14
God’s toes, but this monk’s bed was hard, doubtless the better to mortify the flesh and therefore the soul. Ross swore silently, certain he’d slept on rocky ground more comfortable. He would give thought to getting up and joining the men-at-arms in the stable, except Cate had finally fallen asleep. She seemed to have discovered a mattress to her liking, as she was lying more on him than on the miserable excuse for a bed.
Not that he minded. Her weight and soft curves satisfied him in some curious way. Odd, that, when she might be a murderess.
The attack this evening was no random incident by a roving outlaw band. The men had been disciplined, well mounted and protected by chain mail. They had chosen their trap well, and waited for the perfect time to spring it. He’d wager his firstborn son that Trilborn was behind it. Ross’s only question was whether Cate had known it was coming.
Conceited though it might be, he found it difficult to believe she would prefer Trilborn to him. Still, who knew the mind of a woman? It was possible she felt an Englishman would be easier to understand, less difficult to manage.
Even with his doubts, Ross could not resist coming to her, bedding her. He must be bewitched. Could be there was something to this curse, after all. Could be it made fools of the men it did not kill.
He had not told her they would be leaving on the morn after their wedding night. It was no oversight, but a deliberate ploy. How could she have known to send a message then, and when could she have sent it, when he had taken her straight to their chamber? The chance that she had slipped from their bed afterward was minuscule. He had kept her too busy, had left her too wearied for it. That was more desperate need than plan, but the results were surely the same.
Her wild concern as she sought his location during the skirmish, her wifely dread that he might be injured, had seemed real enough. Her need of him just now had been extreme, her generosity marked, almost humbling. What was he to think of that, except that she wanted him? It could be feigned, a woman’s ruse to cloud his judgment. If so, it had been successful. He was more ready to make excuses for her now than he had been the night before.
Most men would not dare. Fearful for their life and immortal soul against such magic, they would repudiate her forthwith. What man wanted a wife who might smile and open herself to him one moment and attempt to see him dead the next? Ross did.
Against all caution and common sense, he desired this woman and no other. The last thing he could allow was for her to know it, however. That was a weakness he could not afford.
She felt his lack of trust, he thought. She was more reserved, more closed against him. She might give her body to him, might take pleasure in his caresses and give pleasure in return, but she allowed nothing else. It annoyed him, that determined self-possession. For all his suspicion, he wanted to see once more the acceptance he had glimpsed once or twice in the heaven’s blue of her eyes, back before they were commanded to wed.
As if sensing the disturbance of his thoughts, Cate murmured in her sleep, settling closer against him, drawing up one knee across his thigh. He reached to tuck the blanket, his plaid and her mantle closer around her. Sighing, he closed his eyes. Here in this safe place, with Cate in his arms, sleep came with the sudden force of a headsman’s ax.
“Is it safe, going on with fewer men-at-arms?”
Cate asked the question of her husband where he lounged on the bed, watching while Gwynne, favoring the cut leg, braided Cate’s hair. She could not imagine what Ross found so entrancing in the sight, yet he sat with his back to the stone wall and one wrist resting on his bent knee, hardly looking away. Surely he had more important tasks, such as checking on the injured men they would be leaving behind, and seeing all was ready for their departure. Of course, he might have done that already, as he had left their small chamber while it was still dark, and was only just returned to it.
“We have to go,” he answered, “or risk being trapped here.”
“What if those who set upon us are waiting outside, or somewhere farther along the road?”
“The reason we leave at once, before Trilborn can gather a larger complement around him.”
“You are certain he was behind it then.” She risked a glance in Ross’s direction, but his set features told her nothing. It was beyond her understanding how a man could hold her so tenderly, touch her with such magic, then look at her as if nothing had happened between them.
“Who else?”
The words were so short and laden with scorn that she frowned. “How am I to know? He is your enemy.”
“So he is.”
“Bend your head, milady.” Gwynne, done with braiding, stood ready to add her veil.
Cate did not make the mistake of thinking the serving woman paid no attention because she kept her gaze lowered. Cate gave her an ironic glance as she allowed her to set in place a flat cap to which the square of linen was attached, tying it under her braid.
“At least we survived the attack,” Cate said. “That must mean something.”
“Oh, aye. It means a close watch was kept for trouble and, all praise to Henry, we had a larger escort than might have been expected.”
“Agreed, on both counts. Still, you allow nothing for the terms of the curse?”
He snorted. “Nay, but I’ve a question about this curse of yours.”
“Yes?” She stood still while Gwynne put her into a padded tunic that fastened under each arm.
“Is there no provision for your feelings? Can you not reverse the effects if you fall in love with the man chosen as your husband?”
That was the same question that had troubled her since Marguerite had hinted at it earlier. It had never occurred to Cate before, because she and her sisters had never known their previous grooms in advance of the betrothals.
“I have no idea,” she said with a small shake of her head.
“When you decide,” he said, pushing himself to his feet and striding toward the door, “you might let me know.”
Infuriating man, to leave in the middle of such a discussion. Her first impulse was to stride after him to continue.
No, it might be better left alone. If he cared only for his skin, she did not want to know it. And if he wished to inquire if she loved him, she would not have him think the question held any particular importance to her. Not that it did, of course. How could it, when it was quite clear that Ross Dunbar might enjoy having her in his bed, but had little care for her outside it?
He didn’t love her.
Why, then, was he still alive? Why?
They rode out long before dawn, covering considerable ground before the sunrise tinted the snow-white world with pink and rose-red, lavender and gold. Every tangled briar and tree branch sparkled with diamond fire. The air was like some icy elixir. The sun, in its climb heavenward, touched them with vagrant warmth.
They made good time, pushed by threat and Ross’s exhortations. A dozen times during that long day, he rode ahead to scan the countryside and then galloped back to harry their column from the rear. They rested less often and kindled no fires. On edge, watchful and weary of the endless, jarring ride, they endured in silence. By day’s end, they were glad beyond words to reach a priory, even though the prioress required men and women coming under her jurisdiction to sleep apart, in separate buildings.
It rained during the night, a solid downpour that was still falling when they set out again the next morning. The mood among them was as grim as the weather. Ross seemed particularly ill-tempered, his commands sharp-edged. Only part of it was caused by the wet ride and quagmire of a road they were following, at least according to Gwynne. The rest, she said, could be laid to his being forced to sleep alone. Cate wished she could believe her.
Nothing was seen of Trilborn or any other danger on this third day. All they encountered were a covey of wool merchants with their wares, pilgrims traveling together for protection, a troupe of players in a gaily painted wagon and a Scots messenger riding along with a ragtag company of knights bound for a tourney.
The last wore a plaid Ross seemed to recognize, for he hailed him in sharp query. On closer viewing, even Cate could see that the swath of wool cloth the man had around him had a weave in colors very similar to Ross’s blue, gray and red. The two of them drew aside, speaking in the rapid burr of Scots Gaelic. The man handed Ross a leather pouch he carried. Almost immediately, Ross ordered a halt in the protection of a copse of beech trees, and allowed fires to be lit.
While a meal was prepared, Ross remained in conversation with his countryman, standing at some small distance from both the women and the men-at-arms. Cate did her best to ignore them, though she and Marguerite waited with scant patience to learn what this chance meeting portended. That it signified something seemed plain from the grim lines of her husband’s face.
The newly met Scotsman warmed himself and shared their meal of bread and beef, drinking from the wineskin that was passed from one man to another. When done, he and Ross clasped each other’s arms above the wrist in the double grip of kinship. The messenger mounted up then, and made ready to join their column until he must split away back toward Scotland.
Ross walked apart, opened the messenger bag and took a leather-wrapped bundle from it. Opening it, he stood perfectly still as he read the contents. The wind, damp with the rain and mist, tossed his plaid about his knees, ruffled his hair and swung the sporran dangling below his waist. He appeared not to notice. After a moment, he crammed the message back inside, turned and shouted the order to mount up.
Cate made no move to obey. Instead, she walked to where he stood with the messenger bag trailing from its strap in his hand.
“What is it?” she asked in quiet concern.
“Nothing.”
“Has someone died? Is it your father?”
“Nay, he’s well enough.”
“And the rest of your family?”
“Lost to me.”
An odd ache settled in her heart for the pain she saw behind the hard mask of his face. “You are disowned. It’s official then.”
“Banished, denied, no longer of the Dunbar clan nor welcome on Dunbar lands. You, my lady, are married to a man without kith or kin, or prospects beyond those conferred by an English king he should not despise.”
She caught her bottom lip between her teeth, hesitating before she spoke. “It isn’t unexpected.”
“No. What I didn’t expect was that Henry would send to my father, saying that my days as a hostage were done and I was free to return home.”
“Is that not a good thing?”
Ross turned his dark blue gaze upon her. “Not when the old laird declares that Henry might as well have killed me and been done with it, since I am dead to him and all who ever knew me, and have been since the banns were first read.”
“You expected no less,” she said, placing her fingers on his arm in a gesture of compassion.
“That isn’t the same as receiving the notice.” He shook his head. “Dead to him. Mayhap there is something to your curse, after all.”
She gained no satisfaction from hearing Ross admit it. His loss, and his pain because of it, were too much her fault. Because of her, so many had turned against him. Like some strong and noble stag with the dogs on his heels, he seemed too close to defeat. She could not bear it.
“You have a family,” she said through the tightness in her throat. “You have me, my sisters and all who make Braesford their home. You have land, and can build a home and a clan of your own.”
His brief smile held recognition for her attempt at comfort, but little more. “It isn’t the same.”
“I’m so sorry.” The words were a whisper in the wind, a cry of the heart.
“So am I,” he answered, “so am I.”
In due course, they reached journey’s end. Topping a hill, they saw before them the manse known as Braesford Hall upon its high eminence, its battlemented pele tower topped by a straining blue-and-white pennant, and the straggling village like mud on the hem of its skirting of high stone walls.
There was no need to hail the gate. They had been seen long before, so it stood open to their arrival with the portcullis raised, showing a hint of mellow red brick in the manse walls beyond. A chorus of trumpets sounded, echoing away over the hills. Hounds poured out of the doorway in the base of the tower. And there was Braesford and Isabel following after them, the baron cradling small Madeleine who chewed happily on her thumb, coming forward to welcome them to their home.
What followed was a confusion of laughter and tears as sisters embraced, exclaimed and cooed over baby Madeleine’s fine red-gold curls, talking so fast they tripped over their words, holding on to each other as if they had been parted for years instead of mere months. Cate and Marguerite made much over Isabel’s condition, which showed as a nicely rounded hump under her accommodating gown. A little shorter than Cate, more blonde than Marguerite, Isabel bloomed in her prospective motherhood. Rand, tall and forbidding in repose, with his hair shining like a raven’s wing in the sun, grinned as they teased him about being a father. His gaze seldom strayed from Isabel for long, however, and his gray eyes shone silver with love as they rested on his wife.
The curse had tested the two of them, Cate told herself as she looked from one to the other. Yet it had finally allowed them to be together. Might it not do the same again?
Through it all, Ross stood apart, his gaze watchful. That was until Cate turned to him, drawing him forward. She was astonished at the sudden swell of pride inside her as she began, “Allow me to present my husband.”
Rand, Baron Braesford, took charge then, directing the men-at-arms to where they would be billeted, also assigning men to help Gwynne see to their female baggage. Immediately afterward, he swept them from the public court where laundry women and kitchen maids, blacksmiths, cobblers and lounging men-at-arms were being entertained by the reunion . With unconscious command, he ushered them up the tower’s curving stair and into the vast comfort of his great hall.
Ale and wine were pressed upon them, though little else, since it was not long until the main meal of the day. This small hiatus gave time for baths to be prepared, to remove the dirt of travel before they ate. While they satisfied their thirst, Ross and Braesford spoke of the situation along the Scots border, though Braesford’s young squire, David, a blond gentleman with sapphire eyes and the face of a Botticelli angel, spent his time gazing at Marguerite. Cate and Isabel indulged in a fine gossip about the latest scandals, to which Marguerite contributed from time to time—when not slanting her brown eyes in David’s direction. In due course, the sisters were shown to their sleeping quarters.
Ross remained in the hall with Braesford, saying he would avail himself of the bathing tub when Cate was done. She was just as happy to be away from him for a short while, in all truth. They had been constantly in each other’s company during the journey, which was enough of a trial in their present circumstances. But he had been like a bear with a sore paw. Nothing had pleased him during this last stage of their travel, not the state of the road, the slant of the sun, the queries from the patrols of the noblemen through whose territory they crossed, or requests for necessary halts. More than once, Cate had been forced to bite her tongue to keep from lashing out at him. All that kept her from it was knowledge of the responsibility that sat upon his shoulders.
To undermine his authority for the sake of venting her temper would have been the height of stupidity, yet it had cost her. She needed a few minutes to herself to soothe her frazzled spirits.
They had reached Braesford with no further sign of Trilborn. The relief of it was intense; she could feel the knots of strain melting from her neck and shoulders. Closing her eyes, she leaned her head back against the edge of the linen-lined tub. She was so tired that she could almost go to sleep here. She might have, too, except the water was rapidly cooling and her stomach rumbling with hunger. Gwynne would be returning soon, as well, bearing clothing that was deliciously clean for a change. She would expect to bathe her, and Cate was in no mood for it, could not think of being touched just now by anyone except Ross. Since he was unlikely to return for the task, she took up the cloth and hard cake of Spanish soap and began to bathe herself.
Ross owed it to his host to apprise him of the situation with respect to Trilborn. Not that he thought the Englishman foolish enough to attempt an assault upon Braesford Hall; Trilborn preferred weaker, less well-guarded targets. Still, after his attempt to take Cate, it might be dangerous for Braesford’s good lady to ride without a heavy guard. Lady Isabel was so similar in coloring and size that she could easily be mistaken for her. More than that, she had value as a hostage. It might take Ross’s and Braesford’s combined efforts to prevent Cate from riding out to exchange herself for her sister under such circumstances, particularly as Isabel was with child.
The fire had been built up in the great hall, with its gridded and painted ceiling high above a stone floor laid with fresh rushes. The walls were hung with arras depicting a hunt of mythical beasts, as well as with ancient banners, swords and helms. The solid table on the dais was being set and trestles put together. The baron paid no attention, but sat with his feet stretched out to the fire while he played with the silky ears of the hound lying beside him. A keen look glimmered in his eyes as he glanced at his guest, but he made no effort to draw him out.
Ross spent some small amount of time lauding the holdings of his host and asking if there was aught he could tell him of Grimes Hall, Henry’s gift. Braesford knew the property well, as it happened. His own lands had come from the king after the battle of Bosworth placed Henry on the throne, so he had some idea of the questions in Ross’s mind. Without prompting, he gave him a fair notion of the size and value of his new holdings, and offered good counsel on a number of issues.
In due course, a small silence settled between them. Ross drained his tankard and sat turning it in his hands, his gaze on the leaping orange flames under the heavy mantel. “You’ll be wondering, I expect, how I came to wed Lady Catherine,” he said finally.
Braesford lifted a brow. “If you think I stand as guardian in any sense to Isabel’s sister, banish the notion.”
“Nay, not that. I know well she is a ward to Henry. But you may be of a mind to know how I came into it.”
“As to that, my lady and her sisters were convent educated. All read English, French and Latin, and write a hand far fairer than any I can produce. Cate has kept us apprised of events at Greenwich and Shene.”
The dry note in his host’s voice sent a tingle down the back of Ross’s neck. “All of them?”
“I take leave to doubt that, but enough.” Braesford allowed himself a smile. “We know the command to the altar came of a sudden. What we don’t know is what has brought you here so soon after it.”
Ross frowned. “If it isn’t convenient to have us, you have only to say—”
“Peace, brother, no Scots touchiness is required. You are more than welcome, as Isabel has been longing to see Cate and Marguerite. I’m glad to leave off finding excuses for why she must not ride to London in her present condition.”
Brother. Ross supposed they were that, in a way, being related now by marriage. The idea was not unpleasing. If he had been blessed with a brother a year or two older, it would have been fine to have one like Braesford. Emboldened by the exchange, he set out the adventure of their journey.
“So there is substance to the rumors of rebellion,” Braesford said with a frown when he was done.
“Aye, according to the reports of Henry’s agents. He plans to present the young duke of Warwick to prove the boy being touted as a lost prince is an imposter, for all the good it may do.”
“As he may face invasion whether the boy brought forth is Plantagenet or pretender.”
“And so I was sent in haste to ask that you man the beacon that tops your pele tower, and send to your neighbors to do the same.”
“I stand ready to comply, of course,” Braesford replied with some irony, “though I daresay it was a command.”
Ross tipped his head in mute agreement.
“As was your marriage. What say you to it now?”
“Needs must.”
“The Tower having no appeal? I do understand.”
Ross gave him a straight glance. “You endured it, so I’ve heard.”
“Oh, aye, though not because I objected to taking Isabel to wife. Never was there anything I wanted more, then or now.”
It was a strong man who could admit such weakness for a woman. The contentment in Braesford’s voice was unmistakable, however.
“You were in love with her before…” Ross stumbled to a halt. “Nay, I should not ask. ’Tis none of my affair.”
Cate’s brother-in-law chuckled. “I was. I am. But you have the curse in mind, I’ll warrant. You’ve survived it, so need not worry.”
“I’m not worried,” Ross answered, then lifted a shoulder. “Well, but what think you? Is it a true threat?”
“They believe it so, Isabel and her sisters.”
“That’s nay the same thing, is it now?”
Braesford eased lower in the chair, crossing his long legs. “A man’s mind can play strange tricks. Thinking a thing can sometimes make it so. Have you not seen the like?”
“Aye, I suppose.” His own certainty that he was meant to die in his bath by an assassin’s knife touched Ross for an instant. “A prophecy can also be made to come true.”
Braesford turned a pointed look upon him. “Meaning?”
“An unsuitable groom could be removed,” he continued in dogged determination.
“You think Cate wanted you dead?”
Put in such blunt words, it seemed unlikely, yet there was still the image of her poniard, gleaming as it fell into the bath. Ross explained in a few blunt phrases.
“What of Trilborn?”
“I don’t discount his fine hand in it, though he had been sent away from Shene Palace.”
“At least you have that much sense,” his brother-in-law said with a growl in his voice.
Ross refused to back down. “I am tied to a woman who expected me to die from the moment the king decreed the wedding. No one would have been surprised if I did. What could be easier than giving the curse a helping hand?”
“Yet you live. You are wed.”
“By luck and vigilance.”
“Think you Cate preferred another, and that’s her reason for having you killed?”
The specter of Leon, the French master of revels, flitted through Ross’s mind. It took an effort to unclench his teeth enough to make an answer. “I know not.”
“It can’t be Trilborn. I know him of old, though his holdings are more to the west.” Braesford sent Ross an assessing glance. “She must needs be a fool to take him over you, and Cate is no fool.”
“By the saints, no! She despises him, and with good reason.” Ross was sure of this much after her trembling relief at not falling into his hands on the night spent at the monastery.
“He would have her, regardless.”
“Oh, aye, and enjoy it for that reason,” Ross answered with contempt. “Though he claims to be besotted.”
“Is he?”
“Could be it’s her Graydon inheritance that enthralls him. Though you will know this, as your wife has a third of it.”
Braesford let that pass as he continued his thought. “So Trilborn must kill you now to get to it, and abduct Cate so the king may see fit to hand her and her inheritance over to him. Naturally, he will rape her to make it more likely.”
Ross’s hand curled into fists so tight his knuckles ached. Such forced alliances were by no means uncommon. “As you say.”
“For some men, passions such as avarice and rapine are enough. What of you? Have you no feelings for Cate? Did you have none before your vows were spoken?”
Ross gave him a hard stare.
A low laugh sounded in Braesford’s chest. “Oh, aye, not my affair.”
Quiet descended that was really not quiet at all, but carried an undercurrent of the whining wind that whipped around the battlements, the quiet crackle of the fire at their feet, low murmurs from the butlery and pantry where the meal was being prepared, and muted thumping where trestles were being laid with trenchers somewhere behind them.
The two men stared into the flames until finally Braesford stirred, spoke in low consideration. “As I see it, you have two choices.”
“And they would be?” Ross could not forebear to ask, though he was wary of the answer.
“You can leave your bride behind here at Braesford while you take up your new lands without encumbrance, or you can see to it she would rather have you alive than dead.”
Ross considered it. He thought with immense concentration of being free of Cate as his wife, of leaving her with her sister and never holding her, never taking her into his arms and his bed again. He thought of it for the span of an entire breath.
“With your permission, I will leave her here while I inspect this Grimes Hall, as I know not what I will find there.” The place might be a ruin for all he knew of it, fit only for vermin. It might be overrun with men-at-arms awaiting his arrival. It might have no bed worthy of the name, much less of Lady Catherine.
“And then?” Braesford said in soft inquiry.
“And then I will keep her close beside me, the better to know her every move.”
Amusement gleamed silver bright in Braesford’s eyes. “I see.”
Ross feared that he did see, and all too well. He was married to the eldest of the Three Graces, after all.