“It’s complicated.”
“Actually it’s quite a simple question. Are you betrothed? Yea or nay?”
“I’ll answer if you promise me a question in return.”
Since it didn’t look like they’d be leaving soon, she took the lord’s lead and inched backward to sit along the rock wall behind her.
“That depends on the question.” While his demeanor was calm, she knew better than to think he was unaffected by her answer. Sir Bryce’s high cheekbones and deep-set eyes remained motionless, but his lips flattened ever so slightly each time she annoyed him. Staring at the man’s lips was not the worst way to pass time.
“What do you plan to do with me?”
“I meant what I said. I plan to ransom you and bankrupt your brother.” His answer was automatic, far too direct to be a lie. And Toren would do it, too. If her brothers failed to take Bristol by force, they would give anything to have her back. The man that sat so casually across from her wanted to ruin her clan…destroy her family.
Nothing she could say would dissuade him. She had to escape. And to do that, she needed more freedom.
“No, I’m not betrothed.”
“Then why did you say you were?”
“I’d prefer not to discuss it.”
“Tell me.” His insistence didn’t surprise Catrina. She knew a thing or two about pig-headed men. Sir Bryce was not going to let this go. Nevertheless, she would try.
“You bargained for one answer, sir, and I gave one.”
Her heart raced as the man who’d just admitted to his plan to ruin her clan sat calmly across from her. Staring. Waiting.
“Fine, but I’ll have another question,” she said finally.
His slight nod was nearly imperceptible.
“My feet are wet.” She was mostly dry save for her hair, sleeves, and shoes. To delay the awkward conversation, and perhaps throw Sir Bryce a bit off-balance, she pulled her sopping leather boots out from under her skirts and removed them. They really were uncomfortable. Of course, her hose was also wet, but she wasn’t that bold.
She did feel a bit better. Placing the boots beside her, Catrina repositioned herself, squeezing a bit of excess water from her long braid onto the muddy, rocky ground. So much for this gown.
“Your betrothed?”
She thought perhaps he may have forgotten.
“Very well. His name is Graeme deSowlis of Clan Scott. We grew up neighbors and were promised to each other, though never formally. When Graeme’s man accidentally killed my cousin in the Battle of Brockenridge, Toren refused to consider him for my husband. You can imagine their relationship now.”
“Do you want to marry him?”
It was an intimate question, but she had nothing to lose by answering. “Aye, I do. I’ve imagined myself as his wife for most of my life.” And she wanted that more than anything in the world. A husband, bairns, her own family.
Stability. Acceptance.
“But the chief of Clan Kerr doesn’t care what his sister wants, I take it.”
He made Toren sound awful. She sat up straight. “Toren only wants what’s best for me, he—”
Damn, damn, damn. The blasted Englishman preyed on her greatest weakness: her inability to stop talking.
And then the most amazing thing happened. He actually smiled. A real smile. For the first time in their short, fraught acquaintance, the blasted man’s lips curved up, his eyes dancing as he leaned forward with silent mirth, telling her with his facial expression what she already knew. She had unwittingly revealed the truth of her relationship with her brother.
He was clearly pleased with himself.
“My men found you unconscious, a nasty gash on your head, nearly drowned in a stream. How did you come to be there?”
She couldn’t have answered if she wanted. Catrina’s last memory was being pulled away from the manor by her clansmen, and her feeling of dread having to leave Davie.
“Oh no, it’s my turn for a question. Perhaps I’ll bargain for a third.”
While he was no longer smiling, his harsh grimace was gone. Catrina was glad for it. Her next question was a serious one.
“Why does your family claim Bristol as theirs when it was once a Scottish holding? Toren was acting on orders from our king to reclaim it.”
“You expect me to believe your sovereign, in a time of peace, sanctioned a raid on a small English manor? To what end?” His tone reflected the change in topic. It was measured. Angry. “One held by the Waryns for three generations? After the border was established?”
She hesitated. Even her brothers debated the politics of that very question. While the land was, indeed, south of the Solway-Tweed line, which made it an English holding, it was also true the manor and its small village had once been considered part of Scotland. But it wasn’t for her, or her family, to question orders from their king. The chief of Clan Kerr had been asked to claim and hold Bristol, and he had.
Until now.
“Aye. That’s exactly what I expect. I’ve no reason to lie to you, Sir Bryce.”
“You mean, you’ve no reason to lie again. I already caught you in one untruth today.” They both looked outside to see the rain had slowed to a steady drizzle. “Come.”
Gladly.
She struggled to put on her wet boots and then scrambled out of the shelter. Although the rain had slowed, it was still falling, but the worst of the storm seemed to have passed.
Catrina shook out her gown and watched Sir Bryce reattach his belt, sliding his sword back into place. Try as she might, she couldn’t pull her eyes away as he eased the fine overtunic over his head.
He looked up and caught her staring. Sir Bryce closed the space between them in two strides. Not for the first time that day, they were close enough to be touching. A tingle ran through her for this time, his intentions were quite clear.
5
Bryce felt an overwhelming desire to kiss her. Which was absurd. He despised Lady Catrina…and her family. But he’d hardened to the point of discomfort when she lifted her skirts to remove her boots. He’d seen his share of shapely legs before, but his traitorous body didn’t seem to understand that this particular woman was off-limits.
His muscles had tensed at the mention of her betrothed, though he assured himself it was only because the information was relevant to her ransom. What she did after he released her back to Toren Kerr was none of his concern. It was simple curiosity that had made him question her further.
And then she licked her lips.
Despite himself, he could no longer deny that he wanted her. Enemy or nay, he responded to Lady Catrina for what she was, a beautiful woman who didn’t yet know her own appeal.
He would not kiss a Kerr.
Turning from temptation, he instead untied their horses. “We’ll head back to the manor for you to change.”
“You still want to visit the village today? With me?”
Bryce helped the lady mount and turned to his own steed. “Aye, I need to speak to the blacksmith. You’re welcome to stay at the manor, however.”
“To be locked up again? Nay! I’ll accompany you.”
“Then let’s go.” He was used to issuing orders but found himself shorter with her than most. Understandable, given her surname.
Neither spoke on the ride back to Bristol Manor. The cursed rain that had forced them to take shelter finally stopped. Having given strict orders for her escort, Bryce waited for Lady Catrina, passing the time by inspecting the manor’s progress.
After less than a week, the courtyard already looked much like it had before the raid. Although not overly large, the manor itself was a sound building capable of defending itself. He planned to build on that and also expand the gatehouse to include a guardroom. Camaraderie between members of the garrison was as important as their training.
Luckily, Bristol’s wool trade didn’t appear to have suffered during their absence. The lucrative trade allowed their tenants to hunt without paying fees, an admitt
edly unusual arrangement. His father had always taught them that unhappy tenants or servants reflected on the lord who ruled them.
A hefty ransom would allow them to start building sooner.
“Now there’s a sight. The Slayer, daydreamin’.”
Bryce grunted in response. If Thomas expected a response, then he could use his given name.
“Back already?”
“Not exactly,” answered Bryce.
A brood of hens squawked nearby.
“Coming back to life,” said Thomas.
Indeed. The manor was almost fully staffed. Servants’ children once again played alongside meandering livestock. The only evidence of their raid was the lack of a head cook. But Bryce would not rest until their defenses were strong enough to protect them from Clan Kerr.
“So did you make it to the—”
Thomas froze as the large, iron-studded oak doors opened. Lady Catrina walked through the entrance of Bristol Manor as if she were its lady. The only evidence to the contrary was an armed guard at her side.
Her sodden, mud-stained dress had been replaced with a modest royal-blue riding gown with an attached hood. More noble-looking than the wood nymph he had sat with at Bristol Sprout, Lady Catrina turned every head in the courtyard.
Although she didn’t seem to notice people staring. Instead, she looked straight ahead.
At him.
He couldn’t take his eyes from her.
“My lord…Sir Thomas,” she greeted them properly.
Thomas’s bushy eyebrows drew together as he assisted Lady Catrina onto her palfrey. No doubt Bryce would answer for this outing with a litany of questions later. He’d intended to keep their captive confined to her room, and now he was going on an outing with her.
Mounted, Bryce angled back toward his steward. “So you agree it would be wise to move the blacksmith’s forge from the village closer to the manor?” he asked, hoping to distract him—and convey that their outing had a legitimate purpose.
“Aye, my lord. The old buttery has interior walls and would be a good location, I think. You’re planning to speak to the blacksmith?”
“Aye.” Turning toward his captive, he motioned for her to follow, leaving his friend staring after them.
If Thomas was confused, Bryce was even more so. Not only had Lady Catrina called him “my lord” for the first time, but she also sat atop her beloved Davie with a smile serene enough to make an abbess jealous.
She was up to something.
He set the pace deliberately slow to allow for discussion.
“Tell me.” His tone was harsh, but he’d spent the better part of his day deciphering the motives of this woman.
“I’m not sure what you mean, Sir Bryce.”
“Precisely. Why was I ‘my lord’ earlier and am ‘Sir Bryce’ now?”
The silence was punctuated only by the sound of the horses as they rode through wide open fields of marshland grass still glistening from the storm.
“I would not shame you in front of your men.”
“Why not?”
It made no sense. She made no sense.
“It would not help my cause.”
That much was true.
“From your lips, my title sounds like a condemnation. My given name will do,” Bryce said.
That managed to surprise Lady Catrina Kerr, and he found he liked keeping her off balance.
“Very well, Bryce. I’ll ask for the same courtesy.”
She was asking for acceptance. That he could never give her, no matter how beautiful she was. But to follow her own logic, angering her would only make his life more difficult. He needed the lady in one piece to ransom her back to her brother.
“Very well, Catrina.”
Although it was just a name, using it felt too intimate somehow. As it should. Such informality was typically reserved for family and close friends.
It had been a mistake.
Spurring his horse forward, Bryce forced Catrina to do the same as they made their way toward Bristol’s village.
Catrina watched as vast moorlands gave way to fertile fields being plowed as they rode past. With Lady Day well behind them, work had begun weeks earlier to prepare the pastures for the sowing of spring crops. The land here was virtually indistinguishable from Brockburg. The plough teams pulled by oxen could just as easily be across the border in Scotland. Why must men make enemies of each other when they were so much alike?
Sir Bryce rode alongside her, never once glancing her way. Even so, there was no way she’d escape him, and she wasn’t stupid enough to think she could survive the ride back to Brockburg alone.
But there was one person who could help.
After their impromptu visit to Bristol Sprout, Catrina had assumed Sir Bryce would rescind his invitation to accompany him to the village. He’d wondered at her good mood earlier, she knew, but it had been impossible to contain herself. Although Catrina couldn’t get much information from Elise, the maid had revealed that her countryman still remained in the village.
Fergus.
With his help, she could get back to Toren before her brother did something rash.
Large for a manor the size of Bristol, this village was Catrina’s favorite thing about England. Idyllic. That was the first word that had come to mind when she’d arrived three years earlier, and she still thought it described the place perfectly.
Of course, it was a border town, which meant it was never truly safe.
Sir Bryce led them to the stables, where a groom took both their mounts. Catrina had to hurry to catch up to the brutish knight who was back to being surly.
“Where are we going?”
He didn’t even bother to acknowledge her question.
“Bryce.”
His name felt strange on her tongue, but at least it got his attention. He turned as she caught up to him.
“Catrina?”
Lord, his eyes were blue.
“You’re fairly running.”
No answer.
Father Simon always said, despite her sinful mouth—as if it were her fault she’d been raised by brothers—she had the patience of a saint. If he ever witnessed her dealings with Sir Bryce, the priest may form a different opinion.
“Mayhap you didn’t hear me.” She couldn’t keep the sarcasm from her voice. “Where are we going?” She must see Fergus.
Bryce took a long breath as if he were the one short on patience. She had done nothing but ask a simple question.
“Listening clearly isn’t one of your strengths.”
He walked away.
Catrina noticed the strange looks, but she’d expected them. Most of these people knew her, and they likely understood her plight. Which was why she decided now was as good a time as any to stand her ground.
She didn’t move.
He passed two thatch-roofed houses before realizing she wasn’t following. When he stalked back in front of her, his expression was no longer stoic.
“What…is the problem?”
“You.”
And now he was going to kill her. She’d managed to stay alive until this moment, but the look in his eyes—blue fire—told her she’d pushed too far.
So be it.
“Catrina.” He ground out her name as if it pained him. “Perhaps you would enjoy the loss of your freedom?”
If only she could close her mouth long enough to think through her actions. If she wanted to find Fergus, angering the Englishman was not the way to do it.
“Nay, my lord. Continue.” She gestured for him to resume his ungodly fast pace, but he refused to budge.
“I will know the cause of your ire.”
She had certainly never thought it possible, but Bryce was actually more high-handed than all of her brothers combined.
“If you must know…” She chose to ignore the fact that he rolled his eyes. “I don’t like being ignored.”
He stared at her as if she were a simpleton.
“Well?”
&n
bsp; “You are my prisoner, Catrina.”
She was well aware of that fact.
“People are staring. We will continue this conversation at a later time,” he said.
And they were. A few people had been watching them before, but they were quickly becoming the center of attention.
Bryce turned toward the forge without another word. Lifting her skirts, Catrina was left with no choice but to follow along like a biddable miss. As they approached the blacksmith’s shop, the sounds of clanging metal became louder. The black anvil on the wooden sign hanging above the entranceway was hardly necessary. Catrina watched as the sign swayed back and forth in the wind. A sudden wind chilled the air, prompting her to raise her hood once again.
“Bryce?”
Just before entering the forge, he turned. Why was he looking at her so strangely?
“I’d like to speak to the alewife.” And before he could refuse, she hurried to add, “She’s just right there—” she pointed to a house not far from where they stood, “—and I promise to stay there until you’re finished with your business.”
She really didn’t think he’d let her go alone, but he conceded.
“Go. But Catrina—” he lowered his voice and leaned toward her, “—don’t do anything foolish.”
She wouldn’t, today.
“If you do,” apparently, he wasn’t satisfied with her nod, “I will hunt you down. And when I find you, there’ll be no mistaking you are my prisoner and not a guest of Bristol Manor. Do you understand?”
“Aye, I understand.”
She hurried away before he could change his mind, slipping into the brewhouse across the way. Please, by the grace of God, let Fergus be inside. He was the alewife’s assistant, and had been for these many years.
“My lady!”
The alewife, Mary, nearly dropped her large copper pot in her haste to get to Catrina. The large woman engulfed her in a hug, and the smell of mashed malt filled her nostrils. Toren had often accused Catrina of spending more time in the alewife’s house than at the manor.
It reminded her of home. Unlike Brockburg Castle, Bristol Manor did not have its own brewhouse. And Mary reminded her of Brockburg’s brewer, the closest person she had to a mother.
The Lord's Captive (Border Series Book 2) Page 5