18
Ross lifted the tent flap and stepped inside with acidic rage burning in his chest and a red haze rising behind his eyes. There she was, by all the saints, just as he had been told.
Cate, his wife, stood like an apparition in the middle of the space he shared with Braesford. Pale and resolute, she had her hands clasped in front of her. Her face was smudged with dirt, her clothing carried dust in its folds and mud at the hem, and she was as redolent of sweat and horse as he was himself. He wanted to beat her for the risk she had taken, the danger she had passed through to reach him. That was after he took her down to the tent’s earthen floor and buried himself inside her.
“Are you mad?” he demanded in a low growl as he paced forward, slinging the helm he carried aside so it bounced off the stretched canvas of the cot and rolled to a stop against the tent wall. “What in God’s holy name possessed you that you are here?”
Apprehension sprang into her clear blue eyes as she met his gaze, and well it should. Never had he felt such sick, roiling fury and terror. Anything could have happened to her between Braesford Hall and here, anything at all. She had no idea of the brutality of men primed for war, no notion whatever of the things they were capable of doing. She could be lying dead in a ditch somewhere, raped, strangled, maimed, mutilated, stripped of all her lovely pride and dignity. Lost to him, lost forever.
God…
“I came because I had to,” she said, her lips trembling, tears shimmering along her eyelids. “I came because…”
She was swaying, almost dead on her feet with weariness and strained nerves; he saw that finally as he came within reach. With a groan, he caught her shoulders and drew her to him, closing her against him with desperate strength. He felt her shudder then, and burrow into him as if trying to crawl inside his clothes, into his body, into his heart.
“Tell me,” he whispered into the dusty veil that covered her hair, while sudden hot tears burned behind his eyes. “Tell me.”
The news she brought was difficult to understand at first. Trilborn had been at Braesford Hall, had let fall information about Yorkist movements. He had almost certainly gone over to the cause of the pretender. An injury for an injury was the code of the border, whether Scots or Sassenach. Betrayal was the least of what they should have expected from him.
If Trilborn intended to rejoin the army Henry was gathering, then there was a reason for it. Could be it was only to keep a foot in both camps, ready to jump toward the winning side. The reason could also be more sinister. A king who fell in battle by the hand of a supposed friend was as dead as one killed by a foe.
Anger still scourged his veins, but with it ran hot pride. Cate, his Cate, had brought this news that might change the course of the battle to come. She had served Henry a fine turn, had served them all well.
“Come,” he said in rough command, “you must speak to Henry. Then you may rest.”
She drew a breath that lifted her breasts against him so he felt their firmness, their soft resilience even through his chain mail. “Yes.”
He hardened like steel in a forge, his need fiery, tempered and lethal. “But first…”
She drew back to look at him. Her lips were chapped by wind and weather, yet had never looked so sweet. He took them in rough possession, branding them with his heat, thrusting inside as if she were a spring and he dying of thirst. His hands plundered her curves, molding them, remembering. He pushed her veil aside, tangled his fingers in her hair in an agony of need. He wanted her beneath him, surrounding him, panting as she clung. He needed her as he had needed nothing in his life, and in spite of men passing, laughing, shouting oaths and profane ribaldry just beyond the flimsy walls.
He wanted her, but couldn’t have her. Not yet, not yet.
Drawing away with a wrench, he turned his back, clung to the center tent pole with a vicious grip while exerting every ounce of control he possessed. She touched his shoulder, and he shuddered, tried beyond bearing. Then he shook himself, turned to help her adjust her veil, and led her out to find the king.
Events moved then with the speed of a diving hawk. Henry and his commanders, headed by the duke of Bedford and his companion from his exile years, John de Vere, earl of Oxford, met in hurried conference. Within moments, the order to march swept through the encampment. An hour more, and they were tramping toward Nottingham.
Ross, riding in the vanguard, cursed with every inch of the road that fell away behind them. Cate was somewhere far back in the baggage train. If she had arrived only a few days earlier, while the king was at Kenilworth, she could have been left in safety there with Henry’s queen and the duchess, his mother. Instead, she had found them at Leicester. Ross could have left her there, but did not trust the town not to be overrun if the Yorkists prevailed. So now she was riding with the laundresses, prostitutes and wives of common soldiers, probably learning a goodly amount more than a lady should know about an army on the move and the needs of men about to face battle.
It could not be helped.
She was where he wanted her to be, where he could protect her at need.
Protect her. Now wasn’t that a fine word for it?
He had promised rest for her, but there had been no time. Mayhap tonight.
How was she faring? He would ride back down the line to check on her in a few minutes, when his need to see was not so obvious. He would not have her made the butt of coarse suggestions because he could not stay away. It would not aid Henry in the least if Ross was forced to kill a few dozen of his men for their insults.
He could, just possibly, arrange a covered cart for her use, he thought, one that might keep most of the sun and dust from her. If she was able to sleep a short while, then he need not feel such a selfish bastard if he made love to her when they finally halted for the night. Though at the unrelenting pace set by the earl of Oxford, that might come late, if at all.
It was near dusk when Ross heard the thud of hoofbeats coming up fast behind him. He turned in the saddle to see Trilborn overtaking him. Contempt gathered inside him and he put his hand on his dirk. That the man had not been arrested on sight amazed him, but the decision rested with the king. No doubt he had his reasons for letting him go free. He often played a deep game, did Henry VII.
“Well, Dunbar,” Trilborn said as he drew even, “I see your lovely lady wife has joined you.”
Something raw and dangerous moved inside Ross. He resented Trilborn even knowing Cate, much less speaking of her with such familiarity. “She has.”
“If I had known she would be so inspired by my talk of Henry’s movements that she’d set off to war, I’d have made certain to ride with her.”
“I’m sure you would,” Ross answered with a snort.
“I followed as quickly as I could, of course.” Trilborn drew his mount to a walk beside him. “Females are wonderful creatures, but notorious for confusing details, particularly on places and directions.”
“Is that what you told the king?”
“Oh, he knew it already. Henry has a fine appreciation for the ladies, but trusts only his sainted mother.”
Was it possible Henry had discounted the news Cate had brought him? Ross’s hand tightened on his reins at the thought, so his mount curveted, leaping a few steps ahead of Trilborn, before he brought the strong black destrier under control again.
“Lady Catherine is uncommonly canny,” he said as he returned to the Englishman’s side.
Trilborn gave a hard laugh. “It goes with some members of the breed, don’t you find? I do admire your sang-froid in dealing with the charming witch you married.”
“Witch?” he said in soft inquiry, his eyes narrowed.
“Oh, I’ll not name her that where others may hear,” Trilborn answered with a shrug. “She’s far too winsome to burn. Yet a lady who pays to have her betrothed dispatched so she need not wed is hardly in the common way.”
“Take care,” Ross said with menace in his voice. “You are speaking of my wife.”
“Better yours than mine! I pay no heed to a few scratches while bedding a woman, but prefer not to be sliced to ribbons. The poniard carried by Lady Catherine is a pretty trifle, but damnably sharp.”
Hard on the words, he kicked his horse into a lope and drew away. Circling, he rode back down the line of marching men to a place near the center. Ross watched him go while virulent curses formed in his head.
What did Trilborn know of Cate’s knife? Yes, and what made him think Cate had paid an assassin to try to kill him? Only he, Cate and possibly her sisters knew of the attempt, as far as he was aware. Well, and the assassin.
It was lunacy, the ravings of a man who could not bear to be bested, especially by a woman. If Trilborn could not separate her from his enemy one way, he would do it another. If he could not punish her for making him look foolish, he would persuade her husband to do it for him.
Cate would never deal with such a dastard; she despised Trilborn for the way he had hounded her and hurt her. She knew him for a traitor, had ridden through countless dangers to bring news of it.
Ross knew these things with his head, but his heart pounded in his chest and he felt sick to his stomach. It was what happened when a man married a woman who wanted none of him. It had to be considered when the bride was protected by an ancient curse.
Cate lay full-length on the cot with her hands behind her head. By the light of a single candle in its pierced tin lantern, she stared at the tent above her as it billowed in the night wind. Now and then the blue-white flash of lightning filled the space with its spectral glow. She flinched each time, frowned at the far grumble of thunder that followed. Her nerves were tied in knots and her mind in turmoil. Where was Ross and what was he doing with a storm bearing down upon the encampment?
She was tired and on edge. They had marched until late. When they halted, she had alighted from the cart found for her, and walked down to the river where they had camped, along with two of the laundresses she had become acquainted with during the day. They had washed a few things by lantern light, standing ankle-deep in the flowing current, then had bathed away the dust and sweat of the march. Cate had not lingered, however, thinking Ross might have come to the tent during her absence.
He had not, nor had she seen him since.
The two men, apparently assigned to Ross, who put up the tent, had ushered her inside and brought food and drink. She had eaten alone, and then sat down to wait.
She still waited.
Ross had duties and responsibilities; his time was not his own. It wasn’t his fault she had nothing to do and the passing hours weighed heavily upon her. She should try to sleep, for morning and more riding would come all too soon. She had napped during the afternoon, however, and was not at all sleepy now. She was too keyed up, too fearful of what was going to happen. Soon, too soon, they would meet with the invading force led by the earl of Lincoln. The two armies would clash in battle; it could be no other way.
Had they landed yet, the Yorkist contingent with its Irishmen and German mercenaries? Were their numbers greater than those that would fight for the king? Where were they marching? Was the boy being touted as Edward VI with them? Were men flocking to his standard? Where would the two forces face off against each other?
Where would Ross be when they did? Yes, and how would he be killed?
No, no, she refused to think of it. He was too strong, too skilled with a sword, too experienced. He could not die. He must not.
The candle flared, even behind its protective tin, as the tent flap was thrust open. Ross ducked inside and straightened to his full height, so the shadow that slid over the canvas walls appeared that of a giant. His hair was damp and wind-tossed, and he carried his mailed shirt and coif over his arm. A black scowl sat upon his features.
Alarm skittered down her spine, but she refused to let him see it. Pushing up to one elbow, she fixed him with a frown as deep as his own. “Where have you been?”
“Seeing to my men,” he said shortly. Tossing the mail toward a stool, he paid no attention as it slid to the floor with a metallic rattle. It was followed by his bonnet, which had been tucked into his belt. He put his hand to the lashing that held his shirt.
Strained tension hung between them. She sought for something that might break it as she ran her tongue over her bottom lip. “Is it raining yet?”
“Not yet. Soon.”
Not only was his hair wet, but his shirt was damp, pulling across his wide shoulders and upper arms as he stripped it off over his head. He had bathed then, as she had, and probably for the same reason. She could not seem to look away from what he was doing. Heated fullness gathered inside her and the muscles of her inner thighs tightened in sudden spasm.
“I saw…I thought I saw Trilborn today.”
“You did.” Ross levered off his boots and kicked them aside.
“Has he been arrested?” She sat up straighter.
“It appears Henry is not convinced of his betrayal.”
“You mean…I suppose Trilborn persuaded him otherwise. It’s my word against his, and Henry believes him.”
“Or prefers to see evidence, one way or the other.”
“But…but we marched based on the information I brought.”
“Which may have been received from other sources, so was confirmed.”
She gave a dazed shake of her head. “Trilborn is up to something. The man is a devil.”
“Funny.” Ross gave her a mirthless smile. “He says the same of you, or as near as makes no difference, since he named you a witch.”
Ross unfastened his belt with its sporran, whipped away his plaid and sent it flying. The move plainly exposed how ready he was for her. She looked at that rampant male hardness, glanced up to meet his eyes, then looked back down again in fascination. Her voice hardly more than a whisper, she asked, “And what do you think?”
“I think,” he said, stalking forward the two steps it took him to reach the cot, then dragging her up against his hard frame so she was melded to him from breast to knees, “that you are my witch.”
He took her mouth, setting his own to it at a slant, pushing deep. The stubble of his beard abraded the tender edges. The hot thrust of his tongue was an invasion that mocked what he meant to do to her. She took it, twined around it, applied suction while sliding her hands from his shoulders to his hair, fisting them in its long length.
She cradled the hot iron of him against the softness of her belly, moving against it in instinctive pleasure. He cupped her bottom, aiding the slide, clasping, squeezing the two half spheres with his fingertips grazing their cleft.
Clenching her hands in his hair in an abrupt reflex, she drew his head back, spoke against his lips. “If I am a witch, I want to ride.”
A choked sound left him, while his grip tightened upon her. “Aye, my sweeting, and so you shall, so you shall.”
Hard on the words, he stripped off her shift, then caught her to him while he straddled the cot. He dropped down upon it so hard it creaked, still holding her belly to his as he lay back upon it. Lifting his legs, he stretched out, seating her so that his hard rod was at the apex of her thighs, nudging at her hot, damp softness.
She needed no more. Levering upward, she settled upon him, sliding to take him deep. She rode him then with wild abandon while he fingered their joining, circling the small peak of flesh at her arched opening with his thumb. She rode him until she was mindless, heedless of everything except the magical flight. She rode him while he bucked beneath her, rode him until her chest ached, her muscles were on fire and her mind burned with longing; until there was nothing, nothing except the two of them and the night. And when the storm broke, so did she, arching above him like a pulled bow, flooding him with her very essence as she took his deep inside. Boneless, then, she collapsed upon his chest while their hearts shuddered, thundering together.
Well before the dawn, the march continued.
It picked up speed as the royal heralds came and went, lashing their horses as if the hounds of hell were after them, or mayhap the dogs of war. Their news, delivered to Henry from his spies within the rebel camp, and his patrols that put ungentle questions to stragglers and looters from it, filtered down in a matter of hours to the trailing end of the column where Cate rode. The earl of Lincoln had not only landed at Piel Island and crossed to Furness, but had led his forces into Yorkshire, stronghold of the Yorkist faction, where he hoped for a groundswell of support.
Though many joined his cause, it was not in the strength he had anticipated. The peace and fair-handed governance Henry had brought to England seemed to have found favor even in Yorkshire. The end of the thirty-year conflict between the white rose of York and red rose of Lancaster that he had brought about was something few wanted to see undone. Fewer still cared to set off another round of bloodletting by countenancing an upstart who might or might not be a true Plantagenet. Nor did it sit well that he was being brought to them on the shoulders of Irish and German soldiery.
Henry, by contrast, arrived at Nottingham to the cheers of the populace. He was joined by a force of men far larger than expected, making his army some fifteen thousand strong in contrast to the eight thousand credited to the Yorkists under Lincoln. They lay there for a few days to rest and replenish supplies, while Henry and his commanders held council to decide on strategy before moving on toward Newark.
This last advance was enlivened by a pernicious report that the two forces had met and Henry been defeated. Spread by the enemy to prevent more men from flocking to Henry’s standard, it had to be countered by a flurry of heralds sent in all directions.
On the move again, the king’s army paused for the night at the village of Radcliffe, some eight miles out from Newark. It was there, an hour or two after midnight, that news came of the rebel army. It was encamped on a ridge above the Trent Valley, near the village of East Stoke.
What followed was controlled chaos. Henry intended to prevent the earl of Lincoln from supplying his army in Newark, it seemed, as well as mounting a surprise attack. His officers and men would move fast, leaving the supply carts, provisions, cooks, bakers, laundresses and all other followers behind.
Ross, summoned from their bed by the discreet call of a sentry outside the tent flap, threw on his clothes, accepted Cate’s help with his mail and armor, and then buckled on his sword. With his helm under one arm, he swept her to him for a long, hard kiss. When he lifted his head, he stood staring down at her, raking her face with his dark blue eyes. For an instant, she thought he would speak. Instead, he kissed her once more and was gone.
She wanted to run after him, to call out to him, to tell him…what? What was there to say?
Nothing could change what was between them, nothing stay what was to come. She would not burden him with her doubts and fears, the news that she could be with child or a declaration he might not care to hear. Closing her eyes, she prayed in less than coherent phrases while tears squeezed between her lashes.
When the men began to move out, she wrapped her cloak around her and stepped outside the tent to watch them go. Some swung along, grinning, as if heading to a fair. Many seemed half-asleep, and others stared ahead with grim-faced acceptance. The tramping of their feet raised so much dust it was almost impossible to identify the mounted knights that rode up and down their line, shouting encouragement, harrying stragglers. Still, she knew Ross beyond doubt by his plaid, which billowed around him. She followed him with her gaze, turning to keep him in view, straining to see the last of him as he grew smaller in the distance.
The horseman came out of the dust, so armored he would have been unrecognizable but for the device on the tunic that covered his breastplate. He drew up with such abruptness that his destrier reared, raking the air with its hooves. Staring down at her with his visage distorted by the metal crosspiece that covered his nose, Trilborn drawled, “Well, Lady Catherine, will you wish me Godspeed?”
“No.” The word was brittle with disdain.
“Come, have you no concern for what I go toward?”
“None whatever.”
He laughed with a hollow echo inside his helm. “You should, you know.”
Foreboding trickled down her backbone in icy rivulets, but she answered with bravado. “I fail to see why. It’s nothing to me.”
He reined in his restive mount with a hard jerk. “Not even if I am sworn to cut down the king?”
Her heart smote her lungs as it jolted into a harder beat. “You would not dare. You would be cut down in your turn.”
“You think so? Much is possible in the thick of battle.”
“Ross knows what you are about,” she said with a lift of her chin. “He will stop you.”
“Oh, I depend upon his trying. ’Twas my whole point in letting you guess my intention, so you would pass it to Dunbar. The only honor I crave more than ridding England of Henry Tudor is that of making you a widow.”