By Grace Possessed (6 page)

“Does she now?” he drawled, more intrigued and,
yes, pleased than he wanted to admit by the oblique compliment.

The lady colored and looked away from him. He had not meant to embarrass her. In a swift change of subject, he said, “While rubbing elbows with Henry, I learned he sent a messenger bearing the betrothal agreement to my father. The man was instructed to continue to Holyrood to gain the approval of King James.”

“Already?”

“He wastes no time, does Henry.”

She took a deep breath, released it with a sigh. “I had thought he might wait until he was established at Greenwich Palace.”

“Or even after the Christmas season.” Ross lifted a shoulder covered by the long tail of his plaid. “He was apparently not so inclined.”

“Think you…” she began, before trailing to a stop.

“What?”

“That your King James will agree? I mean…”

“Could be. Jamie is of a mind to form an alliance between our two countries, as witness the treaty. He almost married his son to Elizabeth’s sister, Cecily, some years back, so may look with favor on another such tie.”

“I feared as much, particularly after such haste to arrange it.”

“As to that, Henry sends couriers in every direction during the present uncertainty, but especially to the north, where any landing by an invasion force is to be expected. He doesn’t intend to be caught napping like Richard III.”

“Is that likely?”

“Who can say? I hear tell Margaret of Burgundy may contribute equal amounts of gold and spite to the plot involving the Yorkist pretender.”

“It’s natural enough, I suppose. Margaret was close to her brothers, both Richard and Edward.”

“I’ll hardly argue against invading with revenge for a reason, not being a hypocrite.” He shifted in the saddle to stretch a tight muscle. “But I only meant to point out that Henry had no need to send a special messenger north to the border, as he had one headed in that direction already.”

“How long do you think before he can have an answer?” she asked, her gaze clouded with uneasiness.

“With my father, it’s hard to say. He may not answer at all.”

“If he considers the proposal beneath contempt, you mean.”

“Or in the nature of an insult,” Ross said in wry agreement. “At least he won’t send the messenger back minus his head. I trust not, anyway, as I am in Henry’s hands.”

She looked at Ross askance. “Surely you don’t believe Henry would execute you in retaliation?”

“Maybe, maybe not, though he would be justified.”

“What of King James? How long before we hear from him?”

“A month or two, even three, as he’ll want to turn the question up, down and sideways, searching for a trick.”

Her smile for his drollery was brief. “And if he decides in favor?”

“Who? Jamie or my father? Or is it that you fear they’ll both betray us?”

She swallowed, a movement in the line of her white throat that made his belly clench. “Yes, both.”

“Trilborn believes I should break my parole and return to Scotland.”

“Unwise, I would think. Your king may take it in bad part if you avoid a wedding he considers politic.”

“Possibly.”

She searched his face, singling out the doubt he could feel there. “Or not, if it should be a ruse, and James intent upon taking advantage of Henry’s distraction during any invasion.”

“He is not so underhanded,” Ross said in stiff rejection. “He will keep to the treaty he signed last spring. Besides, it would be cannier for him to wait and see who wins. As for fighting, I will follow my king when I can, though I’m not much disposed to kill men I’ve been drinking with these many months.”

“Not even Trilborn?” she asked in dry tones.

“An exception might be made in his case.” Ross paused, and then went on in a different tone. “He was entertaining you earlier.”

“If you care to call it that. He’s difficult to discourage, without simply riding off and leaving him.”

“Your sister remained beside you, I noticed.”

“It seemed best.”

Grim humor surfaced inside him. “She does have a forbidding way of looking at a man, not that it seemed to trouble Trilborn.”

A gust of wind blew Lady Catherine’s veiling across her mouth. She lifted a hand to draw it away before she spoke. “He left soon enough. I take no particular gratifi
cation from his company, as you must realize, but though he is your enemy, that does not make him mine.”

Sudden tightness invaded the lower part of Ross’s body as his gaze was drawn to her moist and enticing lips, emphasized as the veiling was moved away from them. It sounded in his voice as he spoke. “He wants you and means to have you. He made that much plain when he warned me off a few days ago. I almost think…”

“What?”

Ross looked away toward the tail end of the column, which was approaching. “You’ll think it Dunbar mistrust, or even lunacy.”

“Or I may not.”

“Think on this then. You are a good horsewoman. You aren’t fearful of being alone in the wood. You often fall back at the end of the hunt.”

Her gaze sharpened. “I’m not sure how you come by the knowledge, but what of it?”

“Those who hunt with Henry are well used to you removing yourself from among them for half an hour or so at the time of the kill, then showing up again. They barely notice when it happens, as you saw in the New Forest. If you had been carried off and held overnight, it would have been no different.”

“You are saying…” She stopped as if unwilling to put the perfidy of it into words.

“I am saying,” he continued, his voice gruff, “that you should have a care for your person. Be aware of what is taking place around you. Avoid going anywhere alone, and know always where the nearest palace guard is stationed.”

She sighed with a slow shake of her head. “Foolish man.”

Irritation surged through him at the lack of alarm in her voice, and the note of pity. He could feel his face set in hard lines. “My lady?”

“Oh, not you,” she answered, with a flashing glance in his direction. “I was thinking of Trilborn. He had best be glad he failed, if abduction was indeed his scheme. He might be dead by now, otherwise.”

“You would have killed him.” Ross thought he kept the skepticism out of his voice, but could not be sure of it.

“The boar would have attacked and killed him, he’d have been unhorsed in chasing after me, and broken his neck, or the outlaws would have murdered him for his purse. Any number of things might have happened, but he would be dead all the same.”

“You speak of the curse.” Ross’s voice was flat in his attempt to control his annoyance.

She inclined her head while still holding her veil back from her face.

“I’m not sure the thing would have been so obliging, or acted so fast.”

“Mayhap not, but he would have contracted an inflammation of the lungs at the very least.”

“After you suffered at his hands.”

A dark look passed over her fine, pale features. “That is possible.”

“You will have a care then, if only to prevent him from achieving that much.”

She sat her horse, her gaze steady upon his face,
while the wind flipped her palfrey’s mane and threatened to take the bonnet from his head. Reaching up, Ross snatched off his headgear and then slapped it on again, pulling it snugly forward and to one side. His mount stirred restively, and was controlled by him with more firmness than was strictly needed.

“Why?” she asked finally. “What do you care what happens to an Englishwoman you barely know?”

“Why should I not? You’ve done nothing untoward, yet may be married out of hand because I elected to remain in the wood that evening instead of trying to find the hunt.”

“It was the right decision at the time.”

He was grateful to hear her say it, more so than he expected. “Nevertheless, I am responsible for what happened afterward. If I am not to offer the recompense of marriage, then you must allow me to keep you safe in other ways.”

“Safe from Trilborn.”

“And those like him who would take advantage of your fall from grace. Some men think nothing of bedding by force a woman they feel is fair game. There are worse things, milady, than being married against your will.”

Ross waited after he fell silent, waited to see if he needed to speak more plainly. He would not descend to crude and pithy description unless forced to it, yet neither would he stand like a stone-carved saint, letting her risk what she might not understand.

“Yes,” she said in stiff acknowledgment, “I am aware.”

He let out a breath of relief. Though doubtless more innocent than she thought herself to be, she was not ignorant of what could happen to a woman. “Excellent. I don’t mind carving a hole or two in Trilborn’s hide, but would be loath to sully the floor of Henry’s palace with his blood.”

Her eyes narrowed a fraction as she searched his face. “You despise him that much.”

Ross tipped his head, his smile without warmth.

“Because of the feud he spoke of, and the Trilborn wife stolen away across the border by your grandfather, but…”

“He didn’t tell you of more recent abductions, including the Dunbar lass he made off with himself just last year, and only returned when he knew she was carrying his child.”

“A Dunbar lass.”

“My cousin, who was but thirteen at the time, fourteen when she died in childbirth. So yes, I would kill him with pleasure, might have already except for being sworn to peace while at Henry’s court.”

“You think his pursuit of me now has an element of personal retaliation due to the feud between your families.”

Ross lifted a shoulder. “There is also your inheritance. Court life is expensive, and his estates have been so neglected they return little.” He failed to mention her lovely face and form, though it required stringent effort.

“He may try his worst,” she said with a wintry smile.

“You think he fears your curse.”

“Many at court are superstitious, much though they might deny it,” she said in oblique agreement.

Ross thought it more likely Trilborn feared the man whose ward she was, Henry VII, or had until a great Scots oaf had spent the night with the lady without being sent to the Tower. “If he tries it again, he’ll be a dead man, with or without its help.”

“You would break your oath of peace while in England?”

“Oh, aye, a hundred times over, rather than let him take you into his bed.”

God’s blood, he was daft for saying such a thing, he knew with instant disgust. Though he meant every word of it, and would not withdraw a single one.

“L
ady Catherine, a moment of your time!”

Cate started as Trilborn stepped from an alcove in the empty antechamber she was passing through, and grimaced privately before she swung to face him. She had evaded his every attempt to speak to her alone since their return from Winchester. It was ill luck that he had caught her now as she came from an hour with the queen.

How he had known where to find her was more than Cate could see, unless he had followed her earlier. She had not known herself that Elizabeth would send for her, desiring to be told the latest on her peculiar betrothal.

“I am in haste, sir,” she said with the briefest of smiles. “My sister awaits, and I must join her in good time for the midday meal.”

“In truth, I am amazed to see her absent from your side.” He strolled closer, sweeping off his plumed hat for his elaborate bow. His attire was in the latest mode and his signature colors, being an extremely short doublet in black velvet with slashed sleeves that revealed a linen shirt embroidered in silver. His manly parts were covered by close-fitting black hose, but were emphasized rather
than concealed by the few inches of skirt that extended below the doublet’s belted waist. The low boots he wore were of soft black leather, with toes of such length they curled backward and were attached to the boot tops by silver cords.

“Marguerite was not summoned to the queen’s chamber,” Cate replied with equanimity. She kept her gaze fastened on his face, being wary indeed of showing any interest in what stirred beneath the front of his hose. The scent that came to her from him was not quite as pristine as his clothing, being composed of stale sweat and ale mingled with a strong odor of cloves.

“Allow me to accompany you, if you will,” he said, holding out his arm. “I have missed passing the time of day with you.”

To refuse could lead to the very confrontation she hoped to avoid. Though she well recalled the warning Ross Dunbar had given her, she was no great distance from the queen’s apartments with its guards, and the great hall was not far away.

Greenwich Palace, fast becoming a favored residence of the king and queen, was a great rambling manse with one large square tower and several of lesser size. Located in what had once been a fishing village, it had been enlarged and refurbished by Edward IV as a retreat for his queen, Elizabeth Woodville. Henry had improved it as well, with any number of Flemish tapestries, French cabinets and Saracen carpets. It had a splendid array of glazed windows that filled it with bright light and gave pleasing views of the Thames. It was also composed of numberless, echoing rooms that opened one into the
other, with only a handful of corridors leading from one section to the next.

Cate was not at all sure she trusted Trilborn to guide her where she wished to go, but neither did she want him trailing along behind her if she should lose her way.

“As you wish,” she said without enthusiasm, and laid her fingers upon his sleeve with as light a touch as she could manage.

“You found the queen well?” he asked as they began to walk.

“Very well indeed.” He would like to know why she had been in private with Elizabeth of York, but Cate was in no mood to satisfy his curiosity.

“And the new prince, young Arthur?”

“The babe grows plump and fine.”

“You and Henry’s Elizabeth are of an age, I believe. You must have much in common.”

“She takes an interest in all the ladies around her, both those officially in waiting upon her and those who are not.” It was a banal thing to say, but better than being drawn into particulars that might be repeated.

Trilborn closed his free hand into a fist and placed it behind his back as he walked, the only sign of his annoyance with her. “What of your health?” he continued. “You suffered no ill effects from your night in a snowstorm?”

A smile curled one corner of her mouth. “None whatever. It may not appear so, but I have the constitution of an ox.”

“That must gratify your bridegroom, as the Scots place great store upon rude health.”

“He is not displeased.” Cate had no idea if that was true, but thought it sounded well enough.

“And where is Dunbar this day?”

She sent the man a brief glance from under her lashes, noting the careful smoothness of his hair, the pleated frill of his shirt at the neck and sleeves. Even the king did not dress with such particularity. It was clear he had been nowhere near the exercise yard, where Ross had been disporting himself when last she saw him.

“I have no idea,” she answered, “though he will appear in time to eat, I feel sure.”

“His appetite is prodigious, I do agree. But nothing has been heard from Scotland? The betrothal does not progress?”

How everyone knew the details of her private affairs, she could not imagine, but so it seemed. Her deepest suspicion was that the king himself had informed all and sundry as a form of coercion. “It’s early days yet.”

“You can’t be happy in it.”

Her lips twisted for an instant. “Happy or unhappy, I must bow to Henry’s will.”

“So obedient, though you might escape the business with a little resolution.”

“You think so,” she said in droll disbelief.

“It would please me beyond my ability to express to have you as my wife, Lady Catherine. The king favors you and your sisters to an extraordinary degree. I’m sure he would listen, should you declare your preference for me above the Scotsman.”

“You are supposing I would actually prefer you.”

Trilborn swung his head to give her a narrow stare
before his features smoothed again. “You are pleased to jest. By my faith, I am quite serious.”

His arm beneath her fingers had grown rigid with his displeasure, in spite of his attempt to pass it off. It would be best if she stepped lightly. “The king has a purpose in this, as in most things. I am not likely to sway him from it.”

“You sound unwilling to try, if I may say so. Something took place between you and the Scotsman in the New Forest, did it not? Was it so satisfactory that you pant to enjoy it again?”

“You are offensive, sir.” She lifted her hand from his arm at once.

“But am I right?”

“Nothing took place, nothing!”

“Dunbar says the same, and has bludgeoned half a dozen men to insensibility with fists, cudgel and the flat of his sword over it. Still, the king moved with amazing swiftness to mend your good name.”

“An affair of state rather than a necessity, I do assure you.” That Ross had been forced to defend her honor with physical prowess was disturbing. She’d had no idea of it until this moment. Certainly, he’d said nothing to her. “How so?”

She remained silent as Trilborn held open the door to a short and windowless corridor that led to another series of chambers. Only when she had passed through ahead of him did she answer over her shoulder. “I believe Henry sees the alliance as a way to decrease border tensions.”

“It seems more likely to fan them. Surely he knows of the bad blood between my family and Dunbar’s?”

“I should be surprised to know Henry gave the feud a single thought.” She hesitated a moment, then went on. “Is it of such moment that he should heed it? Can it not be mended?”

“My lady, you must know better.”

“How did it start? What dread deed made it necessary to continue these many years?”

Confusion rippled across Trilborn’s face before he lifted a shoulder. “I hardly know, if truth be told. I was brought up on bedtime stories of the dread Dunbars, shook with nightmares of being dragged from my sleep and hanged in my little nightshirt, or having my head chopped off like a young cockerel ready for the pot.”

“They did nothing of the kind to children, surely!” She could almost be sorry for him, or at least for the boy who had been steeped in such a frightening legacy.

“Who can say?” he answered, his face grim. “They did enough.”

“As did your family, from what I heard.”

“Yet we are never quite even.”

“What will that take, the death of all Dunbars?”

“Or their defeat and dishonor, so my father and grandfather would say,” Trilborn allowed with a snorting laugh. “That Henry would overlook the business is hard to credit when he is well versed in all else that takes place, keeps his thumb on the country’s pulse through his cadre of agents and paid informants.” The courtier shook his head. “He plays a deeper game. I wish I knew what it was.”

“You are mistaken if you think I can tell you.” That was true only in part, as Cate had gained some small insight during the audience at Winchester. Still, it would
be the height of conceit to presume her betrothal played a major role in the matter.

“You don’t have to understand it to become his pawn.”

Pawns were often sacrificed in order to save more valuable pieces. Cate felt hollow inside as that thought struck her.

“So,” Trilborn said, reclaiming her regard, “you will not speak to Henry?”

“He would never listen. How many times must I tell you?”

“Those who venture nothing also gain nothing,” he declared.

“A maxim for the battlefield, as I recall. This is my life we are discussing.”

“Which you will spend in Scotland, if you don’t have a care. I should think an English husband would suit you better. I could give you as much satisfaction as any Scots oaf, I’ll warrant.”

“I am promised. Can we not leave it at that until it proves otherwise?”

“Promised to Dunbar, of all men,” Trilborn said, ignoring her plea. “By all the saints, I believe it’s what you want!”

“All I want, sir, is to be left alone!”

She picked up her skirts, preparing to leave him. It was to be a fine, indignant exit with the trainlike hem of her gown frothing in her wake.

She was snatched up short as he wrapped hard fingers about her upper arm and whirled her against the nearest wall. Her head thudded against the stone, so hard that lightning flashed behind her eyes. Trilborn came up
against her before she could move, slamming his body into hers, flattening her so she could barely draw breath, grinding against her from chest to thighs. He caught her wrists, squeezing until they creaked as he jerked them above her head. Holding them on either side of her headdress, he tried to claim her mouth.

She twisted, whipped her head aside, ducking away from his wet, seeking lips. “Let me go,” she cried, shuddering in revulsion.

“Are you sure that’s what you want?” he demanded with harsh satisfaction in his voice. “Are you?”

She could feel the ridge of hardness he pressed against her, with only fine hose fabric between it and her abdomen. Shifting her weight, she tried to bring her knee up. He turned so she grazed his thigh, then he slid his leg between hers, bending his knee to rub against her. Catching both wrists in one hand, he reached for her breast, squeezing, kneading it in paroxysms, pinching the nipple through the cloth.

Cate heaved with rage and disgust. So wrenching was the experience that she snapped her head forward and sank her teeth into his neck.

He cursed, jerking away. For a single instant, she could breathe, was close to freedom.

Trilborn put a hand to his neck, brought it away again to stare at the blood on his fingers. He curled them into a fist while the disbelief in his face turned to fury. Drawing back his arm, he struck her, putting so much force behind it that she spun away from him, falling in a tangle of skirts. Her elbow and hip struck the floor with such jarring agony it brought tears to her eyes.

Behind her, Trilborn gave a guttural cry. Cate expected him to be upon her in an instant. She heaved up, struggling to her knees.

Through the blue gauze shimmer of her veil, which had fallen over her face, she saw two figures rolling over the carpets that stretched down the very center of the corridor. It was Ross and Trilborn, locked in vicious combat loud with oaths, grunts and the smack of flesh against flesh.

Abruptly, there was a flash of steel. Trilborn broke free then and staggered to his feet with a red-stained blade in his hand. He slewed around, his face wild as he looked at Cate. He’d lost his hat, his straw-colored hair hung in his face, his nose dripped blood and a purple-red splotch marred his neck.

Ross sprang up with his dirk grasped in a hard fist. Trilborn, pale and sweating, backed away. He swung around and plunged into a run. His thumping footsteps faded as he fled through an end door.

Cate flung her veil behind her shoulders as Ross came toward her. He was white around the mouth and none too steady on his feet, she saw, and his hand was clamped to his side. Still, he reached his free hand down to her, pulling her up when she took it.

“Are you all right?” he asked, his gaze on her cheekbone, which throbbed with every beat of her heart.

“Never mind me. What of you?”

He didn’t bother to lower his gaze to where blood seeped between his fingers, made no answer at all to what she’d asked. Releasing her hand, he trailed a gentle
fingertip over the curve of her cheek. “I should have killed him while I had the chance.”

“Instead, he nearly killed you.”

“My fault. Like the greenest chucklehead, I was nay thinking. I expected the devil’s spawn to send footpads after me in some dark alley, but didn’t credit him with the nerve to draw knife himself, and inside the palace walls.”

Dunbar’s Scots burr, always present to some degree, had thickened under duress. He must be more injured than he wanted her to know. “I am grateful you were near, all the same. But something must be done for your side. Can your manservant bind it? Shall I send for him?”

“Servant have I none,” he said with a quirk of humor at one corner of his mouth. “I’m nay such a strutting cock as yon Trilborn, needing aid with my dressing like a babe in swaddling, nay, nor with anything else. I can strap it up my own self.”

“So you might, if you don’t drip so much gore on Henry’s silk carpets that you pass out between here and your chamber.”

“Henry’s carpets are no worry of mine,” he drawled. “As you have such a care for them, you’d best see to it.”

He thought her reluctance to see a stag brought down meant she’d no stomach for dealing with a bloody wound. He was sure she would refuse and send him on his way; she could see it in his face. How little he knew her.