By Grace Possessed

by Jennifer Blake

  It was a huge responsibility.

  What if she failed?

  If she did so, Ross might die fighting alongside Braesford and the king, or else be hanged by Yorkist victors as a traitor.

  She would not fail, she thought with a lift of her chin. Not as long as she had breath in her body.

  They lingered for several minutes longer, planning details. But time was more important than perfection. Every minute lost might spell life or death for those they loved.

  “Cate?” Marguerite said, gliding into the chamber where she stood pulling on her gloves. “My love?”

  “When you see David…”

  Cate’s distracted counting off of items needed for the ride ceased at once. She met her sister’s eyes, which were dark with concern. “Yes?”

  “Tell him…oh, tell him…”

  “What?”

  Her sister put a corner of her veil between her teeth, tugged on it an instant, then dropped it. “Never mind.”

  Sympathy rose in Cate, filling her chest with hard pressure. “Are you sure?”

  Marguerite nodded. “It will be all right.”

  She wasn’t so certain, but refrained from saying so. With a swift hug for her younger sister, she went quickly from the chamber and down the corridor.

  Cate looked in on Isabel. She was feeding her baby, as she scorned to use a wet nurse for so important a small personage as Braesford’s young son. Little Madeleine sat at her skirt hem, playing with wooden blocks. Leaning over her, Cate placed a kiss on her older sister’s forehead, bent to touch Madeleine’s soft, red-gold ringlets, and trailed her fingertips over the fine black hair that covered the babe’s small head. Her throat ached, suddenly, with unshed tears.

  Would she ever hold Ross’s child to her breast? It seemed possible, for her courses had not appeared since his return to Grimes Hall, and other signs were there. She could not dwell upon it now, however, not and do what she must.

  Smiling with an effort, she met her sister’s eyes, seeing there all the trepidation she felt, as well as the shimmer of welling moisture.

  “God go with you,” Isabel whispered.

  “And leave his angels to watch over all here,” Cate answered.

  Another strained smile, and then she turned in a swirl of skirt and cloak hems to leave the solar. Quickly, she made her way down a back servants’ stair to the kitchens. From there, she let herself out into the dark back court. Soon, soon, she was on the opposite side of the postern gate, where her guard waited with their mounts behind them.

  “Milady,” the one-eyed captain who had been put in charge of the expedition said as he stepped forward, “is this wise?”

  Her laugh was soft and tinged with irony there in the dark. “By no means.”

  “If we refuse to go…”

  “If you refuse,” she said simply, “Baron Braesford may die, as well as many of those who went from here with him.”

  “And your Scotsman, too.”

  It was a daring thing to suggest. He had the right, however, as he would be putting his life on the line to protect her over the next few days. In truth, it was her most virulent fear, the one that made her heart race, fretting at this delay, demanding she ride like the wind.

  “Yes, and him.”

  The night breeze drifted around them, shifting their cloaks. A horse stamped and blew through its nostrils.

  Abruptly, the captain nodded and swung around to confront the five men gathered behind him. “Why do you delay?” he demanded. “Follow Lady Catherine.”

  An eternity later, they skirted the camp where Trilborn’s men slept, walking their horses far beyond its perimeters. Leaving it behind, they reached the main road, a dusty ribbon glowing dully in the light of a half-moon. Mounting up, they began the long journey southward.

  18

  Ross lifted the tent flap and stepped inside with acidic rage burning in his chest and a red haze rising behind his eyes. There she was, by all the saints, just as he had been told.

  Cate, his wife, stood like an apparition in the middle of the space he shared with Braesford. Pale and resolute, she had her hands clasped in front of her. Her face was smudged with dirt, her clothing carried dust in its folds and mud at the hem, and she was as redolent of sweat and horse as he was himself. He wanted to beat her for the risk she had taken, the danger she had passed through to reach him. That was after he took her down to the tent’s earthen floor and buried himself inside her.

  “Are you mad?” he demanded in a low growl as he paced forward, slinging the helm he carried aside so it bounced off the stretched canvas of the cot and rolled to a stop against the tent wall. “What in God’s holy name possessed you that you are here?”

  Apprehension sprang into her clear blue eyes as she met his gaze, and well it should. Never had he felt such sick, roiling fury and terror. Anything could have happened to her between Braesford Hall and here, anything at all. She had no idea of the brutality of men primed for war, no notion whatever of the things they were capable of doing. She could be lying dead in a ditch somewhere, raped, strangled, maimed, mutilated, stripped of all her lovely pride and dignity. Lost to him, lost forever.

  God…

  “I came because I had to,” she said, her lips trembling, tears shimmering along her eyelids. “I came because…”

  She was swaying, almost dead on her feet with weariness and strained nerves; he saw that finally as he came within reach. With a groan, he caught her shoulders and drew her to him, closing her against him with desperate strength. He felt her shudder then, and burrow into him as if trying to crawl inside his clothes, into his body, into his heart.

  “Tell me,” he whispered into the dusty veil that covered her hair, while sudden hot tears burned behind his eyes. “Tell me.”

  The news she brought was difficult to understand at first. Trilborn had been at Braesford Hall, had let fall information about Yorkist movements. He had almost certainly gone over to the cause of the pretender. An injury for an injury was the code of the border, whether Scots or Sassenach. Betrayal was the least of what they should have expected from him.

  If Trilborn intended to rejoin the army Henry was gathering, then there was a reason for it. Could be it was only to keep a foot in both camps, ready to jump toward the winning side. The reason could also be more sinister. A king who fell in battle by the hand of a supposed friend was as dead as one killed by a foe.

  Anger still scourged his veins, but with it ran hot pride. Cate, his Cate, had brought this news that might change the course of the battle to come. She had served Henry a fine turn, had served them all well.

  “Come,” he said in rough command, “you must speak to Henry. Then you may rest.”

  She drew a breath that lifted her breasts against him so he felt their firmness, their soft resilience even through his chain mail. “Yes.”

  He hardened like steel in a forge, his need fiery, tempered and lethal. “But first…”

  She drew back to look at him. Her lips were chapped by wind and weather, yet had never looked so sweet. He took them in rough possession, branding them with his heat, thrusting inside as if she were a spring and he dying of thirst. His hands plundered her curves, molding them, remembering. He pushed her veil aside, tangled his fingers in her hair in an agony of need. He wanted her beneath him, surrounding him, panting as she clung. He needed her as he had needed nothing in his life, and in spite of men passing, laughing, shouting oaths and profane ribaldry just beyond the flimsy walls.

  He wanted her, but couldn’t have her. Not yet, not yet.

  Drawing away with a wrench, he turned his back, clung to the center tent pole with a vicious grip while exerting every ounce of control he possessed. She touched his shoulder, and he shuddered, tried beyond bearing. Then he shook himself, turned to help her adjust her veil, and led her out to find the king.

  Events moved then with the speed of a diving hawk. Henry and his commanders, headed by the duke of Bedford and his companion from his exile years,
John de Vere, earl of Oxford, met in hurried conference. Within moments, the order to march swept through the encampment. An hour more, and they were tramping toward Nottingham.

  Ross, riding in the vanguard, cursed with every inch of the road that fell away behind them. Cate was somewhere far back in the baggage train. If she had arrived only a few days earlier, while the king was at Kenilworth, she could have been left in safety there with Henry’s queen and the duchess, his mother. Instead, she had found them at Leicester. Ross could have left her there, but did not trust the town not to be overrun if the Yorkists prevailed. So now she was riding with the laundresses, prostitutes and wives of common soldiers, probably learning a goodly amount more than a lady should know about an army on the move and the needs of men about to face battle.

  It could not be helped.

  She was where he wanted her to be, where he could protect her at need.

  Protect her. Now wasn’t that a fine word for it?

  He had promised rest for her, but there had been no time. Mayhap tonight.

  How was she faring? He would ride back down the line to check on her in a few minutes, when his need to see was not so obvious. He would not have her made the butt of coarse suggestions because he could not stay away. It would not aid Henry in the least if Ross was forced to kill a few dozen of his men for their insults.

  He could, just possibly, arrange a covered cart for her use, he thought, one that might keep most of the sun and dust from her. If she was able to sleep a short while, then he need not feel such a selfish bastard if he made love to her when they finally halted for the night. Though at the unrelenting pace set by the earl of Oxford, that might come late, if at all.

  It was near dusk when Ross heard the thud of hoofbeats coming up fast behind him. He turned in the saddle to see Trilborn overtaking him. Contempt gathered inside him and he put his hand on his dirk. That the man had not been arrested on sight amazed him, but the decision rested with the king. No doubt he had his reasons for letting him go free. He often played a deep game, did Henry VII.

  “Well, Dunbar,” Trilborn said as he drew even, “I see your lovely lady wife has joined you.”

  Something raw and dangerous moved inside Ross. He resented Trilborn even knowing Cate, much less speaking of her with such familiarity. “She has.”

  “If I had known she would be so inspired by my talk of Henry’s movements that she’d set off to war, I’d have made certain to ride with her.”

  “I’m sure you would,” Ross answered with a snort.

  “I followed as quickly as I could, of course.” Trilborn drew his mount to a walk beside him. “Females are wonderful creatures, but notorious for confusing details, particularly on places and directions.”

  “Is that what you told the king?”

  “Oh, he knew it already. Henry has a fine appreciation for the ladies, but trusts only his sainted mother.”

  Was it possible Henry had discounted the news Cate had brought him? Ross’s hand tightened on his reins at the thought, so his mount curveted, leaping a few steps ahead of Trilborn, before he brought the strong black destrier under control again.

  “Lady Catherine is uncommonly canny,” he said as he returned to the Englishman’s side.

  Trilborn gave a hard laugh. “It goes with some members of the breed, don’t you find? I do admire your sang-froid in dealing with the charming witch you married.”

  “Witch?” he said in soft inquiry, his eyes narrowed.

  “Oh, I’ll not name her that where others may hear,” Trilborn answered with a shrug. “She’s far too winsome to burn. Yet a lady who pays to have her betrothed dispatched so she need not wed is hardly in the common way.”

  “Take care,” Ross said with menace in his voice. “You are speaking of my wife.”

  “Better yours than mine! I pay no heed to a few scratches while bedding a woman, but prefer not to be sliced to ribbons. The poniard carried by Lady Catherine is a pretty trifle, but damnably sharp.”

  Hard on the words, he kicked his horse into a lope and drew away. Circling, he rode back down the line of marching men to a place near the center. Ross watched him go while virulent curses formed in his head.

  What did Trilborn know of Cate’s knife? Yes, and what made him think Cate had paid an assassin to try to kill him? Only he, Cate and possibly her sisters knew of the attempt, as far as he was aware. Well, and the assassin.

  It was lunacy, the ravings of a man who could not bear to be bested, especially by a woman. If Trilborn could not separate her from his enemy one way, he would do it another. If he could not punish her for making him look foolish, he would persuade her husband to do it for him.

  Cate would never deal with such a dastard; she despised Trilborn for the way he had hounded her and hurt her. She knew him for a traitor, had ridden through countless dangers to bring news of it.

  Ross knew these things with his head, but his heart pounded in his chest and he felt sick to his stomach. It was what happened when a man married a woman who wanted none of him. It had to be considered when the bride was protected by an ancient curse.

  Cate lay full-length on the cot with her hands behind her head. By the light of a single candle in its pierced tin lantern, she stared at the tent above her as it billowed in the night wind. Now and then the blue-white flash of lightning filled the space with its spectral glow. She flinched each time, frowned at the far grumble of thunder that followed. Her nerves were tied in knots and her mind in turmoil. Where was Ross and what was he doing with a storm bearing down upon the encampment?

  She was tired and on edge. They had marched until late. When they halted, she had alighted from the cart found for her, and walked down to the river where they had camped, along with two of the laundresses she had become acquainted with during the day. They had washed a few things by lantern light, standing ankle-deep in the flowing current, then had bathed away the dust and sweat of the march. Cate had not lingered, however, thinking Ross might have come to the tent during her absence.

  He had not, nor had she seen him since.

  The two men, apparently assigned to Ross, who put up the tent, had ushered her inside and brought food and drink. She had eaten alone, and then sat down to wait.

  She still waited.

  Ross had duties and responsibilities; his time was not his own. It wasn’t his fault she had nothing to do and the passing hours weighed heavily upon her. She should try to sleep, for morning and more riding would come all too soon. She had napped during the afternoon, however, and was not at all sleepy now. She was too keyed up, too fearful of what was going to happen. Soon, too soon, they would meet with the invading force led by the earl of Lincoln. The two armies would clash in battle; it could be no other way.

  Had they landed yet, the Yorkist contingent with its Irishmen and German mercenaries? Were their numbers greater than those that would fight for the king? Where were they marching? Was the boy being touted as Edward VI with them? Were men flocking to his standard? Where would the two forces face off against each other?

  Where would Ross be when they did? Yes, and how would he be killed?

  No, no, she refused to think of it. He was too strong, too skilled with a sword, too experienced. He could not die. He must not.

  The candle flared, even behind its protective tin, as the tent flap was thrust open. Ross ducked inside and straightened to his full height, so the shadow that slid over the canvas walls appeared that of a giant. His hair was damp and wind-tossed, and he carried his mailed shirt and coif over his arm. A black scowl sat upon his features.

  Alarm skittered down her spine, but she refused to let him see it. Pushing up to one elbow, she fixed him with a frown as deep as his own. “Where have you been?”

  “Seeing to my men,” he said shortly. Tossing the mail toward a stool, he paid no attention as it slid to the floor with a metallic rattle. It was followed by his bonnet, which had been tucked into his belt. He put his hand to the lashing that held his shirt.

&nbs
p; Strained tension hung between them. She sought for something that might break it as she ran her tongue over her bottom lip. “Is it raining yet?”

  “Not yet. Soon.”

  Not only was his hair wet, but his shirt was damp, pulling across his wide shoulders and upper arms as he stripped it off over his head. He had bathed then, as she had, and probably for the same reason. She could not seem to look away from what he was doing. Heated fullness gathered inside her and the muscles of her inner thighs tightened in sudden spasm.

  “I saw…I thought I saw Trilborn today.”

  “You did.” Ross levered off his boots and kicked them aside.

  “Has he been arrested?” She sat up straighter.

  “It appears Henry is not convinced of his betrayal.”

  “You mean…I suppose Trilborn persuaded him otherwise. It’s my word against his, and Henry believes him.”

  “Or prefers to see evidence, one way or the other.”

  “But…but we marched based on the information I brought.”

  “Which may have been received from other sources, so was confirmed.”

  She gave a dazed shake of her head. “Trilborn is up to something. The man is a devil.”

  “Funny.” Ross gave her a mirthless smile. “He says the same of you, or as near as makes no difference, since he named you a witch.”

  Ross unfastened his belt with its sporran, whipped away his plaid and sent it flying. The move plainly exposed how ready he was for her. She looked at that rampant male hardness, glanced up to meet his eyes, then looked back down again in fascination. Her voice hardly more than a whisper, she asked, “And what do you think?”

  “I think,” he said, stalking forward the two steps it took him to reach the cot, then dragging her up against his hard frame so she was melded to him from breast to knees, “that you are my witch.”

  He took her mouth, setting his own to it at a slant, pushing deep. The stubble of his beard abraded the tender edges. The hot thrust of his tongue was an invasion that mocked what he meant to do to her. She took it, twined around it, applied suction while sliding her hands from his shoulders to his hair, fisting them in its long length.