Would her father bargain with this rogue Scot who had dared abduct her from beneath his very nose? Or would the earl consider her abduction the price she must pay for disobeying his edicts and leaving Warfield without an escort? No doubt, he would be inclined to do so, and it was ironic to think that the only thing that might keep him from refusing this Scot’s ultimatum was her upcoming nuptials to Bothwick’s heir.
That, she mused, would be all that would matter to him. The earl had made it quite plain that he had no use for her save as a pawn for increasing his coffers and position. It still rankled, still hurt that he thought so little of the fact that she was his child. Even her mother did not consider her wishes, but in light of her own circumstances that could be forgiven more easily. Why would a mother have reason to think it should be any different for her daughter than it had been for her?
A gust of cold, wet wind summoned a shiver from her, and Catherine wished for what must have been the thousandth time since she had been plucked so rudely from the stream that she had played the obedient daughter for once. Oh, why had she not heeded her mother’s warnings about leaving the castle without an escort? Since this dreadful conflict with the rebel Robert Bruce had worsened, times had grown more precarious than ever before. No one was safe with marauding Scots roaming honest English lands, looting, killing, abducting.…
“Here, lass.” The rough voice was accompanied by a length of surprisingly dry plaid draped over her shoulders. “It grows cold.”
He pronounced it “cauld,” his words formed with an odd cadence that was curiously melodic. Catherine wanted to refuse, to fling off the warm wool and announce disdainfully that she had no need of anything Scottish. Yet her hands were shaking violently from the chill, and the wind found every little rip in her wet garments with icy fingers. She stiffened, but did not acknowledge his courtesy as she allowed the plaid to remain over her shoulders.
An enigma, this Scottish rogue, polite one moment, frightening the next. Even his appearance was contradictory; the features of an archangel marred by a wicked scar on one cheek, a thin white crescent that stitched from the edge of a dark eyebrow to the corner of his mouth. Yet despite the blemish he was comely, with a masculine symmetry of wide brow, thick-lashed gray eyes, straight nose, and defined lips above a strong, square chin. He wore no beard, though a dark shadow presaged the thick growth along the line of his jaw and around his mouth. It was an intriguing face, where expressions of savagery and humor seemed equally comfortable.
Catherine shivered despite the welcome warmth of the wool, and the object of her thoughts tightened his arms around her. “Still cold, catkin?” When she did not reply, he laughed softly. “You might well grow used to it, for ’tis a long way to where we go.”
It was on the tip of her tongue to demand their destination, but she did not ask. What did it matter? Far or close, she would never know how to find her way home. While she might have oft wandered fields and fens in England, making her way through this hostile land would be far different from the idle roaming of a child in safe, familiar territory. No, she was more alone than she had ever been before.
Closing her eyes, Catherine prayed fervently that God would deliver her from danger, or at the least, forgive her sins should she die. She silently recited the rosary, mentally ticking off the beads of each decade as she offered the appropriate prayers. With every jolting step along the rutted track that wound through forests and over rugged slopes, she besieged God with penitence and pleas, yet the numbing journey did not cease. They rode into the night, and the jangle of harness and thunder of hooves was an incessant noise in her ears that finally lulled her to fitful slumber.
When she woke, the pitch-black of night had given way to a misty gray glow that made nightmarish silhouettes of bare tree limbs and rocky ridges. She ached all over, and her muscles were stiff and sore when she tried to shift position.
“Hold, lass,” the now-familiar voice muttered in her ear. “We are almost there.”
“Where?” Her sleepy mumble was ignored, and she blinked slumber-haze from her eyes as she strained to focus. As the sky grew lighter, she could see that thick mist shrouded the land in an eerie, suffocating blanket. No one spoke. Not even the horses made any sound, save an occasional wheeze of exhaustion or scrabble of hooves on rock.
Gradually, Catherine became aware that they were ascending a steep grade, winding between the bare, twisted limbs of bushes and stunted trees. The Scotsman’s body was a solid, heated presence, and his arms were still tight around her. For the first time, she was grateful he held her so closely. The brief glimpses she caught of sheer rock walls falling away from the rutted track they rode were enough to instill terror. Holy Mother of Mercy, where was he taking her? To some mountain cave?
By the time the mist lifted, the sun was rising behind a towering crag that loomed upward like a giant’s fist thrust from the center of the earth. At the very summit sprawled a sharply angled line of curtain walls, and behind them could be seen the unmistakable turrets of a stone fortress. Clouds snagged on the topmost tower, obscuring the identifying pennant, but the Scot named it for her:
“Castle Rock….” He shifted in the hard saddle and said in a harsh tone, “And I will allow no Englishmen to take it away again.”
“I cannot imagine any sane Englishmen wanting it,” she returned tartly. Instead of being angered by her observation as she half expected, he laughed.
“I do not doubt that. I have yet to meet an Englishman with a dram of good sense.”
“And yet you Scots still have not managed to best the English army … surprising, in light of the fact that you think we English are incompetent.”
“Nay, lass, I did not say the English are incompetent. Just foolish. There is a difference, though you may not think it. You, for instance, seem intelligent enough. Yet you mercilessly tweak the nose of the captor who holds you. Would you consider that brave or foolish?”
Behind his light words lurked a wealth of innuendos that she did not care to examine too closely, and she drew in a deep breath of damp air that smelled of gorse.
“Diverting,” she replied tersely, and his laughter rumbled past her ear.
“You have a quick tongue, lass.”
“Too quick, I have been told.”
“I do not doubt it for a moment.”
There were moments his accent seemed dense, and at others, it disappeared almost completely. Catherine half turned to glance back at him. His beard had grown thicker during the night and he looked tired. Long dark hair gleamed with moisture, tiny droplets like diamonds clinging to the sleek strands that brushed his shoulders. Yet he sat erect, and his grip on her had not once slipped, even while she slept in his folded arms.
One of the other men called out, and Alex turned his head to answer, replying in the same incomprehensible language. Gaelic, of course. These men would speak it as their native tongue. It had a certain melodic pattern to it, but she did not understand a single word, and could only guess by their gestures and intonations what was said.
The group parted, several men splitting off from the main band to ride over a rocky crag and disappear; others stayed with the main parry as they passed through a small village, then rode up the steep slope toward the fortress. Fatigue sapped Catherine’s strength but not her fear, and the nearer they drew to the curtain walls that enclosed the keep, the more fearful she grew. What would happen to her once they arrived? There had been no time for more than cursory threats on the hasty flight from England, but once they were safely inside, what would this dark Scotsman do? Beneath his outward geniality, she had glimpsed ruthless purpose, and it was not a comforting thought.
Catherine concentrated on remaining calm when they paused at last before the gates and the drawbridge was lowered to allow them inside. The weary horses picked up speed, their hooves clattering over the wood-planked bridge as they passed beneath the iron teeth of the portcullis. Twin gatehouses flanked the drawbridge, and once the party was inside the thick
walls, the portcullis was lowered behind the last rider in a shrieking rattle of chains. Torches lit a long, narrow passage that was lined with guardrooms and bent sharply at the far end. Men leaning in some of the doorways called out as they rode by, and Alex answered easily, as if his return with a bedraggled female draped from his saddle was commonplace. Perhaps it was, she thought, and felt the terror well again.
Resolutely, she swallowed her fear and stiffened her spine. None would see her quail as if she were a terrified goose. Nor would she lose her dignity again as she had when he first came upon her. She was, after all, Lady Catherine of Warfield, and she would be treated with respect.
Taking furtive stock of the keep, she recognized with dismay that it was well fortified; indeed, precautions had obviously been taken to withstand even a lengthy siege. She smothered a bubble of panicked laughter at the thought. What army would be hardy enough to climb this precarious hill to camp outside the walls and lay siege?
“What think you, my lady, of Castle Rock?”
Staring straight ahead, she managed a disdainful shrug at his query. “’Tis obvious far too much coin was spent to make it so dark and forbidding.”
“Yea, so it was. I rebuilt it well. Not even my father would recognize it now.”
That gave her pause. So ’twas he who had done all this? He was lord of this keep? This time she turned to look at him. “You must be very quarrelsome if you need a keep this well fortified.”
White teeth flashed in a grin that lent his features a disarmingly youthful expression. “Aye, some say I am exceedingly quarrelsome. And some say that I am a man who lets no insult pass without reprisal.”
“Men who live peacefully would not need to spend all their coin on soldiers and battlements.”
“Such as Lord Warfield? Would you say he is a peaceful man, my lady?”
Catherine was silent. There was no point in attempting to reply to that question. All knew of the earl’s violent nature. Even the most vicious rumor about him had a basis in fact, she feared.
When they emerged from the passage into the light again, Catherine squinted at the sudden brightness. The clouds had dissipated, so that sunlight filled the open bailey and glittered on the stone. Gardens stretched along one wall, bordered by stables at one end and thatch-roofed storehouses at the other. A most impressive—and formidable—fortress.
Despair rose inside her, and Catherine steeled herself. What would the earl say when this border rogue approached him with a proposition to exchange hostages? Twas doubtful her father would agree. After all, any hostages he held would no doubt be valuable to him—suddenly she recalled the two Scots just brought to Warfield, the younger clad in a plaid very like the length of wool wound about her now. She half turned to look sharply at the man behind her. “Is your brother older than you?”
“He is a stripling, younger by near fifteen years, but old enough to be taken hostage by English brigands.”
Catherine stiffened. “My brother is no brigand.”
“Your brother?” He looked startled, and reined in his mount by a flight of stone steps leading up to the towering keep. “I was told the earl is your father.”
“Yea, he is, but ’twas not my father who captured the prisoners you want. Twas my brother.”
“Then mayhap I should conduct my negotiations with him instead of the earl.”
“’Twill do you no good. My father is his overlord and has the final word in the matter. It is he who holds their lives in the balance.”
Catherine’s hard-won control wavered, but her voice was steady. It was true. The two Scottish captives were plum prizes, Nicholas had told her, and King Edward would be most pleased by their capture. For her father to release them would be a miracle that she did not expect.
The Scot gave her a thoughtful glance as he dismounted and pulled her down from the saddle to set her on her feet. Immediately, her knees crumpled and she would have sprawled gracelessly on the ground had he not caught her. A faint smile crooked one corner of his mouth as he held her up with his hands beneath her elbows.
Embarrassed, Catherine snapped, “’Tis difficult to stand after so many hours spent on horseback.”
“Yet I manage it well enough.” Before she could form another retort, Alex bent slightly and scooped her into his arms, cradling her against his chest as if she weighed no more than a child as he mounted the steep stairs with irritating energy.
Catherine bit her lower lip to hold back sharp words. It would never do to be dropped on a staircase this steep, and she certainly did not trust this Scot not to do it if she angered him. When they reached the top of the stairs, he strode through wide double doors and into a great hall that smelled of stale smoke, foul rushes, and the residue of a hundred past meals. Gnawed bones were scattered atop tables and benches were overturned. Empty ale pitchers lent a pungent scent to air already befouled with the taint of unruly hounds and spilled ale, ample evidence of the lack of a goodwife to oversee the servants’ duties.
Alex muttered under his breath, then swung her to her feet again, this time keeping one hand on her arm in a clasp that was light but firm. “Hold, my lady. I shall rouse the servants to ready a chamber for you.”
Sweeping the hall with a derisive glance, Catherine asked caustically, “Do you mean for me to sleep in this uncivilized hovel? It has the stench of a stable.”
His jaw tightened, and a muscle leaped beneath the beard-shadow. “Aye, my fine lady, I do indeed mean for you to sleep in my home. If ’tis not civilized enough for you, take comfort in the fact that you may soon be back where you find the lodgings more to your liking. Unless, of course, your father replies with typical English civility, and then you may well end your days in this hovel.”
A veiled threat lurked beneath his words. Catherine said nothing as he stalked away from her, calling in Gaelic for his servants. She stood where he’d left her, gazing in dismay at her surroundings. Torn banners hung awry on the smoke-blackened walls, and in the rafters overhead perched birds of prey. Droppings added to the foul mess of filthy straw on the stone floor, and there was an air of general disorder about the hall that would have sent Lady Warfield into a swoon.
A little stiffly, she moved to stand beside a tall candle rack, where the tallow tapers had guttered. Her hands knotted into painful fists, and she stared blindly at the congealed tallow wax lumped on the candle stand. For the first time, she truly feared that she would never see her home again. Shuddering, she murmured the first words that came to mind: “Júdica me, Deus, et discérne causum meam de gente non sancta—”
“… ab hómine iniquo et dolóso érue me” a rough male voice finished behind her, and she turned sharply to look up at her captor. His mouth quirked into a mocking smile that did not reach his eyes.
“Do you think the English are the only men who pray in Latin? I know that prayer as well, my lady—‘Give judgment for me, O God, and decide my cause against an unholy people—from unjust and deceitful men deliver me.’ Fitting, I think, that I should give voice to those last words, do you not agree?”
“I … I do not know what you mean,” she managed to get out weakly.
“Yea, lady, I think you do. When next you pray, mayhap you had best ask God to deliver us all from deceitful men, for if your father fails me, he fails you as well.”
Catherine could not reply. All hope that she might find mercy in this man dwindled away, leaving only rising despair. If her father did not agree to his terms, she was doomed to end her days in the barbaric land of the Scots.…
4
It did not sweeten Alex’s mood to find his hall in turmoil. It should not matter to him what the maid thought of his home, and it rankled that it did. A few well-placed kicks and curses were enough to rouse the servants from drunken stupors into clumsy efforts to right benches and tables, mop up spilled ale, and scoop fallen food from the stale rushes. Yet he had seen reflected in violet-blue eyes the image of his home from a stranger’s perspective, and it was not a pleasing vis
ion.
Nor was it pleasing to have her offering prayers for deliverance from unholy men—meaning, of course, him.
Curtly, he beckoned a servant to his side and spoke to her in Gaelic. “Take the lady to a chamber, Mairi, and see that she is given all she needs. But do not let her out of your sight, or give her a moment’s freedom.”
Mairi, an older woman with wise eyes and a tart tongue, gave him an appraising stare before nodding. “It is a black day when I am sent to guard an English prisoner.”
“She is hostage against Jamie’s return.” Alex lifted a brow when Main stood silently studying the young woman. “Do you have a quarrel with her presence, Main?”
“I have a quarrel with the presence of any Sassenach in Scotland.”
Alex did not respond. Main’s husband and only son had been killed by the English years before, and she still harbored hatred against them. Understandable, and one of the reasons she was so suitable to guard the fair English flower who still stood with silent dignity by a rack of guttered candles. Alex frowned. In the thin light that trickled through the tiny windows, he saw the utter weariness etched in the girl’s face. Her eyes resembled nothing so much as huge purple bruises, dark against her ashen pallor. Such a fragile, well-defined face, her bone structure delicate and strong at the same time, with determination in the set of her jaw and the limpid gaze she lifted to him.
“You are to go with Main,” he said to her in gruff English. “She will tend your needs.”
The girl’s eyes flicked to Main’s resentful face. “’Tis doubtful either of us will enjoy the alliance. Does she speak any English?”
“Enough. She is not meant to be a companion.”
“Nay, I did not think so.” Straightening her slender shoulders, she added quietly, “I would like to request the comfort of a priest.”
The Scotsman Page 4