Читать книгу Taming The Lion - Suzanne Barclay - Страница 12

Chapter Four

Dawn came slowly, pale fingers of light stealing over the jagged mountain peaks and in through the window in Catlyn’s narrow bedchamber. She greeted the sight with a sigh of relief and climbed from bed.

Sleep had been long in coming last night and filled with dreams when it did. Dreams of a magnificent black-haired man with eyes of sizzling blue.

Ross Lion Sutherland.

Groaning, Catlyn dragged herself across the chilly room, washed her face, braided her hair and pulled on a faded brown gown. She tried to keep her mind on the tasks. ahead of her today, but it kept drifting back to the strange dreams.

She and Ross had been walking through a field of golden barley. Her field. She should have been busy seeing to the harvest; she had preferred being with him. He laughed, and her heart felt lighter than it had in months. He held out his hand, and she wanted to take it. To follow where he led, even though it meant leaving Kennecraig.

Catlyn shivered and chafed the gooseflesh from her arms. It was a dream, nothing more. She would never leave Kennecraig. That she had vowed on her father’s soul.

She threw a light cape over her arm, for the cellars were cold, even in summer, and hurried into the dim corridor. Habit slowed her steps outside her mother’s door. Hoping her mother had slept better than she had, Catlyn headed for the great hall.

“Lady Catlyn!” The deep voice of the man she had hoped to avoid echoed down the corridor from behind her.

Run, urged her instinct for survival. Pride stayed her steps. She stopped, braced herself and looked over her shoulder.

He advanced toward her through the gloom, his movements quick and lithe, his smile a white slash in his tanned face.

“Were you lying in wait for me?” she asked sharply. Eoin had taken to doing that till Adair threatened to turn him out.

“Nay.” He halted close to her, so close the tips of his boots nudged the hem of her skirt.

Catlyn fought the urge to run. “I thought you were, er—”

“Confined to my room, or rather, your solar?” He grinned, something he did often. “Adair said we might be about the keep.”

“Oh.” She fumbled for words. “Why are you are up so early?”

“It is my custom, but today I was up before the sun, anxious to check on my wounded men.”

“Ah. How fare they?”

“Well enough. One of the men-at-arms took an arrow to the arm, but is already up and about. My squire...” He sighed.

“The lad? He is worse?”

“A little fevered and restless. I feared he’d tear out the stitches your Freda set in his shoulder, so I came up to fetch this.” He held out a dark object. “I should have asked before borrowing it, but I did not realize you would be awake.”

Catlyn squinted. “A book?”

“Yours, or at least it and two others were in the solar. The Green Knight. I thought the tale might entertain Callum.”

“It is in French.”

“You already pointed out that I speak it.”

“And read it?”

“Not as well as Father Simon would have liked.” His smile turned rueful. “As a lad, I was more interested in swordplay and the like, but Mama and Papa insisted we all learn.”

“My brother felt the same way about studies,” she said.

“You have a brother?”

Into her mind flashed the image of Thom, lying cold and still in a pool of blood. Guilt rose in her throat.

Catlyn shook her head and shoved the memory away. “He died when he was ten and five.”

“I feel for you,” he said gently.

And Catlyn believed he did. As she stared into his eyes, she fancied she saw her own pain reflected there. “Thank you.”

“I have two younger brothers and a sister. Much as they did plague me when we were growing up, I do love them dearly.”

“You are fortunate to have a large family.”

“Aye.” Something shifted in his eyes, a shadow of remorse or a trick of the light? “I did not fully appreciate how much they meant to me until just lately.”

“I, too, took my family for granted,” her heart contracted, “not realizing how precious they are till they are gone.”

“Or threatened.” His voice went hard and flat. “When your family is in danger, you will do anything to protect them.”

Catlyn nodded, understanding that grim determination. Sharing it. “My father died a month ago while taking a shipment of whiskey to Doune. I know Hakon had a hand in it, though I cannot prove it. As I stood over Papa’s grave, I vowed on his soul that Hakon would not get Kennecraig, too.”

“That is a large undertaking.”

“For a woman?”

“For anyone. From what I saw, he is ruthless and canny.”

“We will survive.”

His eyes locked on hers, and his expression changed. What looked like respect flickered in their azure depths, along with something else. Something strong and earthy.

Catlyn’s pulse quickened, and her skin prickled. She could not move, could only stare into those compelling eyes, acutely aware of him on some new level. She inhaled sharply, her senses filled with the unique scent of soap and man. This man. Never before had she felt so small, fragile and wholly female.

“Catlyn,” he whispered.

Never had her name sounded so beautiful and lush. “Aye,” she murmured, her body warming, melting.

“I...” He lifted a hand, grazing her cheek with the backs of his fingers. “I am sorry, I—” He started, dropping his hand as though he’d been burned, shattering the moment.

Catlyn blinked. “What?”

“I am sorry,” he said again, eyes flat and shuttered.

For touching her? Confused, Catlyn turned away from him, tripped over her hem and would have fallen had he not grabbed hold of her elbow. Even that slight contact sent a jolt up her arm. She looked at him again and saw her dazed features reflected in his eyes. Or was he as confused as she? “What is it? What is happening?” she whispered.

For a long moment, he did not reply, just studied her, as though seeing her for the first time. When he spoke, his voice was low and harsh. “You are a most unusual lass.”

Catlyn tried not to be hurt. “Thank you, I think.” She dredged up a smile and freed her arm. “If you will excuse me, I have much to do today.” It astonished her that she had wasted so much time talking to him. It frightened her that she had felt at ease doing it. Turning away, she started down the hall.

He kept pace beside her. “I wonder if I could beg a favor?”

Glancing sidelong at him, she saw the easy smile was back. “I doubt you have ever begged anything from a woman.”

He laughed, the sound, deep and infectious. How could a large man manage to look like a lad caught in a falsehood?

Catlyn couldn’t help but smile. “What do you want?”

“Hmm.” He arched one black brow, teasing. “You should not ask a man that, lass. Gives him all sorts of ideas.”

“I am not the sort of woman men get ideas about,” she said crisply, braced for a flood of false compliments.

“Then you’ve not met the right sort of man.”

“Mmm.”

“But as to the boon,” he said as they reached the stairwell. “Would you read to Callum? I speak French well enough, but I read so slowly the story would suffer.”

“I am far too busy,” Catlyn said quickly. Too quickly.

“Are you?”

Catlyn sighed and stopped. Because they’d spoken openly about losing family, she felt she owed him the truth. “I cannot be near the wounded.” She looked down at her knotted fingers. “It’s the blood.” No matter how she fought it, the sight of blood turned her stomach. Even saying the word made her shudder.

“Why? What happened?”

“I cannot speak of it.” She gritted her teeth, trying not to remember the horrible way she’d found her brother.

“Callum’s wound is completely bandaged.”

“It would not matter. I...I would know.” She shivered.

“Easy. I am sorry to upset you.”

Catlyn nodded. “And I am sorry I cannot do as you ask. It is my mother’s book in any case. I have no time for romances.”

“Indeed?” He cocked his head. “You should find time.”

Catlyn shrugged, uncomfortable with the subject. “You must be fond of your squire to worry so.”

“It is my fault. Had he not placed himself between me and a Fergusson ax, he’d not have been wounded.”

Catlyn gasped. “You were nearly killed?”

“Nay, my armor would have blunted the worst of the blow, but it cut right through—” He cleared his throat. “Suffice to say, he was hurt in my place.”

“I see,” Catlyn mumbled, shaken to learn he could have been hurt. Last night it would not have mattered so, but something had changed while they stood talking this morning. She had begun to see him not as a shallow rogue, but as a compassionate man who cared for his family, his men and even for her losses. She could not afford to care about him. “I will pray for Callum’s swift recovery.” And your swift departure from my life. Picking up her skirts, she scampered down the stairs.

Catlyn half feared, half hoped he would follow her. That spark of anticipation worried her. She must find Old Freda and ask when the wounded would be able to ride.

Ross stared after Catlyn till she turned the corner and disappeared from sight. Tempted as he was to go after her, he knew better than to press the slender advantage he’d gained.

It had been worth the hour spent lurking outside her door for the chance to waylay her. And the book had worked as well as he had hoped, giving them a common interest, a base from which to launch his assault on her defenses. They had not crumbled, but there were chinks in them.

The victory left a sour taste in his mouth.

You cannot afford to admire her, Mathew had said last night.

Ross doubted his cousin would be pleased to hear that he not only respected her but lusted after her as well.

There was no other word for the flash of heat that had passed between them as they gazed into each other’s eyes. The unexpected quickening sensation had rocked him, mocked him. It was surely the greatest perversity that he should desire the woman he had come to betray.

For one mad moment, Ross considered following Catlyn, telling her why he was really here and...

And what? Throwing himself on her mercy? She had no reason to help him, not when it would mean betraying her clan.

Growling a curse, he slapped the flat of his hand against the stone wall of the stairwell.

He had no choice but to go ahead.

Ross walked quickly to the sickroom on the ground floor, his soul in turmoil. The room was unadorned but clean and comfortable. It touched him that the Boyds had given his injured squire this bit of quiet space. “Sorry I was so long, lad, but I’ve brought back the book I mentioned.”

Callum smiled wanly, his face paler than usual beneath a shock of thick red hair.

“Is something wrong?” Ross hurried to the bed.

“Nay, only...” Callum’s eyes strayed to the book. “I’d rather be fighting than hearing about it.”

“Ah.”

“I thought it was just a ruse to speak with the lady.”

“In part it was.”

Callum levered himself up on the pillows, wincing slightly. “Did it work? Did you get what we came for?”

“Not yet, but I think she trusts me a bit more.” It struck Ross ill that he’d involved this innocent lad in his sordid business. He had considered leaving him at Stirling, but had foolishly thought Callum would be safer with him than fending for himself. “About the battle we fought with the Fergussons...”

“Freda said I would have a scar.” Callum beamed. “Not as big a one as you’ve got on your leg, but proof I was in battle.”

Ross grunted and strolled over to the bed, shaken by how close he’d come to losing the boy. “I know you reacted out of instinct, but next time you see a man coming from my blind side, call out to me instead of stepping up to take the blow.” The gentleness of his tone belied the horror he’d felt when he’d heard Callum scream.

“Mathew says a squire’s first duty is to guard his lord’s back,” Callum replied defensively.

“But not with your body.” Ross laid a hand on Callum’s unhurt shoulder. “I mean to see you knighted.”

“’Tis my fondest dream, too, my lord.”

“Then see you are alive to do so.”

“Aye.” Callum looked down, but his meekness lasted only a moment. His head came up, his brown eyes dancing again. “A maid brought me broth while you were gone. I had to let her feed me, but I asked her questions.”

“Oh, Callum.”

“I was clever about it.”

“I am certain you were, but—”

“Brita is her name, and her father is Roland, the head distiller. She helps with preparing the barley mash. She told me that Lady Catlyn keeps records of everything they do in a book.”

“Callum.”

“But this could be what you’re looking for,” the lad cried.

Ross groaned and sat down on the stool beside the bed. “Aye, it could be, but I do not want you endangering yourself by prying into things.”

“I wanted to help.” His lip came out. “Dallas came by to see how I was. He said that he and the other lads are gathering information. I just wanted to help,” he said again.

“You can help by getting well. But not too quickly.”

“What?”

Ross smiled and ruffled Callum’s carrot red hair. “The Boyds are a wary lot. The only reason they have let us stay is because you and Ned were hurt. Ned took an arrow to the arm, but he’s already up and about. Once you are well enough to ride, they will doubtless send us on our way.”

“Even if we have not found the recipe.”

“I can not use that as an excuse, can I?” Ross asked dryly.

“That is true,” Callum said seriously.

Ross hid a smile. “But if you were to act weak-like.”

“They would have to let us stay,” Callum said.

“It will not be easy, lad. You must pretend to sleep a lot and not ask questions. Sick men have not the strength or the will for that.”

“I suppose.”

“Meantime, I will look for this book you’ve mentioned.”

Callum smiled. “You can count on me, my lord.”

“Visiting the patient, Sir Ross?” inquired a dry voice. Freda stood in the gloomy corridor. Old and gnarled as an ancient tree, she leaned heavily on a walking stick and stared at him out of dark, suspicious eyes.

How much had she heard? Ross wondered.

“Freda,” Callum whispered. “I’m glad you’ve come. My shoulder aches something fierce.” He had slumped against the pillows, his usually pale skin adding to the deception.

“Oh, dear.” The old woman swept into the room, stick thumping out a frantic tattoo as she crossed to the bed. Muttering under her breath, she fussed with the bandage, then laid a hand on his forehead. “Ye don’t feel warm.”

“Inside I do,” Callum said weakly.

Ross rolled his eyes. Is this what he had become, a man who encouraged the honest youths in his care to lie? It little eased his conscience that the safety of his clan was at stake.

“Hmm, well, I dinna suppose it would hurt to dose ye with my sorrel tonic, just to be safe.” Freda straightened and looked at Ross. “My lady inquired after the lad a bit ago. I told her he was mending fine and like to be fit for the saddle in a day or so, but if the fever takes him...”

Ross nodded, glad this was only an act. “I would not be able to lme with myself if something happened to him,” he honestly replied.

“Hmm. Catlyn said ye were fond of this scamp.” The healer smiled at Callum, then hobbled to the chest in the corner and began to rummage through it. “Where is that sorrel?”

Callum grinned slyly at Ross.

Ross scowled. “Take care you do not overdo, Callum. I leave him in your capable hands, then, Dame Freda.”

“Aye.” She waved him off with a weathered hand. “Run along but mind ye stay out of trouble. Don’t need any more injured men cluttering up the place.”

Ross grunted. “I’ll be back later, Callum. See you mind Dame Freda.” As he stepped into the corridor, a figure materialized from the gloom. Ross’s hand fell to his sword.

“Easy.” His cousin, Dallas MacLellan, moved into a pale circle of torchlight, his expression taut. He made an excellent spy, for his brown eyes and unremarkable features attracted little attention. Few guessed that beneath that plain exterior dwelt a mind as sharp as flint. “I strolled past the doors you believe lead to the distillery, but a pair of guards now stands watch before them.”