Miles looked pained as he met him in the driving rain that pelted the ground into thick mud. “Are we not to linger the night in dry shelter, my lord?”
“I will not dwell a night under the roof of so base an enemy, not if I am able to spend it in good English rain.” Ignoring the grumbling from his men, he began to saddle his horse. Steam rose from the cooling hide that was still damp from the weight of the saddle. But he did not intend to spend a single night in Scotland, and certainly not in the reluctant hospitality of the man who held his sister.
No man dared protest, but led their weary horses from the dry comfort of the stables and mounted them. At the gatehouse, their weapons were returned as the creaking of winch chains heralded the rising portcullis. Hoofbeats were muffled by mud and rain as they rode toward the lowered drawbridge and out into the dark, wet night. Yet the chill did nothing to cool Nicholas’s temper, and the desire for vengeance burned hot in his throat. Worse, was the nagging fear that his father would yet refuse Fraser’s demands. And God only knew what would befall Catherine then.…
8
“Change, as I see, is ever the world’s way—Loud windy weather turning warm and soft, And even the great moon changing day by day, And humblest things thrown by degrees aloft; Hideous War, with all his armor doffed, Grown Peace: unchanging, though, Love’s cautious pride And willful cold. And so I am denied.”
Catherine marked the page and closed the book, placing it atop the table, too restless to be comforted by words that somehow echoed her own fears. She moved again to the window, unsurprised by the rivulets of rain streaking the ledge and shutters. It was always this way during the gray days of winter. The calends of December was not so distant, and she thought then of Warfield, and the celebrations of Christmas. It was the one time of year that the castle was festive, for then even her grim father relaxed enough to allow merriment to reign. There were feasting and games, dances and minstrels, and the halls were festooned with greenery that spiced the air with the scent of pine and fir.
Would her family celebrate without her? Or would she be home for Advent, as she hoped.…
Nay, she thought bitterly, she doubted she would be home even for Saint Stephen’s Day, for no word had yet come that her father had agreed to terms that would release her from her prison. Poor Nicholas. Even from her high tower, she had recognized the fury in his voice as he shouted for his men to mount, had watched in dismay as the gates were opened and they rode over the lowered wooden bridge in a clatter of hooves to disappear into the night.
Despair had briefly convulsed her, before she reasoned that of course there would be details to concede, terms to set and negotiations for an exchange. That Nicholas had come at all was heartening. So she strengthened her spirits with the self-made assurances that all would be well, that at least her father was considering rescuing her. It was more than she had expected.
And apparently, insufficient for the Scotsman.
His footfall was easily discerned as he approached her chamber, and as he swung open the door, his expression was unreadable. Rising to meet him, Catherine felt the familiar hammer of her heart, the tension in her stomach a hard knot as he ducked to enter the doorway.
He repeated no details of their meeting, only a dry recital of her brother’s request for a delay. Watching her, he added flatly, “You had best pray he does not play me false, my lady, for I am in no mood to haggle the finer points of a truce. Time runs swiftly, and my patience lags far behind.”
It did not seem the time to disagree, and she made no comment. After a short sizzling silence, he left, shutting the door behind him with a decisive snap.
But later, thinking on his veiled threat, she grew incensed. It was bad enough that she was being held hostage, a mere pawn in this struggle between two powerful men involved in their own schemes, but to be made to suffer terror and apprehension through no fault of her own added insult to the injury. Yea, he had best think again if he thought to cow her with vague threats of dreadful fates, for she was too near the breaking point to endure much more.
As if he sensed how close she was to rampant defiance, he did not come to her chamber again, leaving her to stew in her misery for an entire fortnight. Only Mairi came, her dour presence blessedly short as she confined herself to bringing meals or supervising the delivery of a tub and water for baths, often muttering what Catherine was sure were vile imprecations in Gaelic so she could not understand them. Other times, she would have preferred Mairi did not speak English, for the older woman was most provoking.
“Daft notion, tae sit in a bucket o’ hot water as if a hen in th’ soup pot,” the older woman muttered after Catherine first insisted on a bath. “Next ye’ll be demandin’ silks an’ satins in place o’ gude warm wool gowns.”
“Not as long as I must remain in this drafty hole,” Catherine retorted, and Mairi stomped away.
But the round wooden tub was brought up, and buckets of hot water were poured into it until she deemed it enough. A rather threadbare towel accompanied a small jar of soap, and Catherine placed them on a stool by the tub, then dismissed the gawky young servant who had lugged the heavy buckets of water up several flights of stairs.
“Thank you, Thomas.”
He scooped his bonnet from his head and flushed. “Tarn, milady,” he said in clumsy English. “Thomas wa’ me da’.”
“Excuse me. I misunderstood.” When he did not move to the door, she said, “I wish I had coin for you, but you must know I do not.”
A rather shy grin squared his mouth. “Och, ’tis no’ expected, milady. We are tae tak’ care o’ ye, his lordship said, an’ see tha’ ye ha’ all ye need.”
“Except my freedom of course.” She smiled when his grin broadened and he nodded.
“Aye, I darena think o’ th’ skelpin’ I wa’d get were I tae let ye escape.”
“Unless you have a rope ladder in your sherte, there is no fear of that. I am here at your master’s sufference, and will remain so until an agreement is reached. But it is not so bad, for I have books to read that pass the time.”
His gaze strayed to the tall stack of volumes atop the table. A thatch of unruly black hair covered his head and hung down his neck; his garments were patched in places, the gathered tunic around his waist threadbare, but his eyes were lively and bright, and intelligence shone in his features. “Me mam taught me some letters, but tha’ wa’ long ago. I can put down me name, but no’ much else.”
“If it is allowed, I would be glad to help you with your letters. Once learned, it is easy enough to read.”
Blue eyes gleamed at her brightly. “I wa’d laik tha’, I wa’d, milady. Shall I ask?”
“It would be best. And now, perhaps I should make good use of this water before it cools.”
His gaze flicked to the water, then to her bare feet, and his pale cheeks reddened again as he backed toward the door. “If ye need more, send for me an’ I will bring it tae ye.”
“I will, Tarn.”
When he had gone, Catherine moved the table in front of the door, a flimsy barrier, but enough to give her time to cover herself should someone come. Quickly, she removed the rough wool dress and leather girdle, and stepped into the tub. The heat of the water against her legs was luxurious, and she slid down as far as possible in the rather shallow bath. Hot water rose to barely cover the tips of her breasts, flushing her pale skin a deep rose. Her legs were bent at the knees, ivory islands thrust up from the water and gleaming in the light of fire and candles. Tilting back her head, she rested it against the edge of the tub and reached for the soap.
Though it did not lather well, it was fragrant, spiced with musky scents that were more masculine than feminine. Yet it was deliciously sumptuous, a banquet for the senses, a lavish delight as she soaped her arms, then her legs. She wiggled her toes, then scrubbed between them.
Sighing, she sank lower in the tub, bending her knees more so that she could wet her hair. It floated around her in dark tendrils, tickling her face and
breasts, absorbing the water until it grew heavy. Now the water covered her ears, and she could hear the pulsing flow of blood as her heart beat, pushing through her veins in a rhythmic melody, a mysteriously soothing sound. The wash of warm water on her bare skin, the spicy scent of the soap, the beat of her heart, had a curious effect on her. Her body felt suddenly weighted, alien to her, oddly vulnerable and powerful at the same time. Slowly, as if drawn by invisible cords, her hands moved to touch herself, to slide her fingers over the wet warm flesh of her breasts, stomach, and thighs. The pulse of life beat stronger now, pooling between her legs with a searing excitement that made her breath come faster. She pressed her thighs tightly together to stem the surge of sensation, but it only made it worse.
Flushed with distress, she curled her fingers into fists atop her thighs. Sinful, to caress herself there, to even acknowledge that sensitive, unfamiliar part of her body— she had been taught to ignore any strange urgings she may have, to pray for forgiveness should she accidentally and unwillingly touch the part of her that God had declared sacred. Yet if it was sacred, why did her mother allow her father to violate that sacrosanct part of her body? Was it sacred only until marriage? Those were questions that had earned her sharp rebukes and severe punishments when she was younger, and had never been answered to her satisfaction.
But was it a sin? Was it so wicked?
Softly, with her eyes half-closed, Catherine scrubbed her palms over her thighs, then back up over her belly to her breasts. Her nipples were hard like small pebbles from the river, puckered against the cool air. She covered them with her hands, feeling wicked and carnal, yet unable to stop. The peculiar throbbing was between her legs again; it reminded her of the way she had felt when Alex Fraser had kissed her, and again when she was forced to disrobe for him. She pressed her thighs more tightly together, but that only intensified the aching pulse. Tentatively, she raked her palms over her nipples, and was startled by the piercing tremor that rippled through the center of her. The ache grew sharp, contracting the muscles of her stomach and igniting a fire between her legs, and she sat up with a jerk, her breath coming in harsh little gasps for air as she grabbed at the sides of the tub.
She felt so flushed, her entire body aflame with quivering sensation and shame. What was the matter with her? Never had she done such a thing, the strictures she had been taught so deeply ingrained that it had not occurred to her to flout them. Yet now, here, with thoughts of the gray-eyed Scot in her mind, she had touched herself in impure ways. It was said that Scotland was a heathen land, and she was certain it was true. A heathen land with a heathen host, and she was falling prey to its influence.
Shaking, her hair a heavy wet cloak dripping down her back, molded to her spine, she stepped from the tub and reached for the towel. Her hands were trembling as she wrapped it around her. Puddles of water pooled on the stones at her feet, spreading wider when she did not move.
Finally, slowly, she let the towel fall to the floor and reached for the clean gown Mairi had brought her. It was warm and dry, rough against her skin, eliciting more strange shudders as it rubbed over her sensitive nipples. The wool clung to her wet skin in damp patches, made worse by the dripping weight of her hair. She clubbed her hair into a single thick strand and twisted it to wring out the water, then pushed it over her shoulder to dangle down her back. Her movements were clumsy as she pulled the leather girdle around her ribs, fingers fumbling with the laces that tied it beneath her breasts. This gown was bigger, the scooped neck lower, and she adjusted it by tucking extra material beneath the girdle, bunching it so it would hold.
Then she used the cooling bathwater to wash the other gown, dunking it into the sudsy water and scrubbing it vigorously against the sides of the tub to dislodge dirt and any small creatures that may have taken up residence. She thought of the fuller’s earth her mother used, and the sweet-scented soap and preparations for cleaning garments. All that she had taken for granted, never dreaming that one day she would wish for just such drudgery. How amused her mother would be to hear it.
She was draping the wet gown over a chair before the fire when she heard the scrape of boots in the corridor outside the chamber and looked up, her heartbeat quickening. The key was in the lock and the door was opening before she could move the table, and with a sudden push, it toppled over in a resounding crash.
Alex Fraser filled the doorway, scowling at her. “Do you think a puny table could keep me out, milady?”
Calmly, she said, “It was not meant to keep you out, but to give me warning should I have an unexpected audience for my bath.”
His gaze shifted to the puddles of water on the floor and the wooden tub, and his taut stance relaxed. He stepped into the chamber and closed the door behind him, seeming to fill the room with his presence. His black hair was tousled as if by the wind, and he smelled fresh and clean. A cloak was slung over his shoulders, reaching to his boot tops in the back and open in the front. He wore trews and a white sherte, and a padded leather vest that was belted around his middle. She glimpsed a sword hilt at his side.
“Your father sent news,” he said abruptly, and her gaze shifted to his face. He was staring at her through slightly narrowed eyes. “His envoy is delayed and will be here in a fortnight to conduct negotiations.”
“Then he has agreed to your terms?”
“He has agreed to nothing. He thinks to play me like a harp, delaying as long as possible.”
She shifted from one bare foot to the other. Her wet hair hung heavily against her back, dampening the wool gown beneath it. She shivered a little as a cool draft chilled skin still damp from her bath, and turned her back to the fire for warmth and to dry her hair. The smell of wet wool rose around her, vying with the musky fragrance of the soap she had used.
Alex’s gaze dropped, and a shadow darkened his face and eyes, his lashes lowering slightly as he stared at her. Her throat tightened. She stifled the impulse to cross her arms over her chest as his gaze rested on her breasts. There was a heated intensity to his scrutiny that puckered her nipples and left her feeling flushed and strangely weak. Mortified by her body’s involuntary reaction, she reached up to bring her hair forward as if to comb her fingers through it, using the long strands to cover herself. The hair was cold and damp against skin left bare by the scooped neck of her gown, wetting the wool bodice where she draped it over her breasts to conceal her reaction to him.
His faint smile told her he was aware of her ploy, but the heat in his eyes did not lessen. Softly, his voice a husky murmur, he said, “Are you aware that the fire behind you outlines your body perfectly through that thin wool gown, milady?”
She stared at him, her fingers stilling in her hair. “No.” Her denial came out in a throaty whisper, forced from her lips only by great strength of will. She could not move, could not speak, could only watch with thrumming nerves and pounding heart as he moved toward her.
“’Tis true.” His voice was still so soft, languorous and heavy, a soothing purr like that of a great cat. “Yet I have seen your sweet form before, and ’tis not a sight to be soon forgotten.”
Firelight danced over him in flickering patterns of red and gold, its reflection glittering in his eyes and turning them to molten silver, then glancing off his belt buckle and the cloak pin on his shoulder. Her limbs felt weighted and unable to move; her hands were still trapped in her hair. Gently, he untangled her fingers from the silky strands that snapped with static life of their own, and he lowered her arms to her sides. Her world was a mass of contradictions, vying sensations, with the heat of the fire behind her, her wet gown cold against her skin, and the damp weight of her hair brushing over her breasts. She did not struggle, did not protest as he touched her cheek, traced her quivering lips with his finger, curved his hand down over her throat to tilt back her head.
Dimly, she knew she should protest. This was the enemy, a man who did not respect her past or her present, who used her only for his own gain. But what else had she known in her life
? She was a pawn, born into a world where she was of use only ais a device to gain more wealth, more lands, more power. If she was returned to Warfield, she would be bartered to Ronald of Bothwick in exchange for greater lands, greater influence—her wishes discarded as only the naive tantrum of a child.
But if she gave herself to this Scot, there would be no marriage with Bothwick, and no profit for her father. Yet the earl delayed negotiations, stalling for time with no thought of his daughter, what she might be suffering, what she might fear. It was the final proof that she meant nothing to him. She was only a tool.
Warm lips pressed against the curve of her throat, the smooth underside of her chin, then against the single tear that traced her cheek. His breath was heated, but soft against her skin, and she closed her eyes in surrender. What had she left to lose?
His head lifted and his hand wound into the length of her hair to gently hold her still as his other hand began a teasing journey. Strong fingers curled into the edge of her bodice, pulling it down to free her breasts, their weight uplifted by the leather girdle beneath them. A thumb raked across her beaded nipple and she shuddered. It was so different from earlier, from her own timid explorations and from the flat of palms so much softer than his callused hand. And the sensations he elicited were stronger, sharper, more vivid as he rolled the taut bud between his thumb and finger.
Her entire body was quivering, the throbbing ache between her legs a steady pulse that was mystifying and urgent. Her sensations were heightened, so that she felt the brush of the wool gown against the back of her thighs, the heat of the fire, the weight of her hair, and the tantalizing brush of his hands against her breasts, all at once. She wanted to open her eyes but did not dare, afraid that she would see her own wickedness reflected in his gaze.
Then her eyes flew open and her back arched with shock as he took her nipple into his mouth. He suckled first one, then the other, his mouth wet and hot, lips tugging on her with strong motions that summoned the most exquisite pain between her thighs. Her eyes shut tightly again. Her entire body was as taut as a strung bow; she felt as if the least pressure would make her snap.
The Scotsman Page 10