Bride of the Beast (25 page)

Her heart twisted at what he'd lost, and so much more than mere good looks. Caterine blinked back the sudden heat stinging her eyes and drew a deep, cleansing breath of the earthy-sweet peat smoke. She forced herself to dwell on other storms and shadows, the ones that darkened her own
heart.

Storms she couldn't let break, shadows she didn't want

shrouding the lives of those she loved.

Or might come to love.

"Do you know wha—" she began again, but he pressed two fingers against her lips, silencing her.

"James will outgrow your shadow," he said, his word choice making her wonder if he could indeed see into her soul, the conviction in his voice almost but not quite conducing her.

"Your stepson has an untrodden path to follow, a difficult
o
ne, true, but not insurmountable."

"Sir Hugh—" she tried to speak past his fingers.

"—will be dealt with, I assure you."

He slid his thumb across her cheek, smoothing away the dampness, and her heart flip-flopped at the tenderness of the gesture, his gentle touch quelling her objections more thoroughly than any silencing fingers.

She brought her hand up to cradle the scarred side of his face, her breath catching at the emotion banking inside her. But other emotions whirled through her, too.

Wholly different ones, called forth by those she held most dear.

Dunlaidir's gruff seneschal, Eoghann, his bony shoulders having carried a weighty burden far too long. Sir
John
, her late husband's friend, and a man whose own heart had been crushed by Sir Hugh. Even the lady Rhona, for all her meddlesome ways.

But most of all, James.

With the exception of her brothers, all of whom she hadn't seen in years, her stepson was the only male to have e'er truly cared for her.

His kindness alone had made her early years at Dunlaidir bearable ... had helped her patch together a semblance of her tattered pride and feel worthy again.

Despite the stains tarnishing her very soul.

She couldn't leave him now, not when he needed her most.

"I believe you have lived away from the English too long, Marmaduke Strongbow," she said, finally managing to speak past the tightness in her throat.

She traced her fingertips along the crease of his scar, hoping the caress would gentle the bitterness of her words. "Your people are as sand kernels on the strand," she began. "Dispatching Sir Hugh will bring but a breathing space of relief, for no sooner will he have been rooted out, but another will come to replace him."

Her champion did not speak, but his silence affirmed his acknowledgment of the truth.

"That, my good sir, is why I bid you to stay. James will ne'er be strong enough to stand against such might." She glanced into the hearth fire, not wanting him to see the moisture dampening her eyes. "Already, the garrison respects you. If you leave, they will lose heart again and we will be defeated before the first blow has even struck."

"You err," he murmured against her crown.

She shook her head, her gaze still averted.

"Aye, you err gravely," he said again, louder this time. "And you just voiced the most glaring reason I must leave. My very honor demands it."

Caterine looked at him, no longer caring if he saw her distress. "Dear sir, I see only reasons for you to remain."

Winding one of her braids around his hand, he caressed its links with his thumb... much as he'd smoothed the same over her cheek moments before.

"Then you are not looking deeply enough to see the other reasons." Releasing her hair, he slipped a finger under her chin and lifted her face. "Or you are seeing only what you want to see ... a weakling unable to stand on his own."

"That is not true."

He quirked a brow at her.

"It is true indeed. James is not a weakling," he said. "He is merely troubled, and I'd mind you the distinction is a great one. He is a fast and able learner, as he's proven to myself, and to
Lachlan
, who trains with him often."

"You are leading him down a path to nowhere with all your training ... the men here will not follow him." Caterine met his gaze full on, her unwavering stare daring him to challenge her logic. "They look to you."

He sighed then, and pulled her closer, snuggling her spoon-fashion against the hard contours of his body. "Do you not see they will continue to do so if I stay? Your garrison will only accept James once he's proven himself worthy and he cannot do so as long as we stand in his way."

"We?"

He had the audacity to nod.

Caterine stiffened and would've jerked out of his arms were his hands not moving in such soothing circles up ann down her back.

Purposely lulling her, trying to win her agreement.

"Aye, we, " he whispered into her hair. "You, for coddling him. Me, because—"

"Because you wield a heavy sword," she snapped, her temper revolting against being
lulled.

"As can James," came his unruffled reply. "With practice. And if you let him."

"L-let him?" she stammered, indignation hobbling her tongue. "There is naught I would not do for—"

"It gladdens my heart to hear it." The circling hands stilled for a moment. "For when we truly love someone, my lady, sometimes we must also care enough to let go of
them."

He began kneading her shoulders then, much as he'd done earlier, and, as before, cascades of warm, pleasurable tingles slid through her at his touch.

His magical touch.

Caterine sighed, her eyelids suddenly growing incredibly
heavy.

"Sleep, sweeting," he murmured. His wondrous hands loosened her muscles—and her cares—one by one, easing her into a dreamlike state where the air was soft, misty, and
warm.

Where the arms cradling her proved more inviting than
all the pillows mounded high upon her bed.

The rhythmic rise and fall of his warrior's chest, his steady breathing, and even his soft snores, spent her more comfort than she'd ever known.

Snores?

Her eyes snapped open.

Watery, gray light leaked through the shutter slats heralding the approach of a new day.

The cold embers in the hearth seemed to mock her...
and gave irrefutable evidence she'd spent the night in Sir Marmaduke Strongbow's arms.

And slept well there.

As had Leo.

The little dog lay curled against the Sassunach's feet...
and appeared utterly content.

A
harrumph
rose in her throat, but lodged there with the damning realization that she felt no less at ease waking wrapped in her champion's warmth.

Sometimes we must care enough to let go.

His words came out of nowhere, or perhaps they'd lingered through the night, floating in the darkness ... waiting.

Hovering on the threshold of some magical place the night had tried to take her, in the hopes of capturing her with the rising sun?

Care enough to let go.

Could she?

Let go of all she knew and loved ... and the darkness inside her?

Could her champion slay her hidden foes as easily as he
meant to rid her of more tangible menaces?

As she lay snuggled against him in the darkness, Caterine stared into the deep, gray silence of the new day and wondered.

**

The laird's due.

To most, fortress, title, and powers.

To James Keith, an empty ewer of soured wine, an equally drained chalice, and a raging ache m his temples.

His laird's
duty,
pacing the broad sweep of has bedchamber's curving bank of windows and keeping Ins gaze teamed on the narrow spit of land connecting Dunlaidir´s walled compound with the rugged cliffs of the mainland in a cold vigil he'd kept all through the night as his burning eyes attested.

A poltroon's assignment.

A fool's errand as unpalatable as guzzling an infusion of devil's dung.

An indignity made bearable solely by Lady Rhona's bonny presence.

Her generously proffered agreement to spend the night at his side, not in his bed where he'd like to have her, but patrolling the tall windows with him, watching the Highlanders and old Father Tomas trudge back and forth across the precarious causeway, bringing stuffs and weaponry to the villagers, then returning for more.

Wasted hours spent perusing mist and darkness.

Peering through wind-borne sleet.

Imbibing stale wine.

"Master of Dunlaidir," he scoffed, throwing Rhona a dark glance. "Useful for naught but the far-reaching view out my fool windows."

She grabbed his arm at that, halting his endless pacing, tempering his ire with an arched brow. "You will concede they need your keen eyesight as well?"

"I concede that is what they claimed." He yanked his arm from her grasp. "Trying to console me is closer to the truth."

"The truth," she said, stepping closer to trail one finger down his arm, "is no one within these walls has eyes as good as yours."

"Or a better view."

"I think the view is rather fine," she gave back, her tone annoyingly amiable, her steady gaze making plain she meant anything but the broad vista of sea and headlands they'd been staring holes in since the wee hours.

"By all the saints," James swore, the corners of his mouth turning upward despite himself. "I warrant you could make a rock smile."

"I'd be content to see one cry," she said, her own smile fading for a moment.

"And
seeing
is what we're supposed to be doing," James said, the rueful note in her voice spurring him to stand straighter, to at least appear more lairdly.

He placed his hand on the small of her back and guided her toward the tall windows. "Come, let us continue to make use of this
eyrie
of mine," he added, drawing her close.

He was glad enough to window-watch the remainder of the night if only she would continue to press her soft, sweet self against him as she did this moment.

"There, do you see them?" He pointed to the cliff-side path leading out from the village. "They are almost at the gatehouse."

 
He'd scarce said the words before the Highlanders emerged onto the narrow causeway. Hulking shapes, they moved through the darkness, their great brands slung over their shoulders, their mailed shirts gleaming dully in the gray light, a veritable arsenal of dirks and other wicked-looking paraphernalia of war thrust beneath their belts and in their boots.

Several burdenless packhorses plodded behind them, their slow gait and hanging heads telling evidence of the long night's toil.

His brows drawn together in a frown, James strained his eyes to peer even deeper into the darkness to discern if they were followed or spied upon by an interloper.

Just as he endeavored to spy on whoever the miscreant "tight turn out to be: if indeed such a forsworn craven existed.

But naught skulked through the blustery night save the Sassunach's own men, and now, with the merest hint of a lighter gray edging the horizon, they'd no doubt made their last haul for the night and were eager to slip back into the warmth of the hall and seek the comfort of their makeshift filets.

Until the next night when they'd make the trek anew. As he would stand vigil once more. Partaking of his nightly
laird's due.
And, if Rhona graced him with her company again, striving to feel more lairdly than the day before.

**

Sir Marmaduke stood at one of the two narrow window slits in the little ante-room and stared out across a pewter-colored sea of glass and wished the hours of the strange, magical night hadn't passed so quickly.

Holding his lady as she'd slept had been a bliss beyond
all telling.

But now the cold gray of a new morn crept ever deeper into the shuttered bedchamber behind him, its damp chill stealing the wonders of the night, negating them before they could take seed and grow.

The time of reckoning was upon him, the first being the highly suspicious puddle in the very middle of his pallet. The wetness had winked at him the instant he'd slipped into the ante-room just moments ago.

Nay,
limped,
not slipped, for allowing his lady's puddle-piddling pet to spend the night sprawled across his ankles had put his feet to sleep.

And not just one, but both of them. Marmaduke rumpled his nose at the wet spot. The little dog had a skewed way of showing gratitude, and he yearned to glare his displeasure at the wee creature, but he had more pressing matters to attend, and he'd best be about them before
she
awakened and caught him at it. Some things weren't meant for a woman's fair eyes. Especially when the woman in question was the one a man sought to impress.