Malcolm felt Catriona tremble at the sound of her son’s fretting.
“He will not take the goat’s milk,” Eleanor said, but Malcolm stepped forward.
“It is no longer of import, for he will have his mother’s own.” The babe hiccupped to silence as Malcolm lifted him from Eleanor’s arms. Malcolm had felt awe at the boy’s birth, but felt new wonder as he held his slight weight. He rocked him for a moment, then turned to Catriona, only to find her eyes alight. “He will need a name, lady mine.”
Catriona blushed, but Malcolm liked both the endearment and her response. “Only a family name will do, my lord,” she said, taking the boy and cradling him close. The babe’s mouth worked and Catriona untied her chemise.
“Not Ian?” he suggested, but Catriona shook her head.
“A Lammergeier name.”
“My father was Roland,” Malcolm said, pleased by her choice. “My brothers are Alexander and Ross.”
“What of the former Lairds of Ravensmuir?”
“My uncle and laird before me was Tynan.” He saw that none of the names struck her, so continued. “My grandfather was Merlyn, his brother Gawain and their father Avery. It was Avery who build the keep of Ravensmuir that I recall, for the first one had been razed to the ground. He was the first of the Lammergeier to claim the holding.”
“Avery,” Catriona echoed, trying the name upon her tongue. “I like it well.”
“Then Avery it shall be.”
“A fine name for a fine boy,” Vera interjected approvingly. “Now, my lady, Avery has need of his milk.”
But Catriona remained beside Malcolm for a moment, raising her gaze to his. He could never doubt that he had fulfilled her desire, not when there were such stars in her eyes. “I thank you, my lord,” she whispered, her voice husky. “For all you grant to me. I shall do my best to serve you well.”
“Malcolm,” he said quietly. “You must now call me Malcolm.”
“Malcolm,” she echoed and Malcolm liked the sound of his name on her lips well. “I thank you, again, sir.”
On impulse, Malcolm bent and kissed her cheek, letting his lips linger against her ear. “Lady mine,” he whispered and she shivered, giving him hope that hers was a reaction born of pleasure.
He could not tell for certain when he pulled back to regard her. Truly, she hastened to a stool and turned her back upon him, murmuring to the infant as she put him to her breast.
Malcolm left Catriona in the solar with the women and Avery, and descended to the hall, well pleased with all he had wrought. He ignored Rafael’s smirk, too pleased to ask after that man’s views. He had a son and heir, a new keep rising from the earth and an alluring wife to call his own. He would ensure that Catriona learned what she wished to know, and when he kept his vow on the Midsummer’s Eve, Ravensmuir would be in good hands.
She would be a tigress in defense of her son’s rights, Malcolm knew it well. Even so, in the days and nights he had remaining, Malcolm would stack as many odds in Catriona’s favor as he could.
Saturday, June 19, 1428
Feast Day of Saint Juliana Falconieri and Saint Romuald of Ravenna.
Feast of the Holy Martyrs Gervase and Prothasius.
* * *
Chapter Eight
Once again, it had rained during the night. On this morn, the air was still and the mist thick along the ground. Even the sound of the sea seemed hushed and Malcolm could only tell that morning had arrived because the fog brightened to the hue of a pearl.
The fire was slow to catch on the hearth and the wood smoked mightily once lit. He was damp and chilled to his bones, for he had spent too long in the ruins the night before.
He had not wanted to hear the music the night before his nuptials.
Much less recall all the deeds he had done.
Once he had shaved and dressed, M
alcolm paced in the hall, impatient that the women took so long. He also smelled the wood fires from the camp as the men prepared their meals. The men were ceasing their labor early, for they would be paid at midday. For once, there was no hammering on the keep. Four young men in Alexander’s service had accompanied Eleanor and Vera from Kinfairlie the previous day and the brewster would be bringing the final allotment of ale in the early afternoon. The entire party could return to Kinfairlie with the brewster, arriving safely before dark.
Rafael lounged before the fire, watching Malcolm with amusement. “You have lost your wits.”
“I thank you for that.”
“’Tis not too late to change your mind.”
“I will not change my mind, but I hope Catriona has not changed hers.”
“She has had a taste of affluence, my friend. I am surprised she lingers at all in seizing the comfort offered to her.”
“One night is not lingering.”
“She could have wed you and bedded you last eve, lest the opportunity dissolve before her eyes.”
“She had a child!”
“Perhaps she tries to deceive you as to her true intentions.”
Malcolm granted a stern look to his comrade. “You will learn to speak more kindly of my lady wife.”
“When she is your lady wife,” Rafael said, his tone dour. “I still hold out hope for the correct ending to this tale.”
“I already said I would make the boy my heir.”
“Then keep him. She intended to give him away at any rate. No doubt she would be glad to surrender him fully to you.” Rafael winced. “I simply question the wisdom of taking such a woman to wife.”
“You continue to disparage her nature, with no evidence to support your allegations. You have seen too much wickedness, Rafael, to trust in what looks to be good.”
“While you see good in everyone.”
“Hardly that.”
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