By Grace Possessed (4 page)

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 unions 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.”

C
ate said not a word as she made her curtsy and backed from the royal presence, then turned to walk with dignity at Ross’s side. Her jaws ached with the effort to contain her refusal to wed, but one did not defy a king.

That did not mean she intended to be married at Henry’s command. She yet hoped to find a way out of this contretemps. If she could not do it alone, then the man at her side must and would aid her. He was surely no more ready than she to give up his freedom.

“Well, sir,” she said in low agitation when they had descended from the dais and were beyond range of the king’s hearing, and other curious ears, as well. “What is to be done?”

“Done?”

“About this betrothal that’s been foisted upon us, of course,” she said with scarcely contained patience. “I have no wish to be your wife, and you have less to be my husband. You were supposed to refuse outright. What became of that?”

“I did refuse.”

“For a moment only! Henry scarcely acknowledged it. You must be as enraged as I am.”

The Scotsman gazed down at her without answering, his eyes glimmers of blue between narrowed lids, faithfully reflecting the main color of his plaid, which was held across one shoulder by a silver pin shaped like a small dagger. His face was set in stern lines, though his manner seemed distracted.

He was, she saw with sudden clarity, a man of devastating attraction as well as consummate power. Despite his cold and sleepless night, his gaze was clear and alert. His wind-burned features were arranged in rugged planes and angles that pleased the eye; his brows were thick and dark, and his lashes of more than enough length to shield his expression. Strolling beside her, he seemed taller and wider than she remembered, with shoulders that pulled the sleeves of his shirt taut across their musculature as he gestured, and calves sculpted in corded muscle beneath the swing of his plaid’s lower fullness.

Much of the female interest directed toward them in the crowded hall, Cate was sure, was composed of envy allied to curiosity about how she had gained the aloof Scotsman’s attention. If they but knew she had merely needed to be menaced in the wood, half of them would become lost from the king’s next hunt.

That she was actually betrothed to Ross Dunbar was beyond belief.

“Well?” she demanded, while a choking sensation invaded her chest. “Aren’t you?”

A wry smile curved his mouth. “Enraged, you mean?
Oh, aye. Still, you must admit the thing will offer protection from insult.”

“Protection for me, you mean, because of our night together. I don’t regard what people may say, I promise you.”

Across the hall, Cate noticed the gleam of her younger sister’s light brown hair with its shades of gold like captured sunlight, and the flicker of her ale-brown eyes. Marguerite was watching with concern upon her piquant features. She had not been in the chamber they shared when Cate returned earlier, and there had been no time to speak to her before the king’s summons. She would be wondering what had befallen her, and what was behind Henry’s particular attention.

She was not the only one watching, Cate saw with a twist of acute trepidation. Small knots of courtiers, diplomats, nobles and their ladies stared and nodded in their direction while whispering behind their hands.

Beside her, Ross sent a hard stare toward one grinning jackanapes, returning no answer to her comment until the man turned purple to his eyebrows and looked away. When he finally spoke, his voice was brusque. “It’s damnable that you should be the target of clacking tongues.”

“My sisters and I have provided fodder for the gossips these many years due to our ill luck with betrothals. It has brought us no harm.”

“Always a first time.”

“What form should it take, pray? Are we to be attacked for discouraging suitors? No matter. I am still no more inclined to wed an unknown than you!”

He favored her with a serious glance. “You’ve no thought to have a child one day?”

“No hope of it, rather, as it requires a living husband.” She stared straight ahead, though she could feel the heat rising into her face.

He made an impatient sound through his nose. “It’s all nonsense, this dread curse.”

“Tell that to the suitors who have died since matches began to be made for us while we were in our cradles,” she answered in exasperation.

“Have there been so many?”

“A goodly few, yes. To the four who expired after being promised to my older sister, Isabel, you may add for me an earl’s youngest son who succumbed to a fever, an elderly banker from Bruges lost at sea and a youth related to the once mighty Woodvilles taken by blood poisoning after being stabbed in a drunken brawl. And that says nothing to the list credited to my younger sister.”

“Such things happen when the wedding must wait for the bride to gain the required thirteen or fourteen years.”

“So it does, and I will admit that Isabel first spoke of the curse as a jest. But let death arrive before the wedding often enough, and men grow wary. Few are willing to chance a betrothal now.”

“Nevertheless, I am bidden to it by royal decree.”

“I’m sorry for it, but I did try to warn you,” she said, with a stricken sensation inside her.

“Don’t upset yourself,” he answered, his voice even. “Henry may command as he pleases, but no priest will hear our vows unless we both consent.”

The supreme confidence in his bearing and his face
served to calm a portion of her agitation. She drew a deep breath and released it in a sigh. “Yes, I suppose.”

“Though ’tis a shame, in all truth. Any child of yours would be a beautiful babe.”

It was an oblique, almost impersonal compliment, yet she valued it for that reason. And it was good of him to be concerned, as he had nothing to do with what had sent her careening deep into the New Forest in the first place.

He was no mere courtier, this Scotsman, all polished courtesies and glib phrases. He was a trained soldier, one hardened in a hundred skirmishes and cattle raids. Still, even he could be laid low by fever or accident, disease or deliberate murder. That was if the curse of the Three Graces should be invoked against him.

Even as these thoughts, fretted with anguish, ran like quicksilver through her mind, she realized he awaited her reply. “I will become a wife and mother only if a man will have me for love alone,” she said with precision. “What chance of that, think you, when all who don’t quake with fear require to know the size of a woman’s dowry before wondering if she has teeth or toenails?”

“Love,” he said with a wry shake of his head. “It’s a thing for milkmaids and kitchen scullions, those with no property or hope of having any.”

They had paraded down one side of the great hall and across the end, passing the screened corridor that led to the buttery, where butts of ale and wine were broached, the pantry, where bread loaves were sliced open, and also the kitchens. Savory smells of roasting meat basted with herbs and spices, simmering broths and fresh-baked
trenchers wafted from it, along with the yeasty scent of ale. They skirted the outside entrance where cold drafts stirred the front hem of Cate’s gown and burrowed beneath its train. She shivered as they reached her hose-clad ankles.

“Cold, are you?” he said, bending his head toward her. “Would you care to take a seat by the fire?”

It was unlikely they could locate two places together. He would leave her then, and she was oddly reluctant to brave the great hall without his wide shoulders between her and the crowd. There were matters that still needed to be made clear between them, as well. “I’m warm enough as long as we keep moving,” she said, with a shake of her head that sent her veil shifting around her shoulders. “Meanwhile, I don’t believe you answered my question.”

“Which one might that be?” he asked in dry inquiry.

“As to what we are to do now.”

“We wait, I think.”

“Wait?” She gave him a quick look to be certain he was not teasing her again.

“Upon my father’s answer. We may trust him for a swift refusal. Yes, and probably a blasphemous one, as well.”

“He may be as profane as he pleases, so long as he is definite,” she answered with fervor.

“Aye,” Ross agreed without inflection.

She twitched the long train of her gown from under the feet of a manservant who darted past with a sloshing jug of wine, then walked on for a few steps while curiosity dogged her. “So,” she said after a moment. “You don’t believe love is possible for the higher orders.”

“It happens, but not often.”

“You have no expectation of it when you are wed, care nothing for how your lady may look or what she may feel for you or you for her?”

He twisted his neck as if easing its tightness. “My father will consult with me, I make no doubt, or I with him, and the lady will be comely enough. But the deed will unite our holdings with those of some neighbor or distant kinsman.”

“And this will content you.”

“It’s the way of the world.”

“I see,” she said, disappointed in some manner she could not name. “You will get a quiverful of sons on this comely female, while buying ribbons and other frippery for…for milkmaids.”

He laughed, a deep, rich sound. “A quiverful, is it? Your faith in my prowess flatters me.”

“No such thing!” She refused to meet his gaze. “I meant only to say that you would look elsewhere for love.”

“I don’t know that I’d call it by such a name, though you may be right. It is, as I said…”

“The way of our world. Yes, I know.”

“You would marry for love, and to the devil with property, security, and a father for your children who has your same rank?”

“Yes.”

One brow rose until it almost touched the bonnet he had donned again as he left the king. “You seem very sure.”

“It can be no other way, being ordained so by the
curse. Any man who attempts to wed me or my two sisters without love will surely die.”

“But there is that caveat, the one way to avoid the curse’s dire consequences.”

“If you care to call it so.”

“I am to accept that this dread fate awaiting your betrothed is the only reason Henry is being so generous with the marriage settlement.”

Cate gave the Scot a cool stare, affronted by some small change she heard in his voice. “What other purpose could there be?”

“I don’t know,” he answered, his concentrated gaze scanning the crowded hall much as he had scanned the forest around them last night. “Mayhap you’ll enlighten me.”

Shock surged over her, only to be routed by anger. “You think that I… No, and no again! I must tell you that however gently reared females may behave in Scotland, sir, they do not play at dalliance in England!”

He turned his gray-blue eyes upon her in heated assessment. “Not even with a king?”

Dunbar’s audacity robbed her of speech. Lifting her train out of the way with a hand that trembled with the need to strike him, she swung about to leave him.

“Hold.” His voice was low yet firm as he reached out to catch her arm in a loose clasp. “I was wrong to speak so. It’s just that Henry seems uncommonly concerned for your welfare.”

Her arm burned where he touched, setting off a melting feeling inside her. She drew it swiftly away, holding it against her side. “If he is concerned, it’s from gratitude
and obligation, because my older sister helped prevent injury to his heir and his queen not long ago, as well as to Henry himself. There is nothing personal in it whatever.”

“I did hear whispers of an attempt on his life during the summer,” Ross allowed.

“You may have done, though the details are known to few. I was not there myself, and Isabel refuses to speak of it.”

“Isabel is your sister married to this Braesford that Henry mentioned?”

Cate tipped her head a fraction. “A fine knight and great favorite. Know you of him?”

“The name is familiar, though I don’t believe he’s among the border lords my father counts as enemies.”

“You may thank God for it, as he is a dangerous foe. He has not had time to make many enemies, however, as he received his lands from Henry after Bosworth.”

“That would explain it.” The Scotsman paused, and then went on in quite a different tone. “Shall I make my amends now or later?”

“Amends?”

“For my insult.”

“Later would be…”

Cate stopped, unable to go on for the hard knot that formed in her throat. That he accepted her word without further explanation was so unexpected that she knew not what to say or where to look. Her late stepbrother, who had been guardian to her and her two sisters until his death, had never been particularly reasonable.

“Later it is,” he said quietly. “Meanwhile, on the sub
ject of what we should do now, I have another suggestion.”

“Yes?”

“We could dance.”

“Dance,” she repeated, not quite certain she had heard him correctly. Though someone played on a lute, it was not a tune suitable for such exercise. Moreover, a shadow of amusement lay in his eyes despite the gravity of his features.

“During the coming evening. If we lift our feet to music, it may appear we are light of heart and obedient to Henry’s commands for the time being.”

“Surely there is something else.”

“Or we could sing.”

“I am more inclined to wait.” She laughed a little as she spoke, in spite of herself. She had no real wish to forget his suspicion or be distracted from it by his nonsense.

“As you will. We may sing while making merry at the approach of Christmas. We can hum with the monks in their chorals, whistle with the serving maids and trill with the jongleurs. No one will ever suspect we are plotting treason.”

“Treason?” she exclaimed. “Not I!”

“Aye, you, as flaunting the will of a king can be a hanging offense.”

“Be serious, please! Are we to pretend to happiness at this betrothal, then, as if we long for the wedding date? Must we act as if it is real?”

“Have I not just said so?” He reached to take her hand, lifting it to his mouth, brushing his smooth, warm lips
across the backs of her fingers while holding her gaze with the dark blue of his own.

Cate drew a swift breath as the muscles of her arm jerked in uncontrollable spasm. “Don’t!”