by Sherry Ewing
“—just as I am glad ye are not some fickle lass out tae amuse herself with a dalliance behind yer husbands back.” His wicked grin melted her anger away. Why, if he continued to look upon her in such a fashion, she would no doubt be begging him to kiss her. Heaven help her!
“I would never be so disloyal,” she scoffed before yanking her hand away. “If you knew anything about me, you would not question my devotion to those I care for.”
Douglas stepped closer, leaning down to whisper in her ear. “I look forward tae getting tae know ye better, my lady.”
She shivered when his breath blew into her ear. He was a forward scoundrel, set on teasing her. No matter how much he affected her, she could not imagine her brother consenting to marriage between them, him being Scottish and so far from Wolverhampton.
Coming to her senses, Catherine gave his chest a shove. “You dare much, Lord Douglas, to make such an assumption that I would be inclined to learn more about you.”
“Ye cannae hide what I can see for myself, lass. I intrigue ye, and mayhap ye like the fact ye cannae wrap me around yer finger so I do yer bidding.”
“You overbearing oaf!” she called out, taking a swat at him. “You have no idea what I am thinking about you.”
Douglas chuckled even while she heard Padraig calling out her name. “Yer brother calls to ye, so I suppose ye must obey if ’tis in yer nature.”
“You are the most exasperating man I have ever had the displeasure to encounter,” she said with a toss of her head.
“Aye, perchance I am, but ye like me all the same. Mayhap when I win the tourney, I will claim ye as my prize.”
She sputtered. “I am no man’s prize to be won.”
“Oh, but ye are, lass,” he whispered once more.
“Catherine!” Padraig shouted and waved his arm.
“Excuse me,” she said with a curtsey before tugging on the reins of her horse.
She left Douglas near the water’s edge, hiding a knowing smile. He may have been closer to the truth than even Catherine realized. Though she had chastised him for thinking her a prize, secretly, it thrilled her to no end.
A lad came and took her horse even as her brother took her arm and led her to the duke and duchess. Once more, Catherine came under the duke’s close scrutiny, causing her to wish she could run back down the beach and forget her responsibilities to find a husband. God forbid if one was chosen for her!
Chapter Eight
Douglas placed his sword into the scabbard at his side before making his way to the raised dais where the duke’s standard waved in the air. He may have won the round but at what cost? He would look forward to when he and Lady Catherine’s captain met once again. In the meantime, Douglas acknowledged the fact the man was a worthy opponent upon the field.
He came before the duke and duchess and bowed while those seated around them clapped in approval of his victory. As he stood once more, his gaze automatically traveled to the lady sitting next to the duchess.
Catherine’s hair was swept into a long braid. Her green bliaut, with its long, flowing sleeves and golden embroidery around the neckline, brought out the flecks of the same color in her hazel eyes. She gave him the slightest nod, and he returned it. Somewhere in the back of his mind, his brain recognized the duke was congratulating him on winning his match and ’twas in his best interest to pay attention. Douglas almost missed viewing the becoming blush that rushed across Catherine’s face before she smiled… A mouth he was craving to taste.
The duke raised his cup to Douglas. “You will join us while we sup and dance.”
“’Twill be my honor, Yer Grace,” Douglas replied with another bow before he left the stand.
Several hailed him as he began making his way toward his tent, and he raised his hand to acknowledge them. However, once he was out of the view of the crowd, he staggered, cursing again that Charles had somehow managed to inflict damage upon his leg when his sword tip luckily slipped between the loops of his chainmail.
He needed to speak to his squire Alec about ensuring his body armor was kept in a better state of repair. Not that they had had much time to see to such things in their haste to arrive before the tourney began. If they continued to be neglected, Douglas would be lucky to make it through the next round of knights who were only too happy to meet his sword in their own attempt to win the day.
Which brought his attention back to Catherine’s captain. Aye, Charles had made it only too clear to Douglas that he was claiming the lady no matter what she had to say about it. Douglas’s anger grew with the thought that mayhap Charles had already come to an understanding with Catherine’s brother. He did not blame the captain for his feelings, for Douglas had begun to seriously consider the possibility of winning Catherine as his own.
He shook his head as though to clear his thoughts while he continued to make his way toward his tent. A de Wolfe! God’s bones, but how was he ever to earn her favor—or more importantly, her brother’s? Douglas had no doubt he could win the tournament but he never supposed the one woman who caught his eye would be a de Wolfe. Their family was legendary. How, then, was he to impress her?
He gave a low groan. How much self-pity could one man have? Why was Douglas thinking himself so unworthy to wed Lady Catherine? He was just as good as any knight there, was he not?
He opened the flap of his tent and found Killian and Freya in deep conversation. His sister quickly stood, knocking over the stool she had been sitting on.
Douglas looked between the pair. “Am I interrupting something of import?” He set his helmet down and pulled off his mail coif before running his fingers through his hair as though that alone would tame it.
“Nay,” they muttered in unison as Killian also stood.
Douglas glared at them again. “Then why do ye both look so guilty?”
“’Tis nothing, brother,” Freya said, although her eyes flickered anywhere but to meet his own.
“I have seen such a look before, sister.” Douglas moved across the tent and took hold of her arm. “’Tis a look that suggests someone has caught yer eye and ye know I willnae approve. Ye might as well tell me who he is.”
Killian grunted. “Ye willnae have tae think hard on who, my laird.”
Freya bunched the material of his surcote in her fists. “Tell me ye did not hurt him on the field?”
“Who?” Douglas prodded. He had fought many knights already. Freya’s look of concern only heightened the sensation in his gut of whom she might be talking about.
“Sir Charles de Grey,” Freya finally said “He is what dreams are made of.”
“Dreams?” Douglas roared. “Are ye daft, woman? What can de Grey bring tae ensure ye are well taken care of? He is but a knight in the de Wolfe garrison. Ye do not even know him!”
“Ye do not know him either, so do not voice yer displeasure ’til ye do.”
Douglas swore. “God help me!”
Killian chuckled. “I told ye… Ye would not like it.”
He turned his attention to his friend. “Why cannae ye keep one wee lass under control or do I have tae lock her up somewhere before she finds herself wed to an English rival?”
A snort escaped Killian. “Ye know better than anyone that Freya has a will of her own. ’Tis why I encouraged ye to leave her at Berwyck where she belongs.”
Freya turned accusing eyes upon Killian. “Ye wished for my brother tae leave me at home?”
“Aye, tae avoid what is happening right now!”
Another low groan came from Douglas. “I need a drink. I may need tae speak with de Grey and avenge my sister’s honor.”
Killian went to a nearby pitcher and poured a cup of wine, then thrust the vessel into Douglas’s hand. “’Twill not be necessary, my laird. He has not touched her, for Freya has been with me all day since the tourney began.”
Freya tapped her foot. “Douglas!” she shouted, once more gaining his attention. “Did ye hurt him?”
He gave a heavy sigh, knowing he h
ad not answered her. “Nay, he lives tae see another day, unless he touches ye.” He slumped onto the stool. “Freya, go fetch me some water while Killian helps me remove my chainmail til my squire arrives.”
“Have a boy fetch it,” she insisted with a stubborn tilt to her chin. “You must convince me ye will not hurt Charles.”
Douglas’s brow rose but he ignored any reference to the knight he had just battled. “Unless ye wish tae see more of yer brother than is proper, go and do as I say, Freya.”
“Are ye hurt?” she asked. “Killian, see to him, and I will find a healer.”
“I am in no need of a healer, Freya, nor do we need tae alert the whole camp that I am injured when ’tis but a scratch.”
“Are ye certain?”
“Aye. Come, give me a hug, then be about enjoying the rest of the afternoon before we sup.”
Freya wrapped her arms around his neck. “I love ye, Douglas,” she whispered, holding him tight.
“And I love ye, too. Now be a good lassie and stay away from de Grey.”
Freya kissed his cheek without giving him an answer, and quickly left the tent.
Douglas sighed. “She is going tae put me in an early grave.”
Killian came to stand before Douglas. “All will be well with Freya. Let us see what damage was done. Stand up,” he ordered.
Douglas tore off his surcote, then bent over so Killian could help pull off his hauberk. His metal chausses came next, along with the padding to protect his skin. Once Douglas was down to his braies, he looked upon his injury. Luckily, ’twas not deep. He did not think ’twould need stitching and only stung where the blade had slashed across his leg. ’Twas uncomfortable but also manageable.
Douglas took another long pull of his wine when his squire Alec at last entered, carrying the water he’d asked Freya to fetch. “See that those are fixed properly,” he ordered the lad, waving his hand toward his armor, “lest ye wish tae find another laird tae serve.”
Killian began inspecting the chainmail chausses and showing Alec where the repairs were needed. “Next time, be sure all is in order before ye dress our laird. Such a mistake could cost his life if he were in true battle,” he scolded the squire firmly.
“Aye, Sir Killian,” Alec answered. “’Twill not happen again.”
The boy left, and Douglas went about cleaning his wound.
“Ye will live, my laird, but what about de Grey?” Killian asked.
“I will live. But De Grey is another matter if he so much as looks at my sister.”
“Hmm… I thought mayhap de Grey had his eyes on a different prize, someone ye may also be thinking of taking for yer wife.” A curious look appeared on Killian’s face.
Douglas’s brow rose in concentration. “I do not relish fighting for a woman who is already spoken for no matter how appealing she might be.”
“I have the distinct impression she would be worth such an effort, my laird.” His friend smiled knowingly.
An image of Lady Catherine sitting on the raised platform in all her finery flashed within Douglas’s mind. “Aye…” he said. “She may be worth the effort indeed…”
Chapter Nine
Catherine hastened through camp while Winifred tried to keep up with her. Padraig had sent a boy to fetch her with an urgent message that he needed to speak with her. Catherine had no idea what was so important that could not wait since ’twas almost time to sup. Somehow, keeping the duke and duchess waiting did not seem a wise decision.
Approaching her brother’s tent, she saw Charles open the flap as he left, a scowl on his face. She had never seen him looking so angry and could only guess what had upset her captain. She rushed to his side, trying not to think the worst.
“What is it?” she said in a frantic whisper. “Is something amiss at home? Is this why my brother summoned me as though the hounds from hell were chasing at his heels?”
Charles peered at her as though she were his enemy. “Leave us,” he ordered Winifred who hesitated at his demand.
The maid stepped forward as if to defend Catherine. “My lady?” she asked.
Catherine waved her hand. “Go ahead. Sir Charles is my captain, and I am certainly safe with him. He or my brother can escort me to the table so that I may dine.”
Catherine watched her lady leave and waited for Charles to tell her his news. Whatever he had heard had him cursing under his breath.
“Please, Charles…” she began in an earnest plea as she reached out to take his arm. “Tell me what has you so upset. I am certain we can find a solution together.”
“God’s bones!” he hissed between clenched teeth. His gaze traveled to all those who were close enough to hear their conversation. “There are too many ears about. Come with me.”
He took hold of her arm and none too gently escorted her from Padraig’s tent. She stumbled trying to keep pace with him.
“What has you so flustered, Charles? And slow down! I can barely keep up with you.”
“We require privacy,” he snapped while they hurried past people who stared at them.
“Where exactly do you think we can have a private word where someone won’t alert my brother we are alone together? Padraig will not be pleased if I do not immediately present myself. He summoned me on a most urgent matter and even now awaits me.”
Charles remained silent to whatever thoughts were racing through his head. He passed the last tent before plunging them into the shadows of the forest. He continued onward at a brisk pace til he finally halted, the sound of a nearby brook broke the silence between them. He whirled around and backed her up against a tree.
“Is it true?” he demanded with a heaving chest.
“Is what true?”
“You are spoken for?” he roared.
“Spoken for?” she gasped out. “Whoever told you such nonsense?”
“Your brother, when he rejected my offer for us to wed.” His vivid blue eyes flashed in anger, and Catherine was taken aback by what she was witnessing and hearing.
“What the devil are you talking about?” she demanded, barely recognizing the fact Charles had actually asked her brother’s permission for them to wed. After their previous conversation, she had thought he had let the matter drop. “You must have mistaken what Padraig told you.”
Dark laughter erupted from Charles. “He was quite persistent when he spoke of your upcoming union. He said ’twas an alliance that would see you secure and also be an advantage for England once the duke is crowned king.”
“Padraig would never accept an offer without consulting me first.” She gulped down the fear rising in her throat even while Charles stepped closer, bringing them chest-to-chest.
“Apparently, you do not know your brother as well as you think you do, my lady, for that is exactly what he has done.” He brought his arm up against the tree, leaving her little room to escape.
Catherine pushed his chest, uncomfortable for the first time in Charles’s presence. “I must speak with Padraig and clear this whole matter up.”
He kissed her temple, and she tried to push him away. “Run away with me, Catherine,” he murmured in her ear. “I have lands in France and promise you will lack for nothing.”
“Please stop, Charles,” she fumed. When he started nuzzling her neck, she had enough. She used her full weight to shove at his chest before stomping on his foot. He grunted.
“We could be happy…”
“Nay, we could not!” She wagged a finger at him as though he were a misbehaving child. “You know I care for you but not in that way. You are my friend or like another brother to me. I have no idea how you came to think we could be anything more.”
He turned from her before his fist landed on another nearby tree. She heard his grunt of pain, but Catherine refused to go to him. He hung his head, muttering curses.
Charles finally composed himself and turned once more to face her, a mask of coolness now placed upon his face where once before she saw the caring side to his nature. “Wh
o has he promised you to?” he asked, hands shaking.
“I do not know but ’tis time to find out!”
Charles offered his arm, and she took it while they silently made their way back to Padraig’s tent. He offered an apology and a short bow before he opened the flap for her to enter.
Catherine hesitated and gazed at Charles who stared straight ahead with sightless eyes. “Charles…” she began.
He gave a heavy sigh and finally looked at her. “How may I be of service, my lady?” he asked with all formality.
His tone broke her heart, and she could see how hurt he was by her refusal. “Please tell me we can go on as before? I cannot stand that you are looking right through me as if I do not exist.”
“I will try, my lady. Now go… as you said… your brother awaits.” He gave another short bow and left her.
Padraig and Nicola were both sitting in their chairs as if they were king and queen and their loyal subject was late. Their son Patrick was nowhere to be seen. Her brother took one look at her and lifted his cup.
“I have good news, Catherine,” he declared with a salute. “The duke has chosen a suitable husband for you, and I could not in good faith gainsay him.”
Catherine’s brow lifted. “And just who is this paragon of a knightly man that you have all but sold me to for England’s sake?” She lifted her chin, refusing to let her brother and his wife see her as anything but courageous when she only felt weak.
“’Tis a good match, sister,” Nicola answered on her brother’s behalf.
“Who?” she shouted.
Padraig set his cup down on the table next to his chair, his smile turning into a grim line of displeasure at her outburst.
“Douglas of Berwyck,” her brother answered flatly.
“D-Douglas of B-Berwyck?” she stammered in shock. Of all the knights in attendance, he was the last man she would have thought her brother would allow her to wed. But mayhap, ’twas more of the duke’s decision than Padraig’s.