Forbidden

by Sophia Johnson

  Ranald sprang to his feet. He jerked his tunic off and let it drop to the ground, leaving naught but his scant braies to cover him. Before Kerr could speak again, Ranald’s hand shot out, grasped his shoulder and spun him around. His hand closed around Kerr’s throat, the rock hard muscles of his biceps bulged, and his back muscles tightened as he lifted Kerr off the ground. Wisely, Giric stepped away.

  “Ye talk a good deal, Sir Kerr. Mayhap ye feel I could learn from ye?” He lowered the man until his feet stood firmly on the ground. “Get yer weapon. Since I am so poorly trained from living at Kelso, I need the exercise.”

  “Aye. And if I scratch yer delicate skin, no doubt ye will kneel all night praying in the church, begging God to help ye be a man.” Kerr laughed as he strutted over to take his sword from his squire.

  Ranald nodded at Raik, who grabbed Ranald’s sword from against the oak and tossed it to him. Keeping his eyes on Kerr’s back, Ranald threw his mask to the left, where he knew Raik stood. Kerr turned with an arrogant smile on his face. It faded when he found Ranald’s sword tip just a finger’s width from his nose.

  “Are ye finished stalling, Kerr?” Ranald grinned at the surprised man.

  “It isn’t fair. I had not yet armed myself,” Kerr blustered.

  “Ye are ready now, are ye not? I wait to be taught how to fight like a man.” Ranald stepped back several paces, pretending to be as inept as the man supposed, his sword held slackly at his side.

  Hearing the exchange, those training close-by formed a ring around them. He paid them no heed, though he sensed his father’s eyes watching him.

  Kerr no doubt thought Ranald lacked the skills of a squire, for his eyes lit with delight as he lunged for Ranald’s right shoulder. Ranald’s blade whipped up, deflected the blow then dropped again. Kerr again struck, this time aiming left, expecting the same maneuver. Ranald turned sideways, leaning back at the waist. Kerr’s blade met thin air. Ranald did not lower his sword again. It whistled as he reached up to slice the ribbons on Kerr’s shirt. The cloth gaped open, revealing the sweat glistening on his neck.

  Their blades rang out as they parried and thrust, and though Kerr was more than an adequate fighter, Ranald read each strike correctly. Both men had thin strips of red glistening on their sweaty flesh, though Kerr’s cuts far outnumbered Ranald’s.

  Ranald had long since learned to note expressions on an opponent’s face. He watched as Kerr’s eyes widened after an especially effective maneuver, then narrowed as he more closely studied Ranald’s moves, a small smile of appreciation beginning at the corners of his lips.

  Before long, Kerr’s laughter rang out in pure delight when Ranald swiftly parried an unexpected maneuver. Ranald, some nine to ten moves later, repeated the pattern. This time it was he who laughed, for Kerr was an apt pupil and showed he had learned his lesson. What started as a battle of dislike turned into a sparring match, each enjoying the testing of the other’s skills.

  Soon, Ranald began to tell Kerr what he was doing wrong, becoming the instructor, not the supposed hapless monk.

  “Dinna watch only my hands, my body.”

  Ranald made as if to strike on Kerr’s right, but at the last moment, whipped his blade to Kerr’s left. Before Kerr recovered, he again feigned an attack, this time on Kerr’s shoulder, but struck at his thigh instead.

  “If not yer hands, how then will I know what ye are planning?” Kerr’s brows near met. His gaze switched from Ranald’s hands to his face.

  “There ye have it. Ye must watch my face, my eyes, and ye will see in what direction I will swing the blade next.”

  They worked until both dripped with sweat, their breath bursting loudly from lungs working hard as any blacksmith’s bellows.

  “I cry defeat, Sir Ranald,” Kerr called out. He stepped back, stuck his sword into the ground and leaned over, laughing and coughing. “Ye canna tell me ye were only a monk. Not when yer sword flashes like lightning.”

  “I didna say I was. Ye named me a man used to only kneeling in prayer. Ye failed to learn I was also Kelso’s Protector. I had ample time to hone my skills, for the abbey is often raided from across the border.”

  Sweat ran down his temples and stung the corners of his eyes. He swiped it away and pushed back his wet hair, its length now grown long enough to fall over his brow. Of a sudden, his skin prickled. Surprise marked Kerr’s face as he stared beyond Ranald’s shoulder.

  Ranald breathed deep. He picked up the scent of another, one not bathed in sweat.

  He crouched ready to spring. A feral growl rumbled from his throat.

  CHAPTER 18

  Ranald’s lips lifted with a snarl and his feet kicked up a cloud of dirt as he whirled around and came face to face with Lady Muriele. And her probing stare. Expecting her to screech with disgust, he rose to his full height and stiffened his spine. She did not. Instead, she held out a sweating pewter goblet of cold well water, all the while studying his face as if it were as any other man’s.

  “What do ye here? It is no place for a lady, and well ye know it.” Ranald ground out the words through a jaw locked near closed.

  She flinched, but instead of fleeing like he had expected after his harsh tone, she squared her shoulders and thrust out her chin.

  “Why cannot a lady admire your skills? There are lasses aplenty gawking from behind the wash house.”

  “Lasses, aye. Not ladies of the keep.” Had Catalin ever watched when he trained? Had she stayed away, fearful of coming upon him without his mask?

  Muriele dropped her gaze to his chest. The tip of her tongue stole out to wet her upper lip. Her breasts rose and fell with her quickened breathing. Each intake of breath made the round, creamy swell of inviting flesh visible there at the opening of her kirtle, stirring his loins.

  “I watched from the wall walk atop the north tower. Even from that distance, I sensed you were in dire need of a cooling drink.”

  Her gaze studied the breadth of his shoulders, lingered on the sweat snaking through the hair on his chest as it made its slow way down to his stomach. His muscles tightened. Her eyes were as enticing as warm fingertips whispering down his body.

  His stomach muscles corded, loosening the cloth at his waist. A heartbeat after, her brazen gaze studied the hair disappearing beneath the gap at the top of his braies.

  She blinked and moved her head slightly forward. Closer. A wave of heat rushed to that part of him which was easily interested of late. He feared his body was more than willing to show her how she affected him.

  Aye. She was well aware of it. He did not miss the way she shivered and gave his groin one more quick study. Seeing the change there, she started and her regard slid upward.

  Ranald grabbed the goblet from her hands. Never had he expected to see her face flush and desire cloud her eyes on looking at him.

  “Get ye back to the keep.” His arm flung out and he pointed across the wide expanse.

  His voice was grating, abrupt, and must have hit her like a physical force for she jumped back and spun. Her skirts trailed behind her like she faced a driving wind, so fast were her feet leading her away.

  “Cousin, mayhap I should comfort the lass. Yer snarl near scared the curl from her hair,” Raik said.

  “I didna snarl.”

  “Aye, ye did.” Raik nodded his head and grinned. “And she has interest in ye.”

  “Ye imagine things that are not there.” Ranald’s brows near touched. “Her only concern was learning what lies behind the mask.”

  “Ha!” Raik’s lips quirked as he tried to still them. He gave up as laughter rumbled from his chest. “More likely it’s what lies behind that linen wrapped around yer loins that peaks her interests!”

  Domnall came up behind Ranald and cuffed him on the shoulder.

  “Had a lass looked at me so eagerly, we would be behind the nearest tree, her legs clamping my waist while I plowed her like a needy hare.”

  o0o

  High on the battlements, Catalin stood at an
embrasure studying the men squatting in the dirt beneath an ancient tree. Were they playing some battle game? She easily recognized Ranald’s form, for who else at Raptor had a body so imposing?

  He scratched in the dirt. His father and the other men leaned forward to study what he did there. After a bit, she noted his head turned toward two men nearby, then he stood to join them.

  Join them? Nay. His body looked as hard as the merlon she leaned against, for his hands jerked up to yank off his tunic. His mask followed. When he slammed it to the ground, it sent up a small cloud of dust.

  She felt his tension as if he were but a hand’s-width away. Seeing their swords flash in the sun, her fingers went to her throat. Too far to see, but she knew they both drew blood by the way their bodies curved away from the strike. Not serious, though, for neither seemed to note it.

  The man was a good fighter, but Ranald was ready for his every move. Unexpected pride filled her chest as she watched.

  A flash below drew her gaze away. Lady Muriele was at the well filling a tall pewter goblet from a freshly raised bucket. She must be thirsty indeed to require so much water.

  It was not for her to drink? The lithe figure hurried across the courtyard, past the orchards, the barracks, the stables and on toward the men’s training ground. She did not intend to intrude, did she? Why, Ranald was near naked, his muscled body gleaming with sweat, his braies his only covering.

  Her eyes narrowed to mere slits. She ground her teeth until her jaw ached. Why did Lady Muriele stand so close? Ranald took the offered water. Huh, the nerve of her. She stood nearly touching a man almost as bare as the day he was born! Catalin snorted. No doubt, Ranald gloried in the woman’s inspection.

  Seeing Ranald fling his arm in a gesture toward the keep, she smiled with satisfaction. Humph! ‘Twas good she hurried, else Catalin would be tempted to stomp out there after her.

  She swallowed. This anger was not jealousy. How could she be jealous of a man she had not wished to marry?

  Her babe took that moment to give her a resounding kick, the strongest one so far. Her hands firmly cupped her rounded belly, hidden by her loose-fitting, yellow tunic. The babe reminded her of a kindness she had not acknowledged.

  Not long after they wed, a potion appeared on her bedside table each morn. Hannah told her Ranald had mixed the herbs and claimed he had much success in the Abbey Infirmary with the brew for easing upset stomachs. Once Catalin swallowed it and rested a short time, she was delighted to find no trace of dizziness or nausea remained.

  It shamed her that she had yet to thank him for it. She bit her lip and stared out into the bailey, not really seeing. Her cupped hands felt the soft movements beneath. By the size of her stomach, she feared it would be a large bairn.

  This morn, Ada had leaked the news of her breeding to Ranald’s father. How would they get away with claiming it as Ranald’s when Moridac had bedded her in December? It was early February when Ranald appeared, and by Hannah’s reckoning, the babe would be due in September. Everyone was bound to know it was not his when she gave birth to a fully formed babe afore time.

  She remembered his determined face that first morn when he had said, “If he looks like Moridac, he will look like me. If I say the child is mine, who can say me nay?” The memory soothed her, but unease swept her anew when her nape prickled.

  “I thought as much.”

  Catalin jumped so hard she nearly lost her balance. Chief Broccin grabbed her shoulders and pulled her back from the open embrasure. Once she stood firm, he released her and rubbed his hands with glee.

  “Ye carry a bairn. But who is the father? Moridac or Ranald?”

  “Ranald, of course.” Catalin made her voice hard and firm, and buried her hands in her tunic pockets to hide their trembling.

  “Hmpf. I saw ye cup yer belly. By its size, it would have to be a giant to be Ranald’s.” He reached forward as if to feel her stomach for himself, a gleam in his eye.

  “You will not touch me!” Catalin folded her arms across her waist. Blood rushed from her face, leaving her slightly dizzy.

  “Dinna be foolish, lass. I would not harm ye. Ye carry my son’s seed.” He stepped back, hands held up waggling back and forth showing he was keeping away.

  “Why are ye not resting, Catalin?” Ranald appeared on the last step leading up to the wall walk. He was at her side in a heartbeat, placing a firm arm around her shoulders for support.

  Tension flowed like physical waves from his skin. He had thrown his tunic over his head, for it had not settled in position over his shoulders. Though he smelled of sweat and dust, leather and weapons, she was thankful for his close presence.

  “I thought to take the sun. It is warmer here than inside the keep.”

  Feeling Ranald’s muscled leg pressed against her own and his hard body so close, she shivered and envisioned his bare flesh beneath the tunic. Catalin looked up into dark eyes, eyes that changed from black to the color of a dark plum when in the sunlight. She reached up to free a hank of midnight hair, damp and wavy, imprisoned by the top of his mask.

  Ranald flinched, then held steady until she finished.

  “Catalin is breeding, yet ye did not tell me.” Chief Broccin glared at him. “Dinna think to claim it. The seed is Moridac’s. Her belly grows too large for it to be yers.”

  “I do claim the seed as mine, not his.”

  “Ye are a fool. The proof will be at the birthing.” Chief Broccin, his chest stuck out, scowled. “When ye take Hunter Castle, ye will both reside there. The child will remain with me.”

  Catalin gasped and gripped her stomach, as if to protect the babe yet to be born.

  “The bairn remains with its mother.” Ranald’s voice was cold as ice. “When it is birthed, I will claim it as mine.”

  “Not if I dispute its parentage, ye willna,” his father shouted. “This bairn is all I have left of my son!”

  “Listen, and listen well. If ye dispute my claim, do ye know what will happen?” Ranald’s voice was soft, silky. Menacing.

  Catalin shivered as cold dread swept her.

  “Happen? Aye! I will raise it as my son to take over Raptor after me. That is what will happen.” Chief Broccin planted his fists on his hips and glared at Ranald.

  “Nay, ye willna. Catalin is my wife. Though betrothed to Moridac, they had not said the final vows. If ye name the child a bastard, I will see it sent to the church.” He stopped and spoke slowly, deliberately. His nostrils flared, and a snarl curled his lips. “If a boy, I will rid myself of him as ye did me. The Abbot at Kelso will raise him to become a monk. Be it a girl, she will live at Saint Anne’s Abbey with the good sisters.”

  Catalin gasped and tried to wrench away from him. Ranald clamped her tight against his side. He felt her draw breath to speak, but he would not allow it.

  “Be silent, woman! I have not given ye leave to speak.”

  She felt as rigid as if he grasped a young apple tree tight to his side. He stared into his father’s eyes, not flinching at the hate radiating there. His father wanted this bairn because it was Moridac’s. If it were Ranald’s seed, he wouldna care, would shrug at Ranald’s threat to cast it away as he had done him. He held tight to his anger, fearing what could happen there atop the highest point of the keep. In times of peace, the merlons had no protective shutters fastened between them. A person could easily fall if nudged by an angry wind. He tightened his arm around Catalin.

  “Jesu, Ranald! From the look on yer face, it’s no wonder the villagers have named ye the Black Raptor.”

  Raik stepped up behind Broccin, drawing Ranald’s gaze to him. Elyne followed, panting, from running up the steep wooden stairs. She took one look at her father, then at Ranald and Catalin, and moved to stand between them and the laird.

  “Come, Catalin. We have the solar to ourselves again. We should start garments for the babe, but I need ye to tell me what ye would prefer.”

  Ranald released his arm around Catalin and glanced down at her face. Her
eyes were wide, fear and horror warring with each other. He watched Elyne lead her down the stairs, one hand behind her making sure Catalin stayed close to the wall. The stairway had only a flimsy railing meant for steadying a person, not supporting them. Once the women were on firm ground, he relaxed.

  “I willna stay and listen to the ranting of a fool,” Chief Broccin blustered. “Ye canna do as ye say.”

  “I have no use for another man’s seed to take from what rightfully belongs to my own. Do ye remember the last words I heard from yer lips those many years ago? Nay?”

  His father, silent, glared at him. Ranald roughened his voice, doing a fair imitation. “‘He is of no use to me now...dump him at Kelso and return.’”

  Ranald spread his legs farther apart and folded his arms across his chest. His chin lifted, jutted. His voice softened to near a whisper.

  “Ye want to chance I will not do it? Hm?”

  Chief Broccin glared at him, his chin jutting.

  Ranald’s voice lifted to near a snarl.

  “Try me.”

  CHAPTER 19

  Raik studied Ranald’s set face, curious as to what unusual feat his anger would unleash. His cousin’s dark eyes gleamed between lowered lids as he stared at his father’s left ear as if it fascinated him. Raik’s lips quivered as he held back a grin. He rocked back on his heels to watch events unfold.

  “Dinna think to threaten me!” Broccin snorted, his head lowered like an angry bull.

  Ranald’s chin dipped, his lips twitched, baring his teeth. His gaze took on such an added intensity you could near see heat shimmering from his eyes. It would take but a few foolish prods from the laird, and they would lock horns and fight as savagely as any beasts.

  One had to listen closely and watch Ranald’s lips, for his voice was like a whisper of silk on the air.

  “Ye heard what I said. Nay, not only said, but promised if ye thwart me in this.”

  Broccin shook his head to the left, frowned. One hand rose to brush his ear. It had turned shiny pink.

  The air around his uncle sweltered. Raik stepped back a pace where it was as delightfully cool as any May afternoon. Strange. But then, knowing from whence the heat came, maybe not.