But still, in order to start the school that Catherine had dreamed of for so long, she would need the assistance of people like the earl of Athol and this future bride of his. Indeed, she knew she would need their strong and open support before any of the locals would trust a half-English spinster enough to share in what she had to offer.
Looking about her, Catherine glanced at the unfamiliar faces of the travelers. Strangers, every one. Even after months of hiding, she still could not get accustomed to this constant dependence on others. She wondered if she could ever come to accept that she no longer had a home to call her own--no longer had a homeland to think about with pride.
Catherine sighed. She and her sisters were exiles. Since their father’s death, they--like their mother--had been pursued and hunted across the windswept moors of Yorkshire, northward into the hills and river valleys of Northumberland, and finally into Scotland. And all because of the family’s refusal to take King Henry’s Oath of Supremacy. To accept the king as the head of the church.
Of course, she admitted silently, there was a lot more to it than that.
But so be it, Catherine thought stubbornly. Fate had taken them to this new land. To these rugged Highlands that their mother had long ago called home.
Shaking herself from her reverie, Catherine reminded herself that the time for grieving was long behind her. She had to look ahead and think of what must be done. Heaven had placed Ellen Crawford in her company, and it would be foolish to waste the opportunity of talking to her about the school and recruiting the future countess in her cause.
Determined on her course of action, she turned in her saddle and scanned the faces of the travelers who followed them on this long journey. She pulled her cloak around her as a breeze sprang up from the west. The sun had been fairly warm most of the day, but now had disappeared behind a bank of dark clouds moving in from the west.
Not seeing Ellen, her brow furrowed. As usual, Catherine decided she must have been woolgathering and had missed Ellen somehow.
The warriors at the head of the long column of travelers were just starting down the craggy, heather-covered ridge they’d been crossing for the past hour. Beneath them, in a valley surrounded by steep rocky hills, Catherine could see a loch--its dark silver waters as smooth as a looking glass--reflecting the jumble of clouds that where quickly converging on the weary travelers.
Catherine searched the passing faces for any signs of the young woman. Having no luck there, she looked instead for David Hume, the leader of her own warriors. From what she remembered, the last time she’d seen Ellen Crawford, the young bride had been in deep discussion with him.
As the last of the packhorses carrying Ellen’s trunks, and last of the travelers trailed by her, three of the kilted warriors who were accompanying Ellen stopped in response to her question about their lady’s whereabouts.
With a sidelong smirk at his two companions, one of the three scratched his bearded chin before answering. “Sometimes Mistress Ellen simply needs to stretch her legs, mistress. If ye get my meaning.”
“Of course. You mean she’s walking her horse,” Catherine replied. “And since I cannot find David Hume, my man must have stayed behind with her.”
“Aye, m’lady.” She watched him throw another knowing look at his fellows. “Though I should think Mistress Ellen’s surely riding by now.”
Frowning at the snickers coming from the two warriors, Catherine nodded curtly and pulled her mare’s head around, coaxing her along the path after the other travelers.
“What odd manners these Highlanders have,” she whispered into the mare’s ear, a bit disconcerted at the conclusions the men had drawn over what was certainly an innocent stop.
They were nearly halfway down the steep, winding path before Catherine saw that Ellen Crawford and David Hume had once again joined the line of travelers. Looking up the hill at the young woman, she could see that Ellen’s cheeks were flushed and her clothes somewhat disheveled.
“‘Tis no business of yours judging the affairs of others,” she murmured, turning her gaze back to the trail. She herself had consciously chosen her studies over such behavior in her younger years, but how Ellen Crawford chose to live her life had nothing to do with her. Odd though, she thought, for a woman about to be married.
By the time the path widened enough to travel more than single file, the travelers had entered a thickly forested glen at the base of the ridge. Then the sky opened, and the rain, coming in on a gust of wind, prevented Catherine from discussing anything with Ellen Crawford. The rain was still falling hard when, an hour later, she spotted with weary relief the cone-topped towers of the hunting lodge at Corgarff. This, she knew, was one of the earl of Athol’s hunting lodges. Less than a day’s ride remained to Balvenie Castle.
As they rode under the pointed arch and into the small courtyard of the tower house, the servants of the lodge bustled about the arriving throng, leading them into a well lit Great Hall, and laying before them a sumptuous dinner. Catherine, weary from the weeks of travel, did her best to play the role of agreeable foil to Ellen Crawford’s youthful gaiety, but halfway through the dinner, she excused herself.
Up the winding stone steps, she was led to the Ladies’ Chamber, a small and quaint combination of bedchamber and sitting room, and she eyed with longing the comfortable looking bed.
She hung her heavy cloak on a hook by the little fire. Placing her leather satchel on a three-legged chair, she noted with curiosity the three doors to the chamber. Aside from the door she had entered from the main corridor--where she had seen the traveling gear of a number of their traveling escort--there was a door at each end of the room. Opening one, she peered into the Master’s bedchamber. She knew that Ellen would be sleeping there tonight, and she stared for a moment at the huge damask-curtained bed that nearly filled one side of the lavishly furnished chamber.
Backing out and closing the door quietly, Catherine crossed her bedchamber to the other door. Moving through a small anteroom where she could see the wet gear of at least one of the warriors, she opened another door onto a landing and looked down a narrow coil of stairs. Cautiously, she descended halfway down the stone steps before the smell of the food and the noise of revelry assured her that she had little to fear regarding accommodations while under the earl’s roof.
A few moments later, as she lay her head down on the bed, Catherine was only vaguely aware of the rain outside her window and the crackling hiss of the water dripping onto the fire.
And then, in the space of a moment, her dreams overtook her with the suddenness of a Yorkshire mist.
They had already arrested their father, and now they were coming after them! There were soldiers crowding the courtyard. The pound of horses’ hooves, the shouts of men, the chaos of a castle under siege.
Catherine could hear the urgent cries of her mother, pleading with them to make haste into the fields, to hide themselves in a haycock. To remain unseen. To be silent!
She could feel the fear clutching at her throat. She could not cry. She could not allow her sisters to sense her fear. Adrianne’s hands were cold, tugging at her arm. Together, they pushed into the piled hay.
She stretched a hand out toward Laura, but her sister was not there. She’d been right behind her when they’d fled the house. Laura! Where was Laura?
A hand clamped onto her arm, holding her back. Nay, she could not let them take her. Laura!
“Laura!” Catherine sat upright in the bed and looked wildly at the figure retreating a step from the bed.
“‘Tis I, Catherine. ‘Tis Ellen!”
It took her a long moment before she could pull herself from the shadows of the recurring nightmare. She felt her heart pounding ferociously at the walls of her chest, the sweat beading and dripping along the line of her jaw. “What...what is it?”
“Nothing! I just came up from the Great Hall, and I heard you crying out in your sleep.”
Catherine turned and looked groggily at the open door leadi
ng to the Master’s Chamber.
“‘Twas a dream.” A nightmare! A horrible semblance of the long past mixed with her present. She ran a shaky hand over her brow, wiping away the sweat. Nay, Laura was safe! Safe...as was she, herself.
“Aye, but as long as you’re awake, I was...well, I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind sleeping in there for tonight.”
Catherine stared blankly through the dim light at the young woman. “You...you want me to sleep with you?”
Ellen giggled and shook her head. “Nay, I was hoping you would change rooms with me. Every time I’ve been here before, I’ve slept in this chamber. So I thought...if you wouldn’t mind...I’d be happier in here, you see.”
“Well, I...” She frowned, trying to clear her mind, but before she could even think of an answer, Ellen was pulling the bedclothes back for her. “If you think...”
“You are a darling creature.” Catherine felt the younger woman grasp her by the shoulders and direct her toward the open door. “I’ll come and get you in the morning. You just go and crawl into that bed and go back to sleep.”
Before she knew it, Catherine found herself standing in the middle of the Master’s Chamber with a sound of the door closing behind her. Nearly asleep on her feet, she pushed the thick waves of hair back over her shoulder. As she climbed into the huge curtained bed, she could hear the far-off sound of voices and hushed laughing.
Ellen Crawford was up to some dangerous mischief, and such goings-on were incomprehensible to Catherine. True, she felt a pang of regret for being thought a fool by Ellen, but more important, she felt sorry for the good earl of Athol. Their upcoming marriage already had all the markings of a farce.
Once again, Catherine reminded herself, this was none of her business. Her plans were to tutor the young people of Athol’s demesne, not to become the spiritual adviser to foundering brides.
Weariness soon overtook her, though, and the sound of the rain outside dulled her senses. She was so tired, she later remembered thinking. She needed sleep. Why, the great gates of York itself could fall on her, she decided, yawning. She was not going to wake up again until the sun was coming through that window.
In just a moment or two, slumber wrapped her in its velvet cloak, and outside the rain relented and eventually stopped.
This time, her dream was an old one. Even as she entered the mists of sleep, it occurred to Catherine that she had not had this dream in years. But there he was, her own knight of a thousand romances, tall and strong, coming to her after the great battle, claiming her for his own.
For he was now her husband. The dragon lay dead in its lair, the treasure of gold and rubies and emeralds returned to the castle’s vault. Order and goodness reigned once again in the realm, and the night now offered its own promise.
But this time the dream was somehow different...changing...going into a world of fantasy she had never experienced before. She felt his body sink into the down mattress beside her, his arm slide across the planes of her belly, his large hand rest for a moment on her hip before drawing her against his warm, firm body.
It was all so real. Catherine’s dreams often carried her to other worlds. Worlds she could see and smell and feel. Worlds that she, upon awakening, would be certain existed somewhere.
But this...this was like no dream she’d ever had, and she found herself shivering as her knight’s hand moved over the thin linen of her shift to the hem. Her back arched reflexively as his long fingers gently caressed the skin of her belly and traced the curves at the base of her breasts. Her breath caught in her chest and she felt her body rise to his touch when his hand cupped the full roundness of her breast. And as his thumb drew tight circles around the hardening nipple, sparks of fire shot through her.
So new and yet so thrilling, Catherine sighed in her state of bliss. To have a mere touch make her insides quiver so exquisitely.
Something hot throbbed insistently against her thigh, and as her knight’s hand again slid down over her belly, Catherine’s lips opened and her breaths began to shorten. A soft moan escaped her lips. Molten liquid was flowing within her, building in pulsing waves as his fingers slid through her downy mound. She felt him move, felt his body rising. There was a whisper, inaudible, almost a growl, and then her knight’s lips were on her neck, moving, brushing against her earlobe, kissing the line of her jaw...her cheek. Catherine waited.
His kiss was gentle at first. A brush of lips, but so real. So unlike her long recurring dreams of the two of them drifting into each other’s embrace, her body molding to his as the mist would softly steal around them. She could feel the pressure of his mouth. The groan of approval when she parted her lips. And then the knight’s tongue swept deeply into her mouth, shocking her with a reality that left her gasping for breath. Catherine’s eyes flew open.
This was no dream. This was not her knight. As she felt his knee press between her legs, she jerked her mouth away, breaking off the kiss. She tried to push at his chest.
“What the devil...?” came the growl through the darkness.
This was no dream, she thought again with a flash of panic as the coarse skin of a man’s chin rubbed hard against her cheek. She beat his naked shoulder with her one free hand. Grabbing at his long hair, she yanked with all her strength, but nothing could move the beast.
His hand came up quickly, catching hold of her wrist, but she reared up instinctively and bit down with all her strength on a powerful forearm.
The man gave an angry roar of pain and leaped back, snatching his hand away. But this was all the time she needed as she screamed at the top of her lungs.
“Hush, you cursed she-devil!” The man shouted, leaning over her again. But Catherine went wild beneath his shifting weight. Kicking him with all her strength in the groin, she twisted to the side, clawing her way to the edge of the bed. But the villain grabbed her by the waist.
“Wait! I’ll not hurt you, though God knows, I...”
The door from the other chamber burst open and, David Hume, holding a torch aloft, charged in, his sword flashing in the light.
Catherine’s eyes darted from the warrior’s naked skin to the gleaming flesh of Ellen Crawford in the open door behind him.
“Up, you villainous blackguard. Prepare to die!”
With a flick of his arm, her attacker tossed Catherine to the side and leaped toward David, snatching his own long sword from the floor beside the huge bed.
“Nay, you son of a whore! You’re the dog who is about to choke in his own blood!”
Ellen’s shocked gasp stopped the two men in their tracks.
“John!” she whispered, her panic evident in the single word. Raising her thin chemise over her breasts in a belated attempt to cover herself, the young woman started backing out the door.
Catherine’s head snapped around as she saw her assailant move menacingly toward David Hume. Suddenly, there was no question in her mind whose blood would be shed on this floor. The red-haired giant Ellen had called John stood head and shoulders above David and from the powerful breadth of his shoulders, Catherine was certain that he could cut her would-be rescuer in half. And from the stunned look on his face, she doubted David would even think to lift his sword in defense.
“You--you’re John Stewart!” her warrior stammered.
“Aye, you filthy dog. John Stewart, earl of Athol. And that wench you were keeping company with in the next chamber is none other than my intended.”
It was sheer madness. There was no other explanation. But Catherine, in the next instant, found herself standing before the flaming-haired nobleman, blocking his approach.
“Stop!” she pleaded. “There has to be a better way to settle this than by drawing blood.”
Athol hesitated, and as he stared down at her, the man’s gray eyes flashed murderously. She stood her ground.
“You see, m’lord, I am Catherine Percy. David Hume here was entrusted with my safety, and...and I’m quite certain he must have had no prior knowledge that Ellen...�
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The words dried up in her throat. She stared as the blade of his long sword gleamed in the torchlight.
“Out of my way, woman!”
Catherine’s knees were ready to buckle, and her head suddenly felt light, but she raised her chin in defiance. “I cannot!”
Athol advanced a step, looking past her at the man standing by the door. Taking a deep breath, she raised a pleading hand and gazed with as much courage as she could muster into a face ablaze with fury.
“He was given the task of protecting my life until we reached our destination. And he has done an excellent job...er, up to now. But now that the task is finished.” She paused, hoping that David would pick up her hint. “And now that his task is finished, I believe ‘tis my duty to see him safely away.”
There was no movement behind her. How could men be so thick-headed? she stormed inwardly. Away! Run! Flee!
“We are here at the end of our journey!” she pressed. “With the earl of Athol!”
“Out of my way, woman.”
“At the end of our journey!”
That did it. David must have turned to flee with the speed of a falcon, dropping the torch by the doorway in his escape. Responding quickly, the earl reached out and tried to move around her. But Catherine was quicker, throwing herself against his chest.
It was like hitting a wall of moving rock at a gallop. Her breath was knocked from her lungs. She fell with the grace of a meal sack to the floor as Athol picked up the torch and strode from the chamber.
For a long while Catherine sat still in the dark, listening to the shouts and curses and then to the sounds of horses. She didn’t know if it was the impact of hitting the man so hard or the cumulative effect of the entire episode that had left her unable to move. The lodge was in an uproar now, and she could hear the sound of people rushing about--while the steely voice of Athol could be heard above all of them, shouting commands and cursing violently.
Dreamer (Highland Treasure Trilogy) Page 2