by Lily Baldwin
Catarina smiled gratefully and once more dipped into a low curtsy, choosing still to remain silent.
When they had stepped out into the courtyard, Catarina shielded her eyes against the bright sunshine. Quinn held her hand, and she listened while Hamish pointed out various sights as they walked through the meandering village pathways before stopping in front of a small cottage.
“This used to be ol’ Dunner’s home, a widower without children. He was a good man, hardworking. Passed away over the winter, he did.” Hamish opened the door and motioned for Quinn to enter. “It should be clean. I’ll send along a lad with supplies and food.”
“What do ye think?” Quinn asked after Hamish quitted the cottage, leaving the door open to provide them with light.
“It is a hovel,” Catarina said.
Quinn’s smiled faltered, but she laughed and grabbed his hands. “The most beautiful hovel I have ever seen. Look,” she said, pointing overhead. “It even has a roof.”
Quinn laughed and watched while she roamed the small room. Her fingers grazed the stones, dragging across the wall until she reached the window. Tying back the hide curtain, she peered outside. “I will not lie. I would prefer a warm bath and a four poster bed with down pillows and silk sheets, but this is most welcome.”
Quinn cleared his throat. “Well now, I can’t promise ye a warm bath, but a cold bath—that I am confident I can make happen.”
She cocked a wry brow at him. “Let me guess, you will lead me to some village bathing hole where I am required to share a chunk of soap and dry off out in the open for all to see.”
Quinn leaned his shoulder against the wall. “I had a more private affair in mind, yer own chunk of soap not to mention a warm plaid to wrap up in. But yer hair will have to dry unbound for only me to see.”
Her olive cheeks turned pink, the instant before she looked back out the window. “My hair?” she said. “I did not know you were curious about my hair.”
He drew a slow, deep breath while he continued to study her. His eyes journeyed from her bound hair, over her slim shoulders and gentle curves. Her shape was full and womanly. And despite her humble clothing and meager surroundings, her stance was as regal as a queen’s.
“There is nothing about ye that doesn’t pique my curiosity,” he said softly. “Do ye know what I am also curious about?”
She turned away from the window, meeting his gaze. “What is that?”
He closed the distance between them and took hold of her hand. His thumb grazed her smooth, flawless palm. “How we are going to pass ye off as Katie?”
Her hands flew to grip her head, and she groaned. “Saints above, but you are right. I am Katie. Quinn, what am I to do? You have been made quite aware of my talents. I will never pass for a common lass.”
“Ye can sew.”
“Tapestries, needlework. I am not a seamstress.”
“No matter. Ye’ve grown quite apt at building fires and making oatcakes. Yer lack of skills is not at the center of my concern. ‘Tis yer bearing, the tilt of yer head, how ye walk.” He reached again for her pampered hand. “Yer soft skin.”
Her lips parted, drawing his gaze. More than anything, he longed to taste those lips again. His eyes moved higher to her neck where her pulse visibly raced. He drew closer. Her breath caught when the back of his fingertips grazed both cheeks.
“Quinn,” she breathed, closing her eyes.
He wrapped his arm around her waist and pressed her flush against him. A soft moan fled her parted lips. His hand closed around the back of her neck.
“Yes,” she whispered.
His other hand tightened around her waist. He could feel her racing heart. His own beat to the same erratic rhythm. Slowly, so slowly, he lowered his lips until they grazed hers. She trembled in his arms.
“Please, Quinn,” she breathed.
He cupped her cheeks and—
A knock sounded at the door.
“Damn it,” he cursed.
Her eyes flew open, and she jerked away.
“Come in,” Quinn bit out.
A lad of around twelve summers entered, carrying a large basket made of sea grass. “Good morrow,” he said, smiling. His hair was so light a blond, it almost appeared white, and his bright green eyes widened when they settled on Catarina.
“Good morrow,” Catarina mumbled, her eyes trained on the ground.
“We appreciate the laird’s generosity,” Quinn said. “Please give him our thanks.”
Still staring at Catarina with unconcealed admiration, the lad said, “Ye can do so yerself. He’s expecting ye in the great hall. Yer to join the hunting party.”
Catarina looked up then and met his gaze. Her eyes were a mirror of his own unfulfilled longing. Quinn cleared his throat. “I’ve no wish to leave my wife on her first day in a new place.”
The boy shrugged. “Suit yerself, but ye don’t say no to the laird.”
Quinn expelled a long breath. Then he turned to the lad. “Can a bath be brought here for Katie.”
The lad nodded. “That is easy enough.” Then he turned to Catarina. ‘Do not fash yerself, Katie. Yer man will be home before sunrise tomorrow.”
“That long?” Catarina said, unable to hide her surprise.
Quinn crossed to her side and took her hands in his. “Have a bath and rest. I will be back before too long. I promise ye.”
She stepped closer, a mischievous smile curved her lips. Rising up on her toes, she pressed a kiss to his lips. “I trust your word…husband.”
Chapter Sixteen
Catarina’s eyes opened. She felt Quinn’s arms around her. Sometime during the night, he must have returned and crawled beneath the covers with her. She smiled and snuggled close to his warmth.
“Katie,” she heard someone whisper from outside. She sat up with a start.
“Quinn,” she whispered, shaking him awake. “Someone is outside.”
Eyes still glazed with sleep, Quinn jumped to his feet and grabbed his sword just as someone rapped softly on their door.
Quinn crossed the room, wearing naught but his black hose. Catarina eyed his strong back and shifting thigh muscles through the fitted fabric before Quinn swung the door wide. Still, stars dotted the sky, but despite the early hour, several women peered inside.
One woman with plump, rosy cheeks and chestnut hair stepped forward. “Good morrow, my name is Mary, and this is Ruth,” she said, motioning to the woman standing just behind her. Ruth’s red hair was pulled tightly back away from her sharp features. “We are here to fetch Katie,” she said. Both women appeared to have as many as five and thirty years to their credit. Behind them, Catarina glimpsed at least two more women who appeared closer to her own age.
Quinn turned. “’Tis time to wake,” he said, smiling. He reached down to help her stand.
“What is happening?” Catarina whispered.
He smiled. “Do ye remember how I told ye that they celebrate St. John’s Eve mixing the old and the new?”
She nodded.
“I believe ye’re going to have yerself a wee taste of the old.”
Her eyes widened. “What does that mean?”
He winked. “Ye’ll see.”
“That ye will, lassie,” Mary said, swinging her wide hips into the cottage. “Now, let’s get ye dressed. We’ve little time.”
Catarina was accustomed to having servants dress her, but nothing could have prepared her for the whirlwind of Highland women that suddenly surrounded her. Mary’s daughter, Aileen, whose eyes danced as brightly as her mother’s, hugged her in greeting, and Daracha, who appeared to be the youngest of the group, started singing a cheerful tune while helping to pull the tunic over Catarina’s head. Before, she knew what was happening, she was humming along with the other woman and laughing with ease. After first one foot and then the other sunk into her worn slippers, they barreled out of Catarina’s beautiful hovel in a chatty cluster. Mary hooked arms with her, saying, “I wouldn’t be kicking the likes
of yer husband from my bed, if ye ken my meaning.”
Ruth laughed. “She’s not daft. Of course she kens yer meaning.” But then the smile dropped away from her face, and she bristled her shoulders. “Alright, lassies, we’ve had our fun, but let us not forget ‘tis St. John’s Eve.” With a stern gesture, Ruth shooed them forward. “Enough nonsense. There’s too much to be done.”
Mist clung to the winding paths and over the sloping hills beyond the outskirts of the village. The sky blushed pink as the new morning began to stake it’s claim over the night, and yet stars still shone high in the sky.
“What are we doing?” Catarina whispered to Mary as they approached a circle of tall, slim stones.
“Och, what a Sassenach ye are,” Mary laughed. “Do ye not ken we are blessing the eve?”
Catarina resisted saying that she did not ‘ken’ how to bless any day, eve or otherwise.
Catarina stiffened in surprise when suddenly Mary pulled a sheer surcote over Catarina’s head, leaving the thin material to billow around her in the slight breeze. As she stood there marveling at her strange surroundings, other ladies joined them in the circle, all clad in the same thin garment but also with flowered crowns on their heads. They flitted about, greeting each other, shimmering in gauzy white like ghostly spirits.
“I made ye one myself, knowing ye might not have one of yer own,” Mary said, producing a crown of wild flowers.
Catarina smiled, admiring the colorful weave. She thought of the ornate headdresses she used to love to wear on special occasions, made of stiffen silk, topped with polished rings of gold, and fitted with gems of every color, and then she looked around, considering the ethereal beauty of the stone circle, the distant purple mountains, and the sky above streaked rose from the rising sun. She decided the crown of wild flowers in her hand was as beautiful as any other she had worn. Smiling, she placed it on her head.
Mary laughed. “Nay, love. First, ye must let down yer hair.”
Catarina faltered. Already her hair was uncovered—something she was growing accustomed to—but truth be known, it still made her uncomfortable, especially amid the Highland men. She shook her head. “Forgive me, but I cannot.”
“Of course ye can,” Mary said, reaching for Catarina’s neatly quaffed hair.
Catarina stepped out of reach, touching hair. It still felt damp from her chilly bath the day before. She and Mary had gained the other ladies’ attention.
“What is it, lass?” Ruth asked.
Catarina felt relieved meeting Ruth’s sensible gaze. In fact, Ruth’s hair was still neatly tied back. But as she looked at Catarina with her sharp, questioning eyes, her hands reached behind her own head. Hair pins came out, one, two, and three—all going into her tunic pocket, and then she reached her hand back and uncoiled the reddest hair Catarina has ever seen. It shone so extravagantly it almost looked like a mistake—how could sensible Ruth have such flashy colored hair.
“Are ye going to answer me, lass?” Ruth said.
Catarina nodded and reached toward her own bun protectively. “I do not care to let down my hair.”
She clucked disapprovingly. “I’ve allowed ye yer lowlander quirks, but here is where I draw the line. Ye’re a married woman among us,” she said, taking an exasperated tone.
Catarina lifted her shoulders. “I do not understand.”
Ruth’s face started to turn as red as her hair. “We’ve the sacred role of giving birth to the sun,” she said.
As if Catarina was supposed to have guessed that. She stood her ground. “I would rather not.”
But Ruth also stood her ground and with her greater height and build—she stood higher and stronger. “Let me put it to ye like this. Either ye take it down or I do. Ye choose.”
Catarina pressed her lips tight, swallowing a curt reply. How she missed being the one to give orders. “Fine,” she snapped. She unraveled her black bun, her hair cascading in waves passed her waist.
A slow smile spread across Ruth’s face until she was nigh beaming at Catarina. “I never would’ve believed that ye could be bonnier still, yet there ye are as beautiful as the blessed mother herself.” Her smiled quickly faded, replaced by a stern set to her lips, although Catarina had a harder time believing her seriousness beneath all that lavish red hair. Ruth motioned to the flowers in Catarina’s hand. “Put the crown on lass and come along. The hour has come.”
The ladies joined hands, closed their eyes, and began a quiet chant in Gaelic. Catarina scanned the circle in awe, admiring the beauty of the women and their fervent words, but when her gaze passed Ruth, she stiffened. Ruth did not have her eyes closed like the other women. Instead, she was watching Catarina with an unmistakably expectant expression pinching her sharp features. With her next breath, Catarina attempted to repeat the challenging words and earned a smile from Ruth for her effort. When her tongue mastered the chant, her own eyes closed as if of their own accord, and soon, she was swept away on wings of Highland magic, sashaying and spinning, her heart pounding and her mind free. Her bare feet danced upon the warm summer earth as something wild emerged from her soul. And then suddenly the world beyond the circle erupted with whoops and calls, and men raced among them, grabbing their wives. Laughing she scanned the men, searching for black hair and even blacker eyes. Then she found him. He stood as if frozen in place, not speaking or smiling, only staring.
“What’s the matter with ye,” Mary laughed, patting Quinn on the back. “Ye look like ye’ve never seen yer wife before.”
Quinn said nothing in reply, and his eyes never wavered. Catarina shifted on her feet, knowing that everyone was now staring at her. She swallowed hard at the intensity she glimpsed in Quinn’s black eyes. And then he started toward her, his brow furrowed, his hands clenched. Her knees felt weak as he reached out and pulled her hard against him, digging his fingers through her unbound hair. His lips descended upon hers, and she wrapped her arms around his neck. His tongue delved between her lips, coaxing hot flames to spread throughout her whole body. Their marriage may have been a pretense, but the feelings he stirred within her soul could not have been more real. His lips tore away, forcing her eyes to open.
“I’ll not apologize for kissing ye,” he whispered.
She pressed closer still. “I will not ask for one.”
Her heart pounded in her ears as she prayed for him to do it again. Her heart soared when he slowly lowered his lips to hers. This time his kiss was soft, his lips barely grazing hers. It was a whisper, the barest of caresses. Her lips trembled beneath the breathless touch. Through a haze of longing, she heard their company calling out cheers to them.
She gripped his arms. “Please stop,” she whispered. “Whatever you are doing to me, I do not want to share with everyone else.”
He pulled back slightly and cupped her cheek. “I would share ye with no one, but this is not over.”
He cleared his throat and pasted a smile on his face as he acknowledged the continued celebration of the clan. Then he turned to Ruth. “Should we not return to the village and get preparations underway.”
The reminder of duty made Ruth visibly bristle. “Come along, the lot of ye,” she called before charging between two tall stones, her husband making a show of jogging to keep up. Catarina laughed at his antics, then turned back around, seeking Quinn’s warm arms. But before she could reach him, Mary swept past Catarina, grabbing her hand. “Come on, Katie. Ye can help me.”
Stumbling away, Catarina glanced back at Quinn. His eyes held the promise of his words. Desire anchored deep in the pit of her stomach, burning and needful. His words echoed in her mind. This is not over.
Her heart thudded. Dear God, she hoped not.
Chapter Seventeen
Catarina felt a lightness in her stride as she walked arm and arm with Mary. Ruth and several other ladies had barreled ahead toward several long trestle tables, positioned in a row in the courtyard. The tables were covered with various bowls, knives, spoons, and sacks.
&nb
sp; Lady Joan caught her eye when she signaled for Ruth to come forward. Catarina could tell Ruth listened to her lady’s words intently. It was clear the clan’s lady was instructing Ruth on her expectations for the feast. Likely they were reviewing the menu and ensuring there would be enough to go around.
“Don’t stand there staring,” Mary said, waving her hand in front of Catarina’s eyes. “Not when there’s work to be done. Ruth will give ye some ghastly task if she thinks yer not pulling yer weight.”
The threat of a ghastly task made up Catarina’s mind. She charged toward a table and blurted, “I will make bannock,” to the women standing there. She did not wait for anyone to confirm or deny her intention. She didn’t dare when bannock was the only thing she knew how to cook. She grabbed for the sack of ground oats before anyone else could volunteer and poured a heap into a wooden bowl. Then she reached for the water bucket and scooped a ladle full.
“What are ye doing, lass?” Mary said, staying Catarina’s hand.
Catarina smiled at the plump woman, trying not to look like a rabbit caught in a trap. “I am making bannock of course.”
Mary chuckled, her green eyes sparkling. “Don’t skimp on the flavor, lass. We’re not sending our men off to battle. Use the milk and lots of butter. ‘Tis St. John’s Eve, don’t ye know?”
Catarina glanced down at her bowl of ground oats. Could bannock actually have flavor? She cleared her throat. “Right you are, Mary. You’ll have to forgive me. You see my family is quite poor. We have seldom enjoyed the privilege of milk and butter.”
Mary raised a skeptical brow. “Yer people had money enough to see that ye could speak like one of yer betters.” She tsked her disapproval, eying Catarina’s trim waist. “What they should’ve done was fatten ye up with some cream and butter.” Clearly determined to do just that, Mary cut off a large hunk of butter and added it to Catarina’s bowl of oat flour. Several minutes later, Catarina had a bowl of dough ready for the grilling stone. She set to the task of shaping cakes and placing them on the hot stone, pausing only to add more peat to the fire when necessary. Cooked bannock went piping hot into a linen covered basket.