by Amanda Scott
“What is it?” Ivor asked him.
“Nowt,” Fin said. “If you did not tell them the truth, what did you say?”
“I told them the same thing I’d said to you, that I had had enough of killing for one day and thought that someone from your side ought to stay alive to tell his version of the tale. Father was sure that you must have drowned, but we’ll have to tell him and Granddad the truth—aye, and James, too.”
“And Catriona,” Fin said. “I don’t look forward to that.”
“So you haven’t told her yet about Perth. Not even that you were there?”
“I haven’t mentioned Perth to her.” It occurred to him that, at St. Andrews, Hawk would have been the first person to whom he would have confided his dilemma. They would have talked it over until both had agreed on what the best course of action would be. That he could not do that now added to the pain that his indecision had cost him over the years.
“You must tell her,” Ivor said. “But stand back when you do. We don’t call her Wildcat without reason. She has claws, sharp ones, and although she keeps them sheathed most of the time, she does not hesitate to use them when she’s angry.”
“As I said earlier, I have seen that she has a quick temper, but she seems usually to keep it under control,” Fin said.
“Just wait,” Ivor warned him with a grin. “Now, I keep a dice cup in here. Are you of a mind to throw against me for a while?”
“Aye, sure,” Fin said, drawing up a stool while Ivor moved a table close to the narrow bed and then sat on the bed.
As he did, Fin had a sudden stray notion that Hell might just be a place where every resident faced a dilemma like his, and where the only way out was to find the right answer to an unanswerable question.
Catriona had paused outside Ivor’s door, because as she had closed it, she’d heard Ivor say, “Don’t imagine that you are going anywhere, my lad.”
But once the heavy door had shut, she could hear only the hum of their voices. She could tell Fin’s voice from Ivor’s but could not make out their words.
Moreover, she knew that it might occur to Ivor that she would try to listen. If he caught her, she did not want to think about the consequences.
She did not want to go to her own room, because she was not sleepy and Ailvie would be there. Nor did she want to rejoin the older women. She wanted to think, which required solitude, so she made her way quietly down to the kitchen.
It was dark, except for the glow of embers in the huge fireplace. But the embers cast enough light to show her the way to the scullery and to reveal Boreas curled by the hearth with the kitten that had adopted him sprawled across his neck. Boreas opened his eyes, then shut them when Catriona signaled him to stay.
Lifting the bar from the scullery door, she eased it ajar and stepped outside. Then, leaning against the wall, she inhaled the crisp night air and relaxed, gazing up at the thick blanket of stars in the moonless sky while she considered what Ivor and Fin had told her and tried to imagine their life at St. Andrews.
As she did, she realized that the two men had much in common. Both had an air of easy confidence, and from what she had seen of Fin’s skill with a sword, he was almost as fine a swordsman as Ivor was. She smiled, realizing that they must both have been thinking of Ivor when they’d argued about great archers.
She had always thought Ivor easy to talk to, and by comparison with James, he was. Fin was even easier to talk with, because Fin expressed more interest in what she said. Ivor was impatient and less likely to listen as carefully or discuss things as thoroughly as Fin did. And Ivor had never stirred her senses the way…
Feeling fire surge into her cheeks at the direction her idle thoughts had taken, and imagining Ivor’s outraged reaction to such a comparison, she realized that Fin outdid him in another way. Although she had always tried to avoid arousing Ivor’s quick temper, the very thought of angering Fin disturbed her more.
Where Ivor raged and might even wreak vengeance, Fin had only to look at her to make her feel his displeasure. Thinking then of what else Fin could make her feel, she let her imagination linger on those thoughts.
Realizing abruptly that the longer she stayed the more she risked discovery, she went back inside and replaced the bar across the door, hoping she would not meet her father on her way upstairs. With so many extra men at the castle, Shaw would not accept the excuse that she had just sought solitude and fresh air. Wincing at the thought of his most likely response—that he would give her all the solitude she needed by confining her to her bedchamber for a sennight—she went quickly.
“There is one other thing I’d like to ask you,” Fin said after he and Ivor had cast dice for exorbitant, albeit imaginary, wagers for a time. “Sithee, I’ve been thinking more about Bishop Traill and our meeting here as we did.”
“I have, too,” Ivor said, scooping the dice up into the cup. Covering a yawn, he added, “Traill may have much more to do with this business than we knew.”
“I’m coming to think so,” Fin admitted. “As Bishop of St. Andrews, he has the ear of the royal family, and thus wields influence over the King and the Queen, as well as Rothesay, so perhaps he influences Albany, too. And perhaps…” He paused. “Do you know yet who else will be attending Rothesay’s meeting here?”
“I thought that it was to be just my grandfather, my father, Alex, and Davy’s minions. Do you mean to say that someone else is coming?”
Fin nodded. “The Lord of the Isles.”
“Donald? But everyone in the Great Glen—aye, and west of it, too—would do all they can to keep his ships from touching shore, let alone allow him to cross their lands with his army to get here. Sakes, everyone knows that he covets control of the western Highlands, and more. How the devil will he get here?”
“He’ll carry safe conducts from Rothesay and the Mackintosh, and he brings no army but only a small tail of men, as Alex will,” Fin said. “Sithee, Rothesay needs them both to stand with him against Albany. The Mackintosh suggests, and I agree, that Davy likely wants them both to promise him their votes when his provisional term as Governor of the Realm expires in six months. After all, if they will agree to that, most men who support them will also support Davy.”
“Then it is possible that someone else from our group is serving Donald, as I serve Alex and you serve Davy. Any number of us may be mixed up in this.”
“Aye,” Fin agreed. “And if so, we become part of a much greater conspiracy against Albany, do we not? My concern is that the more people Davy involves, the greater the risk grows that Albany will learn of it.”
“I’d wager that he already has. Does Davy understand the danger he is in?”
“He knows that Albany wants to take the Governorship back into his own hands. In troth, Davy believes that his uncle covets the throne.”
“Albany is not next in line,” Ivor pointed out.
“Nay, but Davy’s brother, James, is just seven, and Albany is next after him.”
“Some would say that Albany is better suited to take the throne than Davy is. Many more agree that Scotland does need a stronger king.”
“Aye, but Davy is the heir, and I believe that he will be a strong king. Sithee, he believes in the people. Albany believes only in acquiring power for Albany.”
“We’ll have to wait, then, and see who triumphs, won’t we?”
“Aye,” Fin said. But he felt a chill shoot up his spine as he said it.
“I’m for bed,” Ivor said. “I’ve not slept a full night in four months.”
“I’ll leave you to it then,” Fin said, putting out his hand. “ ’Tis glad I am to have you as my friend, Hawk, and to be talking things over with you again.”
Firmly grasping his outstretched hand, Ivor shook it, saying, “I, too, Lion.”
Fin left then, hoping that they would still be friends when the events they had set in motion had played themselves out.
As he rounded the torchlit curve before his landing, he met Catriona hurry
ing upstairs. She stopped, staring wide-eyed at him, her cheeks suffusing with color.
Amused, he said sternly, “And just what mischief have you been up to, my lass, to put such fire in your cheeks?”
Catriona gaped at Fin, feeling his gaze with every fiber of her being.
Standing two steps above her, he looked taller and larger than ever, and he filled the stairway so that she knew she would have to brush against him to get by.
She felt the heat in her cheeks spread elsewhere when the thought of pressing against him grew to a mental image that included his arms slipping around her and pulling her close. She drew a sharp breath but could not think.
“Cat got your—” He broke off, chuckling. “I expect that that old saw does not find much favor with you, does it?”
“It does not, although my brothers have long delighted in finding new ways to say such things. One of James’s favorites was always to promise that he would do something before Cat could lick her ear.”
“Is that your tactful way of saying I’d be wiser not to call you Cat as they do?”
“I did not mean that, nay.” Aware that she was standing outside her mother’s room and wondering if the other women had come upstairs, or the men, she glanced warily at the closed door.
Apparently oblivious to her concern, he said in a normal speaking tone, “You still have not said what happened to put such color in your cheeks.”
“Perhaps you do not know that you are blocking my way.”
“Am I?” He stepped down a step.
Tension filled the air around her, raising the hairs on her arms and drying her lips. Wetting them with the tip of her tongue, she glanced again at the door of her mother’s bedchamber and listened for footsteps that might be her father’s coming up the stairs. Looking up at Fin, she muttered, “You know that you are.”
His eyes twinkled. “Nay, then, why should I? Nervous, lass? I’ll wager that you have been up to mischief, then. If so, and if I am to let you pass, I believe I should collect a toll as a small penalty for your misbehavior.”
“I have not misbehaved.”
“Ah, but you have. Why else would you keep looking at that door as if you expect it to open and an ogre to leap out and call you to account for yourself?”
“Prithee, sir, keep your voice down. Anyone on this stairway will hear you.” But she looked at the door again, sure that it was about to fly open.
“If you fear discovery, you had best get upstairs, had you not? I’ll just tell anyone who comes that I was flirting with a maidservant who has since fled.”
“Good sakes, do you flirt with maidservants in other people’s households? I thought that only your royal master did such things. I expect I should have known that you would be just like him, though.”
His eyes narrowed dangerously, but before she had time to realize that the feeling that raced up her spine was not fear but delight at having stirred him to such a look, it vanished. He said, “Art going to tell me where you have been or not?”
Pretending to consider which answer she would give, she said, “Not, I think. Why should I trust you with such a confidence when you do not trust me?”
“So that still rankles, does it?” He stepped down again, so that he stood on the landing with her, crowding her as if to see if she would step back.
She did not, but her body hummed at his nearness.
“I won’t insist that you tell me,” he said quietly. “But, as Ivor and I told you, if word of what we discussed drifts beyond these walls, it could put others at risk. I’d wager that you would put only yourself at risk by answering my question.”
“Perhaps,” she said. “But you do want to know, and that makes us even.”
“Does it?” He put a finger under her chin, tilting her face higher. Moving his own face close enough so that she could feel his breath on her lips, he said softly, “Art so sure now that we are even, little Cat?”
That single fingertip seemed to burn into the soft skin under her chin, and she could smell the subtle essence of wine on the breath that caressed her lips. Without conscious thought, her lips parted.
He bent nearer, slowly, so slowly that she could not think, could not even breathe. She could only anticipate the moment when his lips would touch hers.
The moment stretched until her whole body tingled and warmed, and then his mouth brushed hers… lightly and so softly that it was as if no more than a warm wind had followed his wine-scented breath to caress her.
He did it again, and she was concentrating so hard on what he would do next with his mouth that when his hands touched her shoulders and stroked lightly downward, she gasped and leaned toward him on tiptoe, pressing her lips to his.
His felt warm and soft, but she scarcely had time for that thought to enter her mind before he slid his arms around her and his right hand moved gently up her back and under her veil until his fingers could weave themselves in the plaits at her nape. He held her so, kissed her, and tasted her lips with his tongue, gently at first and then more urgently until she parted them, and he slid his tongue inside.
The hand that had remained on her shoulder moved slowly, tantalizingly, to the small of her back, teasing her senses as it moved. Then he pressed her closer to him until she felt his body move against hers. His mouth moved more possessively as his tongue explored hers, and she could feel her breasts swelling against him. They had come alive when he touched her, in a way she had never known before.
With a sigh, he gave her a last soft kiss on the lips and then set her back on her heels. Somehow his hands came to rest lightly again on her shoulders.
She blinked and looked up at him, wishing that he had not stopped.
“You go up to your chamber now, lass. But we must talk more. Will you walk with me on the shore again in the morning, early?”
She stared at him, wondering what had come over her… sakes, over him! Was he imagining that one such kiss meant that she sought more? What was he thinking?
Striving to sound as if she were in full possession of her senses, she said, “Ailvie will have to come with us. My father would dislike it otherwise.”
He frowned. “I don’t want to share what I have to say to you, lass. Would it suffice if she walks far enough behind to see us without hearing us?”
“Aye, I’ll tell her.”
“At dawn then,” he said. “Now go.”
Chapter 9
Fin waited until Catriona had disappeared around the curve of the wheel stair before he opened the door to his chamber. Warm candle glow greeted him.
As he had expected, Ian Lennox was waiting to assist with his ablutions. The brush and breeks he held told Fin that Ian had been seeing to his usual chores.
When Ian looked up at him with a smile, Fin shut the door and said bluntly, “How much could you hear just now of what took place out on the stairway?”
Ian’s smile vanished. “Only enough to know that one voice was yours, sir. I heard nowt of the other person and could not make out even if you spoke the Gaelic or Scot. You ken fine, though, that I’d never repeat aught that I’d heard.”
“I do know that, Ian. But whilst we are here at Rothiemurchus, I want you to keep an even closer guard than usual on your tongue. Also, I want you and Toby to learn all you can from others in the yard and in the hall. Practice your Gaelic, for enemies may soon surround us despite Rothesay’s hope of finding allies.”
“Enemies, sir? More than just the Duke of Albany?”
“The Lord of the Isles will be here. He has no love for the Lord of the North and less for Highlanders who resist his own insatiable thirst to add them to his realm. In troth, Donald would control the Highlands from the west coast to Perth.”
“What about the Lord of the North, sir? I ken nowt o’ the man save that his father’s numerous offspring were all bastards.”
“You’d be wise not to prattle about that here, I think,” Fin said.
“I don’t prattle,” Ian said. “Be there more I should know ab
out the man?”
“I doubt that he covets more land, as Donald does. Alex assumed the Lordship of the North despite Albany’s having named his own son to inherit it. But the people hereabouts are doubtless grateful for that. They seem to like Alex.”
“I do know Albany’s son,” Ian said, setting the well-brushed breeks aside. “A soft-living, preening coxcomb, I’d call him, not a man of knightly skills.”
“He has none,” Fin agreed. “Sakes, Albany himself despises him.”
Ian chuckled. “The new Earl of Douglas is the same. Men called his father Archie the Grim, but they call the son ‘the Tyneman’ because he is such a bad leader. Why is it, do you think, that powerful men so often beget weak sons?”
“I can tell you only what my father said about it,” Fin said. “He was a clan war leader, so he saw what happened with other such men. He said most powerful men trust only themselves to resolve problems properly. So, they constantly correct their sons, trying to teach them to think as they do, rather than how to make good decisions. The result, he said, was that they teach their sons instead to have little or no confidence in their own opinions—the opposite of what most fathers seek to do.”
“But is that not how any father teaches a son, by correcting his errors?”
“A wise father acts otherwise,” Fin said. “Or so my own told me. He said it is more important that a man learn to trust his own instincts and his own decisions than to believe that he must try to pattern them after someone else’s.”
“Sakes,” Ian said, “how do you teach anyone that?”
“The same way that I hope I am teaching you,” Fin said. “By letting you make decisions whenever it is safe for you to make a mistake, so that you can learn from those mistakes. A mistake that a man can see and measure for himself—if it does not kill him—will teach him more than any parent or superior can.”
“But you do tell me when I err,” Ian said with an almost comical grimace.
“Aye, sure, I do. That is one consequence of your mistake. But you will note that I rarely intervene beforehand to prevent you from making the mistake.”