“Christ … there has been no word from your father or your brother. The terms of my offer were simple—you in exchange for my brother and de Brus. No effort has been made to satisfy these terms, or even alter them….”
His voice trailed into silence, and she shook her head in confusion. “I know all this … why are you now disturbed?”
Coiling his lean body, he surged up from the bed, standing over it to stare down at her darkly. Conflicting emotions were evident on his face, chasing across features drawn tight with unspoken words. He raked a hand through his hair, and his tone was taut with frustration.
“Catkin, there are some things you do not know, that you might take amiss were you to—”
A sudden pounding on the door rattled it on the hinges, and the latch clanked as it swung slowly open. Before it had moved inward more than a small bit, Alex moved with swift agility to grab a wicked dagger from his boot on the floor. It was long and gleaming and sharp, reflecting light from the fire in glittering sparks as he stood poised in aggressive menace.
But it was no intruder who stood in the doorway. Mairi paused as if frozen, staring at Alex and then Catherine as color flooded her face. There was an awkward silence, then she began to speak in harsh Gaelic, gesturing toward the bed with wild motions that Alex curbed with a few sharp words. Tension and resentment vibrated in the air with chilling transparency. After a moment, the elderly maidservant snapped a few more words, then swung about and shut the door behind her with an echoing slam.
Alex turned to Catherine, and there was a grim set to his mouth. “It seems that your brother has arrived with an offer for your release, milady. Clothe yourself, and I will send you an escort to the hall so you may greet him.”
13
Nicholas waited impatiently by the fire, slapping his leather gloves against his bare palm loudly. It was a devilish night, with cold rain and a wind strong enough to peel hair off a dog, and now that he was here, he did not want to be kept waiting. Where the devil was Fraser? He wanted to see him, not this glowering Scot with the face like a crumpled rag who had obviously been sent to guard him.
“Where is Fraser?” he demanded when the silence stretched too long.
The Scot’s light brows lifted, and his shoulders moved in a careless shrug. “When he is no’ busy, he will be doon tae see ye.”
“If he values his brother as he says, he will make time to see me quick enough.”
The Scot pushed away from the wall where he had been leaning and stepped forward, bristling with ill-concealed hatred. “Ye hae taken yer own sweet time aboot comin’, so I wa’d no’ be so quick tae make demands, Lord Devlin.”
Nicholas eyed him with growing irritation. “I came as quickly as I could wrest an agreement from the earl, and I will not listen to censure from a Scots rogue about it.”
It certainly did not help to know, that the Scot had a valid point. The deadline was long past for an agreement, and even now, the offer he brought fell far short of what Alex Fraser demanded. Desperation alone bade him make the offer, but he knew with a sickening feeling of doom that he would be refused. Yet ’twas all he had, and he did not dare delay any longer before meeting with Fraser again. Already, he feared he was too late.
Laughing softly, the Scot let one hand fall to rest upon the hilt of a sword dangling from his belt. “Ye hae no’ much choice aboot wha’ ye will listen tae, milord. Ye are in Scotland now, and ’tis no’ yer place tae be giving orders.”
Because he was right, and because it was galling to admit it even to himself, Nicholas clenched his teeth tight to keep from spitting out the harsh words on the tip of his tongue. Curse them all, these ragtag Scots with cheerless stone fortresses and mighty swords—he would like to see them all slain upon the battlefield, ending the blight that scoured England from east to west and left her vulnerable to foreign enemies. But he had not come here to engage in verbal battle with this man. He wanted Alex Fraser, and more than that—Catherine.
Silence fell in the antechamber off the great hall where they stood, only the popping of logs in the fire breaking the tense stillness. Nicholas stared at the insolent Scot with mute fury.
Finally he heard someone approaching the open door, and flicked his gaze from his guard to the opening. Fraser strode into the antechamber and said something to the Scot in Gaelic. The rough-looking guard grinned and nodded, then gave Nicholas a last glance before he left.
“Charming company,” Nicholas drawled, watching Fraser closely as he came toward him. “We had a lovely chat while I waited on you.”
Fraser’s dark brow rose, and a faint smile curved his mouth as he moved to a table bearing a pitcher and cups. “Robbie is loyal and fierce. A true Scots patriot.”
“I gathered that. He looks capable enough of slitting throats in the night.”
“He is quite adept at that, as long as they are English throats bared to his blade. Wine?” Fraser held out a brimming cup, and though he wanted to refuse, Nicholas took it to give himself time to assess the man’s temper. Fraser lifted a cup to his lips, staring at him over the rim. “It is safe enough to drink, my lord Devlin, should you fear poison.”
Nicholas shrugged. “I do not fear such treachery from you as long as we still hold your brother.”
“Ah. So we dispense with the formalities and courtesies already. I approve, for I am a man who likes to come quickly to the point … what of my brother?”
“He is well. I bring you word from him.”
“It is not words that I require, Lord Devlin.”
Damn this insolent Scot, who stared at him as if he were the lowest churl … it made him suddenly aware of the mud streaking his boots and mantle and ruining the white surcoat he wore beneath. Fraser looked as immaculate as if he had just risen from a bath, garbed in a gilt-trimmed soutane with a long-sleeved sherte of fine linen beneath, and an intricately wrought gold girdle circling his hips, bearing a dagger sheath studded with jewels. His eyes narrowed slightly. The Frasers had held a title once, until King Edward I revoked it for treason—but this presumptuous Scot behaved as if he still had more than the lower rank of landed knight.
Stiffly, Nicholas said, “I have not yet seen for myself that my sister is alive and well. Do you expect more?”
“Yea, but ’tis plain that I am not dealing with men of honor, or my demands would have been answered in the time I allotted to you.”
A chagrined flush heated his face as Nicholas returned the Scot’s stare. “You were sent word of the reason for the delay.”
“That was not enough.” Fraser set his empty wine cup down on the table and moved to stand by the fire, propping a booted foot on the stone hearth. “You were given a fortnight to reply, and it has been thrice that.”
Smarting from the truth and the choking feeling of impotence the earl’s callous indifference for Catherine’s return had caused him, Nicholas could not reply for a moment. Fraser would not like what he had to tell him, and he was determined to delay that moment as long as possible. He moved to set down his gloves and his full cup on the table, then turned to face his sister’s captor.
“I am at your mercy, Sir Alex. There have been circumstances beyond my control, or I would have been here much sooner. As dear as your brother is to you, so is my sister dear to me. May I see her before we continue our negotiations?”
Something flickered in Fraser’s eyes, but he nodded curtly. “Aye. I sent Robbie for her, and you will be able to see for yourself that she is alive and unharmed. Will I have the same assurance about Jamie?”
Nicholas drew in a deep breath. “I have brought you proof that he is alive and as well as can be expected.”
Fraser’s face changed, his features sharpening. “If he has been harmed—”
“I swear to you on my honor as a knight that he is alive, though hating his prison. I saw to his care myself, and he and de Brus are being fed well, with warm garments to ward off the cold.” He slid a hand beneath the edge of his surcoat and drew out a small leather
pouch. Weighing it in his palm, he studied Fraser for a long moment. Then he held out his hand, allowing the pouch to dangle by cords from his fingers. “This was hard-won. Your brother may be young, but his will is strong and he is slow to trust. He cost me days of delay.”
As the pouch came to rest in Fraser’s outstretched palm, he looked steadily at Nicholas. “This had best not be in lieu of Jamie’s return.”
Nicholas did not respond. There was no good answer he could make to satisfy Alex Fraser, nor even himself. So he stood quietly while the pouch was opened and the Scot examined the contents. He should have drunk the wine. It would ease this sudden inkling of disaster, the impending doom he felt looming ahead.
“Nicholas?”
The soft, familiar voice jerked his head around and he swung about to see Catherine in the doorway, her face wreathed with joy as she came toward him. He caught her up in his embrace, arms around her slender body as he buried his face in her unbound hair. She smelled of lavender. “Ah, sweet kitten … I thought never, to see you again.”
“Nor I you.” Hot tears wet his neck above the edge of his mantle. “Oh, Nicky … I have missed you so!”
When he set her back on her feet, she clung to the loose edges of his mantle, her hands curled into the fabric with fierce tenacity. He held her close to him, and cupped a hand beneath her chin to lift her face so that he might see her better.
“Are you well, kitten? Unharmed?”
Color stained her cheeks a bright pink that contrasted with the misty violet of her eyes, and she lowered her lashes demurely and nodded. “Yea, Nicky, I am most well.”
“Good.” He held her a moment, then put her at arm’s length, still clasping her hand. She was garbed in rough clothing, a yellow wool gown with a tan leather girdle tied under her breasts. The gown was short, revealing delicate ankles clad in thick hose, and shapeless slippers on her feet. Amused by the vast difference in her usual apparel, he looked up. “You look like a milk maid in that ugly garment. Have you learned to make butter since you have been here?”
He had meant it as a teasing jest to lighten the moment and ease the mood, but she shook her head. “Nay. I already knew how to make butter, and cheese, and all the other wifely tasks that I have been taught since I was still in leading strings. I have been allowed to read here … as much as I like. It has been most rewarding.”
Nicholas frowned. There was a subtle difference to her now, something he could not quite determine. She had always been his little sister, someone he must protect and love and cherish. Yet now she seemed almost self-assured. Mature. Or had she always been this way and he had not noticed? It was disconcerting to think she had changed in only two months, but perhaps living in constant terror would cause such a difference. He glanced at Fraser, who stared back at him.
“May I speak to my sister privately, Sir Alex?”
Fraser’s eyes narrowed. “This is a private chamber, my lord Devlin. Speak as you will.”
“Do you think I will spirit her away from under your nose? I have no weapons. Even if I did, my men and I are shut up in your keep. What can I do but talk?”
“Yea, you do that readily enough.” Fraser’s glance slid toward Catherine and lingered, and she colored prettily under his gaze. A faint smile touched the corners of his mouth, and when the Scot looked back at him, Nicholas was suddenly confronted with a new suspicion. His heart began to thump furiously in his chest, so that he barely heard Fraser say, “While I read the message my brother sent I will leave you to yourselves in this chamber. Guards are posted at the door. You do not have long.”
Focusing on Catherine, Nicholas waited until the Scot departed and closed the door behind him, then moved toward her. She looked up at him, a quick slide of her eyes in his direction before she looked away, and the suspicion became awful certainty. He grabbed her by the wrists, fingers digging into the tendons until she gasped in surprise.
“Nicky—what are you doing?”
“Tell me what has happened to you, Catherine.” He didn’t mean to sound so rough and angry, but his voice came out all wrong. “I asked if you had been harmed … tell me the truth of it.”
“I have not been harmed.” She twisted futilely in his tight hold. “Free me or I will scream.”
“Will you? Does that mean the Scots bastard will come to your rescue? Would you set him against me?”
She looked miserable and turned her face away. “No.”
“Then for the love of Christ, tell me the truth—has he touched you?” Silence fell, and Nicholas groaned. “O Lord have mercy … sweet kitten … say he has not hurt you.”
Tears spangled her lashes, but her chin was lifted and she said with quiet dignity, “He did not hurt me, Nicholas. It was nothing like that. He was gentle—”
Releasing her hands with a shove, Nicholas turned away and pressed his face into his palms. He breathed in leather and bitter hatred, resentment rising hot and high in him as he struggled with this knowledge. Damn the Scot—he had sworn he would not despoil her—but he had also given warning of what would happen if his terms were not met. A feeling of nausea rose in his throat, and he could not look up at her, could not bear to see her and know that the Scot had put his filthy hands on her soft white skin.…
“Nicky?” She put a hand on his shoulder and he jerked away.
“Christ, Catherine. You could at least have had the decency to make him take what you so willingly gave.”
“Damn you!” His head snapped up and he stared at her with narrowed eyes as she railed at him, using some of the phrases he had taught her long ago to amuse himself, French curses that still had the power to sting.
When she was through, glaring at him with wet angry eyes and flushed cheeks, he shrugged. “You have not forgot them, I see, but I vow I never thought you would use them against me.”
“I use them where I see fit. How dare you suggest that it would be better for me to be raped than to yield!”
“Kitten—”
“Nay, do not pretend you did not say it, for I heard you most plainly. You may not like it, but he did not force me to do anything I did not want to do. Yea, you may well look shocked. But did it ever occur to you that I may have my own free will? My own choices? And do not think this the naive tantrum of a child, for what I did, I did for a reason.” Her voice was quivering, but indignation lit her eyes. “I am not a child nor a fool. I am fully aware of the consequences of my actions, and I embrace them.”
“Do you?” Nicholas’s voice was tight. “Perhaps you have misjudged what the consequences will be. Do you think our father will allow this matter to be forgotten?”
“Nay, but I have not forgotten David of Linwood, though you may well have done so.”
Baffled by her tirade and the astonishing depth of her pent-up emotions, Nicholas shook his head. “I have not forgotten David of Lin wood, nor what happened to him. How does this affect us now?”
Catherine moved to the table and poured wine in a cup, then turned back to face him, her voice steady though her hand trembled. “David did naught but kiss my cheek, and was near beat to death for it. Since then, I have not dared to glance at another young man for fear of the same or worse happening again. And always, Papa reminded me how I have been a burden to him, how he cannot make an advantageous marriage when I am so rebellious a maid—he cares nothing for what I think or feel, only how much land or power I will bring to him.” She lifted the cup, her eyes bright as she looked at him over the rim. “But now the precious barrier he protected so fiercely for his own gain has been yielded, and to a man he cannot intimidate.”
“Aye, perhaps so, but he can have Fraser’s young brother flayed alive, and there will be no family to protest the deed as Linwood had. Ah, I see that you had not thought of that. Christ above, Catherine, I have been turning myself inside out these past weeks trying to placate our father as well as Alex Fraser, and in one mindless act, you have managed to destroy us all.” His laugh sounded hollow and hopeless, as indeed he fel
t at this moment. Shaking his head, he moved to brace his arms against the mantel over the fire, staring into the flames.
After a moment, he felt her come up behind him. She touched him lightly on the shoulder, but he only shook his head, sick with anger and grief. “Why, kitten? Why?”
“Nicholas … I cannot explain it when I am uncertain of all my reasons, but I can tell you this—he is not as I had feared. There is a kindness to him that—”
“Kindness!” The word was torn from him and he swung about, incredulous at how quickly Alex Fraser had managed to convert her from what she had known all her life to his own distorted convictions. “Christ have mercy, I suppose now you will tell me that Scotland should be independent and Fraser should be king.”
Her mouth set into a mutinous line that he recognized and he just stared at her. There was nothing he could say that would change what had happened, and despite her naive foolishness, he still had to protect her. But how? It would not be easy.
“Nicholas,” she said with a sigh, “I do not know how it happened or why, but I do know I feel a great attachment to Alex Fraser.”
“Kitten, you fancy yourself in love with him because he is the first man to bed you.” His bluntness widened her eyes but he pressed on. “It is common for a maid to feel the same about any man who takes her maidenhead, but especially a man who is gentle with her. Once you are away from him, you will see that I am right.”
“Have you come to take me back to Warfield?”
He wanted to say yes; he wanted to take her with him and leave this accursed pile of stones before cock crow, but knew there was no likelihood of that. It was galling that her face reflected dismay at the thought.
Clasping his hands behind his back, he stared down at his sister and wondered if he’d ever really known her. He had thought so. Now she was alien to him, with her stubborn little chin slightly tilted, and the mutiny in her eyes a bright gleam.
“If I said I had come to take you with me, what would you say, kitten? Would you be glad?”
The Scotsman Page 17