Dreamer (Highland Treasure Trilogy)

by McGoldrick, May

  Perhaps he hadn’t made such a bad choice, after all, he thought, His eyes fixed on her, his brain conjuring images of all that he would like to do with that mouth.

  *****

  Finally, she thought. The drops of ale were bitter on her tongue, and Catherine moved carefully toward the next table. It was the closest to the wall, and she could see that there was indeed food on the trencher.

  Her eyes flicked over to the motionless warrior slouched on the bench behind the table. He was leaning back against the dark, paneled wall. From what she could see, he must have fallen asleep with his supper still before him. She dared herself to take the last step that would put her within reach. All she needed to do was take the food and run.

  She clenched her jaw, trying to build enough courage to act. His face was hidden in the shadows--his broad chest crossed by the same red and green tartan worn by nearly all of Athol’s warriors.

  Her stomach made a loud, complaining sound, and suddenly Catherine knew that her decision had been made for her. She reached out with both hands and grabbed for the trencher.

  With an incredible speed, the warrior’s hands shot out and clamped on her wrists. A strangled gasp of panic escaped her lips, and Catherine found herself being tugged toward the table.

  “Stop! I...I thought you were finished.”

  He stopped pulling her but did not release her, and Catherine found her throat clamp shut as the face moved out of the shadows and into the light.

  “So you’ve decided at last to leave your self-imposed confinement and join me down here for some supper.”

  “I...” She couldn’t think straight. His gray eyes were dark in the firelight, but she could feel them piercing her soul.

  “I know. You didn’t want to bother with the folk who would be naturally inquisitive about their new mistress. You only wished for my attentions, is that right?”

  She simply could not find her voice. The nearness of him--his hands holding her fast-- was the most unsettling. Her face was burning, and yet there were chills running down her spine. It was like some raging fever, but not like any fever she’d ever endured before.

  “You locked yourself away.”

  The odd hint of regret in his voice surprised her. She tore her gaze away, and stared at his mouth. His lips were full and sensuous. She had felt the press of those lips, and she forced back the memory as the heat flooded into her belly.

  “I didn’t...I thought...you...”

  He let go of her wrists, and Catherine straightened immediately. Despite all her strong words to Lady Anne, just one moment in his presence was all it took for her to melt, to become soft and willing right before his eyes. What was wrong with her!

  “‘Tis a relief to know that you had enough sense to decide against starvation.” He leaned forward and pushed the trencher of food across the table. “Why not sit down and eat?”

  She didn’t stir. She couldn’t. Not until she could control her own unexplainable response to him.

  “No longer hungry? Or is it, perhaps, that you do not trust me!” As she continued to remain silent, he cocked an eyebrow and studied her. She felt the heat about to burst through the skin of her cheek. “You are blushing!”

  “Nay,” she managed to whisper. “‘Tis anger that you see.”

  She saw his eyes soften a bit. “This is better than I hoped. You are angry with me because I left you on our wedding night. Before we had a chance to consummate our union.” He paused just long enough for Catherine to feel another rush of heat flood her cheeks. “‘Tis a Highland custom to wait half a week, but I promise to make up for any slight you may have felt. In fact, why not carry this food back to my bedchamber. We can start--”

  “I’ll eat here.” She sat down quickly, pulling the trencher and the goblet toward her. She lifted the cup to her lips. The wine was heavenly compared to the bit of water she’d had over the past two days. She drank again.

  “I would slow down on that, if I were you. I wouldn’t want you blaming the wine when you end up in my bed this night.”

  As she placed the cup on the table, though, he produced a pitcher of wine from the bench beside him. Without hesitation, he filled the goblet to the top.

  “On second thought, since this is your first time, perhaps it might help you to...”

  “Could you please stop talking this way?” The wine must have gone to her head, she thought, since she no longer felt any fear of the man sitting before her. But, looking into those eyes, sparkling with amusement, she wondered if she’d ever truly feared him.

  “Talking what way?”

  “Talking nonsense. Talking matrimony and consummation! We both know that the vows we took meant nothing. So why pretend? Why carry on with this farce?”

  She’d expected him to argue--or even lose his temper as she’d seen him do before. At least, she’d hoped for him to say something--anything. But he said nothing. Instead, he looked at her with a charming gleam emanating from the depths of his eyes. Catherine knew for certain then that she was in trouble.

  And then her stomach growled. It was not even one of those small sounds that one can overlook. Nay, this was the kind of growl that can be heard above the din of a London fish market. The kind that would wake one’s sisters from a sound sleep. The kind that allows one no opportunity for salvaging her dignity.

  So she simply smiled sheepishly, shrugged her shoulders, dropped her gaze, and reached for the cheese on the trencher before her.

  “The mutton is particularly good, I believe.”

  Catherine did not look up, certain that he would be leering at her suggestively, ready to remind her of what this food might cost her later, but he again proved her wrong in her assumptions about him. He was quiet for a while, and when she glanced up at him, Athol smiled and leaned back against the wall.

  Moments later, she surveyed the empty trencher before her. The mutton had been particularly good. As was the bannock bread, and the capon, and the cheese. She sipped the wine and looked over the rim of the goblet at his handsome face. She wished he would say something, engage her in conversation. As if reading her mind, John Stewart began to speak, talking about Balvenie Castle, about its colorful past. He spoke of how his family came into possession of the castle after the Black Douglases fell from grace after losing to the king’s forces at Arkinholm.

  Listening to the resonant tones of his deep voice and sipping the wine, Catherine became swept up in the history. His knowledge was vast and his tales vividly detailed, and Catherine soon found herself in a world of chivalric knights and ignoble villains, of beautiful heroines and unending love affairs.

  “...So after the wedding of my great grandsire John Stewart, the first earl of Athol, to Margaret of the fallen Douglas clan, a condition was set that one red rose would be rendered each year on St. John the Baptist’s Day...”

  Catherine found herself drifting into the realm of her dreams. She could see her knight stepping into a large and empty hall. And her, waiting for him there in the middle, the rays of sun slanting in through the high windows, the golden light pooling around her. In his hand, he held a rose. A rose the color of blood, the color of life. Her knight, stepping closer, offering her the token. A token of love. She smiled, raising her hand to him...

  Catherine drifted out of her dreams as John Stewart’s voice stopped. Her eyes took in the chiseled features of his face--the high forehead, the small web of wrinkles etched into the corners of his eyes, the thin line of a scar along his left cheekbone. She let her gaze wander along the strong line of his jaw, to the cleft in his chin, and finally to the full lips. There was a gentleness now in his face that warmed her, lulled her. She looked into his gray eyes and was suddenly lost in a world far more real and sensuous than any she’d found in her dreams. She lowered her gaze again to his mouth and found it as inviting as any forbidden fruit.

  Catherine started as the cup slipped in her fingers, and she put it down. She must have had too much wine.

  “I thank you...for
sharing your...” She pushed herself shakily to her feet, and gestured vaguely at the table. “Your food...your company. I...”

  He came to his feet, as well, and suddenly her head was spinning with thoughts of his earlier suggestions. She started to gather up the trencher and the cup on the table. “I’ll...I’ll just take these to the kitch...”

  “No need.” The weight of his large hand on hers checked the flurry of movement. His hand was so warm, so strong. “We have serving folk with little enough to do. But I believe Jean would be offended if she knew I let you wait on yourself.”

  Letting go of the cup and the trencher, Catherine pulled her hands out of his grip. “Then, I’ll retire to my chamber.”

  “I hope I haven’t bored you.”

  “Hardly, m’lord. ‘Tis late.”

  “Very well. I’ll walk you to your door.”

  She studied him for another moment, trying to calm her beating heart. What had she to complain about? He could be dragging her to his chamber--ravishing her. He was simply being courteous. She felt her face burn as a realization emerged from the turmoil in her brain. Disappointment. There, lurking in some shadowy recess, disappointment that he was not taking her burning body. Why shouldn’t he want her?

  By the saints, she argued silently, perhaps she should have wed when she was sixteen. This craziness, this eagerness she felt for the man was far, far too unsettling.

  “Can I not walk my own wife to her chamber door?”

  “Aye, you...I do not...” She faltered and then gathered herself. “Aye, of course!”

  John Stewart came around the table, lighting a taper at the remnants of the fire in the hearth. Wordlessly, the two worked their way out of the hall and up the dark, circular stairwell. Her mind was racing as they passed through the same dismal corridors she’d traveled earlier, and Catherine saw nothing of them. His presence beside her was terrifying and thrilling, and her heart was hammering so loudly that she was sure she could hear it echoing off the walls as they walked.

  “And why is it, Catherine, that you were not wed when you were younger?”

  His elbow brushed against her arm, and she felt the fires spread from the point of contact up through her shoulder and into her chest.

  “I...I’ve always been keen on learning.”

  “And your suitors objected to so much knowledge in a potential wife?”

  “You did! I mean, you do.” She paused an instant, hoping that he would correct her, but he ignored her answer. She glanced hesitantly at his direction and found his eyes roaming lazily over her face. His gaze fixed on her lips, and she forced herself to breathe. “As...as you already know, I am not the type of woman that one seeks as a wife. Even aside from my learning, which is for some reason enough to frighten off most men, I am also opinionated...and willful...and...well, I think you understand.”

  “Nay, I do not. Do you have more that is wrong with you?”

  The passage narrowed at the turn, and Catherine brushed against his chest as they moved into the section of the castle where her chamber was located. She stumbled a bit and he reached out for her arm. His hand lingered a moment longer than it needed to, and her mind reeled at the effect of his touch.

  “Nay! I...I have other qualities as well?”

  “Do you?”

  She gave him a sidelong glance and found a smile softening the weathered features of his face.

  “Well! I suppose I am not beautiful or desirable the way some other women are.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Of course. A man might even look at me as something of a burden. As a woman suitable for some convent, where they do not have to look upon her face.”

  “And what blind fool planted that seed in your head?”

  “You yourself called me an old crone.”

  “That’s not true.” They stopped at her door. “If I remember correctly, I accused you of talking like one. I never... By the devil! So you are trying to rile me, are you?”

  She leaned against the doorjamb and lifted her chin in challenge. “As I said before, being beneath of attentions of men, I have been able to hone other abilities, such as...”

  “Other qualities, you mean, such as stubbornness, and willfulness...and the desire to teach?”

  He actually did understand, so she rewarded him with a smile. But his response made her forget to breathe. He took a step toward her and gently ran the tips of his fingers across her lips.

  “You have the most enchanting smile. A bewitching one.” She waited, shivering with anticipation of what could come next. The memory of his lips against her own suddenly flooded her senses. She’d thought it was a dream, then, and there was something dreamlike in this moment, as well. “Take me inside your room.”

  Catherine thought she shook her head, but she wasn’t completely certain.

  “Then come to my chamber.”

  She smiled. “I told you before, I am not who you want me to be. I’ve a dream of being a teacher, of sharing what I know with...”

  “One doesn’t need to sacrifice one dream to pursue another.” His hand reached out and touched her face, the backs of his fingers caressing the line of her jaw, the side of her neck. “Take your mother. From all I’ve heard elsewhere--in addition to being a learned lady, she was a fine wife and mother.”

  “Aye, but...”

  “I know, lass, you do not have to say it--there are no men living who are as worthy as your father. But still, is it not a shame to lock away the passion that is a part of you? A part of us?”

  “I express my passion through my teaching.” She’d always thought that was true. And it was true! She was certain of it--at least, until she’d met John Stewart. But she couldn’t let him see through this weakness. Not when he was the cause. “The enthusiasm that I feel--”

  He silenced her with the gentle touch of a finger on her lips. “Nay, Catherine. I’m talking of desire. Of the hunger that men and women feel for each other. Of the heat that you felt when I first came to your bed at the lodge.”

  Her mind searched for a logical reply, but her heart drummed in revolt, giving her away. “That was a...”

  “I can see through you, lass. As hard as you might try, this outer skin--that the rest of the world might see--cannot hide from me who you really are. I see the real woman beneath, Catherine.”

  “You do not know me.”

  “Oh, but I do. Better than you think.” He leaned toward her. All she could see were his full lips as they brushed against hers. “And I think it’s time you started learning about yourself, as well.”

  “But I know all there is to...” The whisper died on her lips as his mouth took possession of hers. Her hands fisted and then fluttered open against his chest. As he pulled her tighter into his embrace, she felt herself melting, her lips parting, yielding to his, her body molding to him. She didn’t know what boldness had taken control of her being, but she found herself rising on tiptoe as her arms encircled his neck. She felt, rather than heard, his groan of approval as her body pressed instinctively against his.

  He drew back only slightly. “There can be no pretense between us.” He nipped at her lower lip and gazed again into her eyes. “We have only passion.”

  She wanted to fight. This was madness. It was sweet and wild, and she had no idea what would come of it. Aye, it was madness, all right. Even during the most vivid encounters with her dream-knight, Catherine never had felt what she was feeling now. Her senses were so alive, so ready for his next touch. This time there was no sense of panic when his tongue swept into her mouth, and she moved in his arms to accommodate him.

  Catherine was vaguely aware of her own surprise and exhilaration at the rising need within her. And somehow, somewhere, she must have given him a sign, for suddenly she felt his hand beginning to roam over her body. His fingers found their way inside her cloak, caressing the sides of her breasts. When he pinned her against the door with his hips, the feel of his hardening manhood elicited a gasp from her. No longer there was
any fear. Only a sense of incredible wonder.

  “I want you, Catherine,” he murmured against her throat. “I want to bed my wife.”

  “But...but you care nothing for this wife. I’m nothing but a willing body, John Stewart, the same as the last one...or the next.” Even to her own ears, her objection sounded weak, and her body betrayed her by arching against him. A muscular thigh pushed between hers, and she found herself gasping at the sweet pressure.

  “Let me show you the ways of passion,” he said and she closed her eyes as his hand boldly cupped her breast through her dress. “Let us put aside the words and do what both of us wants so much to do.”

  He didn’t deny what she’d said. But for the life of her, she couldn’t move away.

  “I want you to know the sweet nectar of passion.” His one hand pulled up the weight of her skirt, and she held her breath as it sought her waiting middle.

  “Nectar or venom...it means my ruin. I...” She gasped as his fingers found her womanhood. His lips pressed against the skin of her neck, shocking her with their coolness.

  “But to be ruined in such ecstasy.” His voice was a breath in her ear. “Let go of it, Catherine. Get ready to take flight.”

  She didn’t know what he meant, but the way his palm was cupping her--the maddening pressure that was building within her as he continued stroking her with his fingers--her own breaths were now coming in gasps.

  “Aye, lass. If this is ruin, let it be a heavenly wreck.”

  More! More! her mind screamed. Every bit of her body cried to be touched. An insatiable need was rising, pulsing through her body, forcing her hands around his neck, and drawing him tightly against him. In the midst of this frenzy, she felt his hips press more intimately against her middle. There was a shifting of her weight in his arms.

  “This would all be so much easier if you’d let me take you inside.”

  She shook her head. That would mean surrender. Not only in body, but in soul, as well. But still, she didn’t want him to stop. Placing her lips against the side of his throat, she hoped that he’d understand.