3
Cate stood waiting as the horsemen rounded the bend in the track. She’d heard them coming from some distance away, a full score of gentlemen and men-at-arms, making a great clatter on the frozen track. The watery sun overhead reflected on helms and sword hilts with a dull sheen, and their horses blew white plumes into the icy air. They had come from the king, for they rode under his banner.
She should have been overjoyed at their arrival. Instead, her chest was tight with apprehension.
The snow had stopped by the time she woke an hour ago, and the world was hushed under its smothering layer of white. The only thing that moved was a bird or two, flitting among branches that clicked and clacked with ice. Her skirt and cloak had been wet near the knee where snow had drifted into her shelter and melted with the heat of Ross’s fire. That burned still, a great, leaping pyre that sent a plume of gray-blue smoke skyward. It was, without doubt, what had brought their rescuers to them.
Ross stood a few yards away, where he had been breaking more limbs to thrust into the flames. A bleak expression lay in his eyes, and his mouth was set in a grim line. He made no move to step forward or lift a hand in greeting, but only waited for the horsemen to come to him.
Nor did Cate move from where she had taken a stance with her back to the fire to allow her skirts to dry. She recognized the cavalcade’s leader as Winston Dangerfield, Lord of Trilborn, and was in no hurry to acknowledge him. She would as soon someone else, anyone else at all, had arrived as its head.
What chance that his presence was a coincidence, she thought, when she and his sworn enemy had been lost from the hunt at the same time? What chance, when he had made her the object of his cautious gallantry since the early autumn?
Trilborn was of medium height, well-made, and far too satisfied withal. On this dreary day, he wore a black surcoat edged in silver braid over his mail, both covered by a heavy black cloak that was lined with beaver and held on his shoulders by a multitude of silver chains. His hat was of beaver, as well, and stuck with a great white plume that curled over the brim to lie on his shoulder. He was pleasing enough in his features, though his peat-brown eyes were a little close together and his chin made to appear needle-sharp by his pointed black beard.
“Lady Catherine, by all the saints!” He slowed his mount to a walk, throwing up a hand with more force than necessary to halt the men behind him while he came closer to the fire. “We had nigh given up hope.”
“Milord,” she said with the barest of curtsies.
He swung down, swept off his hat and fanned the snow at her feet into a white whirl as he made his bow. “The others were for turning back an hour ago, but I would not have it. You would be found, so I told them, found safe and well.” His eyes were tense at the corners, as if he had doubts about the last.
The smile she gave him was brief. “As you see, though for the last I am indebted to Henry’s Scots guest. I believe you are acquainted with Ross Dunbar?”
Contempt flickered over Trilborn’s face as he nodded in Ross’s direction. “I would ask how he came here before us, but he has ever had the devil’s luck.”
She could have allowed it to be assumed that the Scotsman had come upon her only that morn. Common sense dictated the polite lie. Her conscience would not allow it.
“The good fortune was mine in this instance,” she said in clear tones. “Had he not been here, I might have been taken by forest outlaws or died from the cold during the night.”
The men who had pulled up behind Trilborn exchanged glances, muttering among themselves. The earl stiffened and his hand went to the hilt of his sword, which swung from its scabbard worn low on one hip. “He has been here with you all this time?”
“Of a certainty,” she answered in disdain. She would not be affected by the suspicion she could see being levied against her. No, not at all.
“You might have done better, I should think, to take your chances with the outlaws.”
“Sir!”
Ross moved with negligent, muscular grace to take a stance at her side. “What he means to say, Lady Catherine,” he drawled, “is that he would have preferred it. No gentleman enjoys knowing that his enemy has been overnight in company with his lady.”
The glance Cate shot the Scotsman was scathing. “I am not his lady, nor am I likely to be.”
“Through no fault of his own, I’ll be bound,” Ross replied for her alone. “Don’t tell me here’s another man you would save from the curse of the Graces?”
“Have you no idea who this man is?” Trilborn demanded, slapping his hat against his well-hosed lower leg. “His family has been the scourge of the Scots march that borders Trilborn lands for a hundred years or more, Scots vermin who dare to abduct Trilborn women, steal away Trilborn villeins, Trilborn cattle.”
“Aye, and can nay persuade them to go back home again,” Ross said, grim humor lacing his exaggerated Scots burr.
Trilborn clenched his hand on his sword hilt as if he meant to draw it. The Scotsman merely swung out his arm, showing his sword already in his fist, its tip resting on the ground, while half its length was revealed from behind the skirt of his plaid.
“Your grandsire kidnapped my grandmother,” Trilborn declared in a growl.
“Indeed he did, to ransom ten young girls your own grandsire carried off after burning their village.”
“He put his bastard get in her belly.” Trilborn shook his hat at Ross.
“That he did, as he found her winsome and easy to love. He’d not have given her up except for the pleas of his people, who longed to see their girl children. Yet he kept her until the child was born so your grandsire could not kill the babe. And a good thing it was, too, for he certainly killed its mother when she was returned.” Ross glanced at Cate. “My own grandmother had died years before, you know. My grandfather so regretted giving up the Trilborn lady, mourned her death so deeply, that he never took another woman.”
“Certainly not another Trilborn,” the English lord declared.
Ross snorted in hard contempt. “Nay, though two Dunbar wives were then kidnapped in retaliation and returned in such desperate shape that one drowned herself and the other entered a convent.”
“What of the child?” Cate asked, because she could not help herself.
“Brought up with my father, like his own brother. He was shot in the back from ambush, though not before he sired a son, my cousin Liam.”
“Shot during a cattle raid,” Trilborn said with a sniff.
The Scotsman’s hard gaze did not waver. “Oh, aye, being as daft for reiving as my father. But enough. Lady Catherine is weary, hungry and half-frozen, and grows more so while we stand here nattering. Do you have a mount for her, or must she walk back to the castle?”
It was a point Cate would have been glad to have made herself, had she not been transfixed by what she had learned. Border feuds were notorious for their violence, but this one seemed more vicious than most. She had never before seen Trilborn in a rage; he was usually all smiles and studied pleasantries. The glances he divided between her and the Scotsman were murderous. Either his interest in her was greater than she had known, or it had been sharpened by discovering her with Ross Dunbar. Well, and perhaps by the knowledge that a forced marriage was the usual result.
He could not know that she and the Scotsman had vowed between them to see that no such sacrifice was necessary. Let him discover it when he would. That was soon enough.
Accordingly, she summoned her most wan smile, looking as fatigued as she was able. Trilborn offered his arm and she took it, ignoring Ross’s dry laugh as she allowed the nobleman to lead her to a sturdy gray rouncy.
She paused, reaching to allow the horse to sniff her hand, and then rubbing its soft muzzle. The rouncy was more suitable for a man, or else for transporting a body, she saw with a small shiver. “Is this the only extra mount?” she asked over her shoulder.
“We knew not what we might find, so prepared for the worst,” Trilborn said with an air of haughty defense. “Dunbar can run along behind us, or else wait until another horse is brought back for him.”
It was purest insult, that suggestion that the Scotsman run along behind them like a serf. “Or I can ride pillion behind him,” she pointed out. “The saddle is a man’s, after all.”
“If that’s your preference, then you shall ride with me,” Trilborn said at once.
His arrogance was incredible. She was possibly more tired than she knew, for it made her contrary. “I would not dream of subjecting your stallion to such an indignity,” she said before turning to the Scotsman. “Sir, if you would be so kind as to mount and then allow me to settle behind you?”
Ross came forward, his gaze considering as it rested on her face. He did not answer, however, but only vaulted to the saddle with such swift ease that the ends of his plaid flew wide. Once seated, he held his hand down to her.
Cate met the rich blue of his eyes for endless seconds while an unaccountable impression of safety settled deep inside her. She stretched high to clasp his arm above the wrist, then, while he did the same to hers. A brief heave with iron-hard muscles, and she was seated behind him with her arms locked about his waist.
Trilborn was displeased, but could hardly order a guest of Henry’s unhorsed. He stalked to his stallion, snatched the reins from the man-at-arms who held them and accepted a leg up into the saddle. With an imperious gesture, he detailed two men to put out the fire and then swept around, leading the troop from the small clearing, making for the castle.
Cate looked back, imprinting the fire and the snow-covered shelter that lay behind it on her mind, while an odd sense of loss made her chest ache. For a few short hours, she had been free. No one had cared how she looked, what she wore or how she stood, walked, sat, ate or prayed. She had not been expected to dip curtsies like a duck bobbing for river weed, had not been required to recall obscure titles and who took precedence over whom. She’d had no need to watch every word for fear of offending or having something she said repeated to the king. She had been herself without let or hindrance, something she might never be permitted again. She had enjoyed the company of a man who did not simper, posture or attempt to take advantage of her.
She did not turn away until that small clearing, with its ring of mud where the heat of a great bonfire had melted the snow, vanished behind the track’s wide bend.
Ross devoured two servings of beef, a loaf of bread soaked in the meat’s juices and a currant cake, all washed down with a hot posset and most of a butt of ale. With these as well as a hot, herb-scented bath and change of clothing, he began to feel less like a chunk of ice. He was returned to normal, except for the undoubted fact that he could not go more than a pair of breaths without thinking about Lady Catherine.
Had she ordered a hot bath to warm her chilled flesh? What he would not give to have seen her in it. Had a serving woman bathed her? He’d have been more than pleased to perform that service, could think of many ways to make it pleasurable for her. To dry her with slow care seemed a magnificent way to while away an hour, and one not without promise of reward. To apply a brush to the pale golden glory of her hair, holding its warm, silken weight in his hands, was a fine fantasy. Sharing a meal with her in the privacy of some chamber seemed more than enticing. They could feed each other bits of this and that while whetting other appetites.
God’s blood, but what ailed him? He was no mooncalf reduced to standing and staring at his beloved’s window in hope of glimpsing her shadow. He was a grown man with duties and obligations that left no room for lusting after an English lady, be she ever so beauteous and daring. The incident in the forest had been a few hours out of his life, a mere snippet taken from a pattern woven before he was born. No place existed in it for a female of English blood.
He needed to put the episode behind him. Other matters were far more important, such as judging the strength of any force Henry might be able to put into the field, plus the loyalty of those around the king and how they might react if it were to be tested. He would attend to that without further ado. Aye, he would indeed, as soon as he assured himself that Lady Catherine had suffered no ill effects from her night spent in his company.
She was not in her chamber, one of the cramped rooms allotted even to the nobility in this ancient castle built for defense rather than comfort, its only luxury being a small, glowing brazier that made it barely less frigid than the corridor it opened upon. Her serving maid stood barring the door, a woman of early middle age who had, from all appearances, been clearing away after her mistress’s bath. She eyed him with disfavor, he thought, looking him up and down with all the doubtful care of a housewife appraising a pig at market. He did not flinch under it, even as the tops of his ears burned. Nor did he show her the least reaction when he learned Lady Catherine had been summoned by the king.
It was not an official audience, as it turned out. On gaining the castle’s great hall, Ross saw her, a bright beacon in the smoke-hazed gloom, where she perched on a low stool at the foot of Henry’s great armchair. The king’s canopied throne sat on a dais along with the castle’s famous round table, which some said had once been used by King Arthur of distant legend. No one encroached upon this private colloquy; none appeared to notice it taking place in their midst.
Men talked in groups, played at knucklebones or chess, or watched the antics of the fool who juggled and told jokes for their amusement. The place smelled of wood ash, sweaty men who had been to horse, dogs, shattered green rushes and the ghosts of bread, beef and ale from the recent morning’s repast. The fitful sunlight falling on the snow outside penetrated the high, narrow windows with faint gray light, leaving the space in gloom except for the bright islands of standing oil lamps.
Ross found an unoccupied bench and flung himself down upon it, using the wall behind it as a backrest. He watched the king with Lady Catherine in brooding displeasure. He did not care for the way Henry leaned toward her, speaking in measured phrases while tapping the arm of his chair for emphasis. He looked displeased, or else more interested in her welfare than was seemly in a king not yet thirty years old, one with a wife of only a year, and a two-month-old son.
The king’s intentions toward the lady were no concern of his, of course, Ross assured himself with a scowl. It was only that talk about her would be vicious enough without Henry adding to it.
Ross would give much to know what was being said between them. At King James’s court, he might have walked up to them to discover it. Such lack of ceremony did not apply here. As with most newly minted kings, Henry was a stickler for the ceremony that reinforced his position.
“Milord Dunbar?”
So intent had Ross been on the pair he watched that he failed to notice the approach of a manservant until he stood bowing at his elbow. It was a startling bit of inattention compared to his normal vigilance.
“Aye?”
“The king requests your presence. Come with me, sir, and it please you.”
It was a command for all its politeness. He must go, Ross knew, regardless of whether it pleased him. Though mayhap it did, at that. Shoving himself to his feet, he threaded his way through the murmuring crowd, following so close on the menial’s heels that he almost stepped on them.
Henry VII acknowledged his kneeling presence with a grave and regal nod, but did not suggest that he rise or be seated, not even on a stool at a lower level. Ross barely noticed that studied sign of royal disfavor. Resting his arm on his bent knee, he fingered the soft bonnet of green wool he’d doffed, waiting to hear the purpose of his summons. Though he suspected what it might be, it was as well to be certain.
“Lady Catherine has told us of your timely appearance in her hour of need,” Henry said with easy use of the royal plural, “also of your daring attack against these forest brigands. We are grateful that you were close by.”
“’Twas naught, only what any man would have done.” Ross glanced at the lady. Her eyes were shadowed with warning. She seemed intent on communicating something to him, though he knew not what.
She was a vision of rich color in that drab hall with its banners and ensigns so smoke begrimed that it was impossible to make out their crests, its stag horns strung with spiderwebs and moth-riddled boar’s heads. Her arms and breast were molded in vivid burgundy velvet that was edged at neckline and wrist in gold lace, and her hair confined in gold netting attached to a headpiece like an upturned goblet, from which hung a many-layered veil of couleur rose. Her gold cross on its chain graced her throat, her gold-and-ruby ring was on her finger and she had such brightness about her that no other female in the room warranted a second look.
Her curves outlined in soft and luminous cloth were so enticing that Ross felt his mouth twitch with the need to trace them with tongue and lips. It was the first time he’d had leisure to observe them at close range; he’d seen her only from a distance before last evening, and she had been wrapped from neck to ankle in her cloak from beginning to end of their time in the king’s forest. Still, he knew them with an intimacy that burned like a knot in his lower abdomen, had felt them pressed against his back every miserable league of the ride homeward this morning. He hardly needed sight to confirm what was engraved on his soul.
“The fact remains that you accomplished it,” Henry said, dragging Ross’s attention back to the matter at hand. “Touching on what occurred afterward…”
“I have explained that nothing occurred,” the lady said quickly. “That you made a fire and also a small shelter from the snow. I remained inside it while you kept watch outside throughout the night, with no contact whatever between us.”
Ross inclined his head but made no answer. There were times when it was best for a man to keep a still tongue in his head.
“Admirable,” the king said with some irony. “Even so, we are concerned with the effect upon Lady Catherine’s good name. You both surely understand that there will be talk. People are ever ready to put the worst possible construction upon events.”
Henry should know that well enough, Ross thought somewhat distractedly. The king’s son and heir had been born a scant eight months after his wedding. Speculation was not only that he had anticipated his nuptials, but that he had made certain of the fertility of his future queen before committing himself to the marriage.
The union s of kings were a cold-blooded business, poor sods. Sympathy did not require Ross to put his head into that same matrimonial noose.
Regardless, this seemed to be the point where he was expected to guard the lady’s reputation by offering his hand. He had no such intention, particularly after his solitary vigil the night before. He was due some consideration for his misery, self-imposed though it might have been.
“Nothing happened, I give you my word,” he said with deliberation.
“And we would be pleased to accept it, were not so much at stake.” Henry made a brief gesture. “The lady has expressed her willingness to accept you as a husband.”
Ross glanced quickly to Lady Catherine. The resigned look in her eyes was testimony enough to her feelings, also to her inability to gainsay her king. She was depending on him to do his part by declaring that he would not be wed at Henry’s command.
Instead, all he could think of was that he could have her. A single word, two at the most, and she would be his before the New Year. The instant the betrothal documents were signed, he could take her to bed, could strip away her fine clothing until he reached the warm and naked female underneath. He could mold her curves with his hands, touch every inch of her skin and invade her hot depths until he found plunging release from this torment that she cast him into on sight.
He could have her. He could have her and…and his father would disown him. He would be cast out of his homeland and his clan, left to kick his heels at Henry’s court forever and a day, instead of only a year or two. He would be forever a bastard Sassenach.
“I have no wish to be ungallant,” he said, with strain beneath the quiet certainty of his voice, “but you will recall that I am nay here of my own will. I am of Scotland, and answer only to James, king of the Scots.”
Henry frowned, tapping his chair arm. He stopped. “And if your king should order it?”
“I must still have my father’s consent and his blessing as laird of our clan.”
“Natural enough, we must suppose. And has he no concern for Scotland’s welfare?”
Aye, the old laird did that, Ross thought in grim humor, when it ran alongside his own. “What welfare might that be?”
“Insurrection is a contagion that can easily spread across borders. Every king has enemies ready to pull him down, waiting only for the right time, the right excuse.”
“You are thinking, mayhap, of this business of one of the vanished princes returning,” Ross ventured. Cate had suggested it might have some bearing, though he could barely credit it. He glanced at her in time to see approval flash across her face.
“My agents report a child in the fair and blue-eyed Plantagenet mold being referred to as the son and heir of Edward IV. The truth remains to be seen. We’ve never set eyes on the boy or his brother, but any number of people did in the days before the two were consigned to the Tower. Witnesses can easily be brought forward to prove the claim false.”
“The dowager queen, or Queen Elizabeth?” The first was the widow of Edward IV, mother of the boy who had briefly been hailed as Edward V, while the second was her daughter, Henry’s queen, and the boy’s eldest sister. If anyone could say with authority that this youngster was a pretender, it would be these two.
Not a flicker of emotion crossed the king’s face. “We prefer to reserve that as a final resort. It can only be distressing for either of them.”
That much could not be denied, Ross thought. What would they do, the dowager queen dependent on Henry’s goodwill for her daily bread, or his wife, mother of his son and the Lancaster heir apparent, if the boy should turn out to be the rightful Yorkist king?
“And you expect proving the boy an imposter to serve?” he asked.
The king inclined his head with an air of weary assent. “For a short while, at least. Yet a Plantagenet prince is required as proxy for Yorkist ambitions. They will have one if they must fashion him of whole cloth.”
“Well enough, but what has Scotland to do with it?” The question was blunt, but Ross let it stand.
“Those who plot and plan must have a safe base from which to launch their attack. If not Scotland, then it will be Wales or Ireland. We would prefer it was the last named, as the Irish are less likely to have strength of arms. Wales is also weaker than your homeland.”
Henry should know this well, as his own plan of invasion had been hatched in Brittany and set in motion from the Welsh coast. “You believe King James might aid them?”
“Or be drawn into the rebellion, one way or another, if care is not taken.”
“I hardly see how my father can affect that,” Ross said.
“It only requires that he refrain from lending men and arms to the enterprise. Well, and persuades his neighbors to do likewise.”
“If it’s a matter of exchanging one English king for another, the laird of Dunbar is more likely to sit on the border laughing at the show,” Ross said plainly. “Should King James seize on this chance to invade in force, he will certainly ride with him.”
“We understand and applaud such loyalty. Still. It is our hope your father would counsel against invasion for fear the holdings of his son could become a battleground.”
A trickle of apprehension moved down the back of Ross’s neck. “You can’t mean my holdings, for I have none, will have none until my father leaves this earth.”
The king’s smile was grimly amused. “Lady Catherine’s older sister is married to Braesford, a loyal subject who fought at Bosworth and received a barony for his service to us. He has a pele tower keep and manse on the northern coast. A sizable estate, known as Grimes Hall, lies no great distance away and is in our hands. It would be a worthy wedding gift.”
“But, Your Majesty—”
“Then there is Lady Catherine’s dowry derived from the estate of her father. As he left no living sons, his property was divided between her and her two sisters. Lady Catherine’s portion comprises a castle, a manse and some seven or eight villages with extensive lands.”
Ross looked again to the lady, wondering what she thought of this blithe gifting to him of her inheritance. The tender curves of her mouth were set in a straight line, but her frown was not directed his way. He faced forward again.
“A bribe?” he asked in quiet derision.
“We prefer to call it a reward for loyalty.”
“My father would name it treason to kith and kin, much less to the name I hold.”
“So he may. We can at least present the formal proposal under our royal seal.”
That official badge was one his father sneered at as belonging to an upstart with little more claim to it than any petty nobleman, as it came through Henry’s mother’s line rather than direct descent from his father. The laird was hardly likely to be impressed.
“If you must,” Ross answered.
“Meanwhile, we consider the alliance as pending until such time as permission for the marriage arrives.”
“Sire!” Cate exclaimed with alarm in her voice. “The curse, you must recall—”
The king waved her objection aside as he might a fly. “Yes, yes, we will deal with that when the time comes.”
“Or not,” Ross said. “I should tell you there is no hope in heaven my father will agree.” In fact, the old man would let him rot in hell before extending permission to add an Englishwoman to the Clan Dunbar.
“He may see reason if the prospect is presented to him in suitable terms. We are prepared to make a generous settlement upon your father for the sake of peace on our northern border.”
A generous settlement for the old laird. If there was one thing that might influence him, it was the prospect of acquiring Sassenach gold. He could always use it, as who in Scotland could not when there were so many mouths to be fed? Yet it was outwitting the English, driving a bargain to their disfavor, that would tempt his father most sorely.
Not that he could be depended on to honor any pledge made to the English. Such a thing would scarce count, to his way of thinking. Henry should at least be warned of that possibility.
“You’ll want to take care,” Ross said with caution as he met the king’s pale blue eyes. “Any agreement made by man can be broken.”
“We have had ample proof of that in recent years,” Henry said with a chilly smile. “Nevertheless.”
Ross met Cate’s gaze for an endless time, seeing the shadow of fear that lay in its depths. She turned from him then, looking back to the king. “Sire,” she said, her voice not quite even, “you can’t mean, can’t expect…”
“Indeed we do, Lady Catherine,” Henry VII said with stern benevolence. “A betrothal is hereby decreed. It shall be proclaimed the instant we have Laird Dunbar’s agreement.”