The Frost Maiden's Kiss (14 page)

Of course, the scheme would only work if she bore a son.

It was an impetuous and possibly a foolish idea, but Malcolm could not shake its fundamental appeal. Perhaps longer consideration would show its weakness. Perhaps not. He watched Catriona step with purpose into the stall where the nanny goats were dozing, and warmed to the idea. She was not afraid to labor or to speak her mind. He thought of her conviction that the future could be shaped by choice and acknowledged that Catriona might make him a fine Lady of Ravensmuir, indeed.

Of course, he would have to convince her that he was not the monster she believed him to be.

He liked to believe it could be done.

He wished he might have had more time to do it.

Malcolm hung the lantern from the hook, letting its light flood the stall. Three white nanny goats regarded him with yellow eyes, the udders of one hanging low with milk. He had only milked the two thoroughly when they arrived and taken but a measure from this one to ease her comfort. There was a stool in one corner, which Catriona made to fetch.

It was only because Malcolm was watching her closely that he saw her wince as she bent to lift the stool.

“Leave that,” he instructed, his tone firm.

She glanced his way and he could already see her protest forming.

He strode to her side and lifted the stool from her hand. There were shadows beneath her eyes, he noted, and a droop to her shoulders. He put down the stool and gestured to it. “You are tired. Sit.”

Catriona folded her arms across her chest, a predictable defiance lighting her eyes. “I am not so tired that I cannot serve my lady…”

“And you will serve her better after a moment’s rest.” He spoke quietly, even as her lips set. “I admire your resolve, Catriona, but I will see no child lost in my hall. On the morrow, at Kinfairlie, you can do as you desire. In this moment, I would have you sit.”

“I would milk the goat.”

“I will milk the goat.”

Her astonishment was clear. “You?”

“Aye,
me
.” He gentled his tone. “Please, sit.”

Catriona studied him for a moment, mutinous and skeptical, then the line of her lips softened. “Perhaps that is worth observing,” she murmured and sank to the stool. Malcolm could not have failed to note her suppressed sigh of relief.

Malcolm fetched a pail, then dropped to one knee beside the goat. The nanny goat chewed slowly, watching him until he gently took her udders in his hands. Once his hands were upon her, she relaxed, probably remembering his touch as much as his appearance. The milk splashed in the pail and the other goats continued to nudge in the straw.

Malcolm could hear the horses, the five owned by himself and Rafael, swishing their tails in adjacent stalls. He heard the two destriers from Blackleith and the palfreys further down the stables and the resolute snoring of a man several stalls away. That, he guessed, was Ruari, though he could not guess whether Erik slept or lay listening.

He would not speak of Vivienne, just in case.

He certainly would not think of the last stall, the one with the barricaded wall, or events of that first snowy night.

“You have done this before,” Catriona said, a measure of surprise in her tone.

“Did you think my incompetence would provide amusement?” Malcolm asked. He glanced back to see her brow arch.

“I doubt that many find you incompetent, sir.” She was a bit paler than Malcolm would have preferred, but there was little to be gained in scolding her. That she tried to fulfill her duties was honorable, after all.

That she did it out of fear of being cast out said much of what she had endured.

“I doubt that many would expect you to show such skill in milking a goat,” she continued, curiosity in her tone. “Were you not to the manor born?”

“Indeed, I grew up at Kinfairlie,” he said, and did not have to make an effort to keep his tone easy. Talking to Catriona reminded him of conversations with his sisters, before he had inherited Ravensmuir. That exchange of confidences seemed to have been lost. “With seven siblings and a large household, there was always a task for willing hands. My father had no use for idleness, even in his sons.”

“But you said you were to be trained as a knight.”

“I did not begin to train at arms until I had seen eight summers. I came to Ravensmuir to complete my training for knighthood at nineteen. At five, however, I was taught to milk goats. We had a herd of them even then.” He frowned in recollection. “And a cheese maker who was most skilled.”

“Did you learn to make cheese, as well?” The notion seemed to amuse her, and he liked the lightness in her tone.

“Nay. He had no tolerance for children underfoot in his realm.” Malcolm nodded in reminiscence. “Of course, I had earned his ire, because I was oft underfoot.”

“Trying to learn?”

“Trying to steal a piece of cheese.”

Catriona laughed a little then, as if he had surprised her. He turned to find her watching him, her fingers over her lips, and her eyes dancing. She was most fetching when amused, so attractive that he wanted to make her smile again. “Forgive me, my lord, but it is difficult to imagine you as a mischievous boy.”

Malcolm sobered at the reminder and turned his attention to his milking. “Times change, and we with it.”

“Indeed.”

Her heartfelt agreement caught at his heart. Malcolm worked in silence for a few moments, well aware that she watched him even as she leaned against the wall of the stall. “And you?”

“We always had at least one goat.”

“Did you have siblings?”

“It does not matter.”

The reply was curt. Malcolm recognized a story that she chose not to tell.

And one he wanted very much to know.

“But you worked with your mother.”

“Aye. Many women came for her aid.” She surreptitiously rubbed her back, and Malcolm guessed that she assumed he could not see the gesture.

“You have the sound of the north in your voice.”

Catriona’s tone hardened when she replied. “I have no home, sir, as I have said.”

Malcolm turned to study her, even as his hands continued to work. She was wary, now, and he feared he had lost whatever ground he had gained.

But she proved to be as curious as he.

“Who is Ursula?” she asked, holding his gaze as if to will the tale from him.

“Was,” Malcolm corrected, turning back to the goat. “She was a comrade’s woman.” His throat tightened in memory.

“How did she die?”

“I will not speak of it.”

“Because she was with child, as am I and your sister,” Catriona guessed. Malcolm glanced over his shoulder to find her leaning forward. “And you think it inappropriate to confide that she died in the birth of her child.” Their gazes locked and held for a moment, her steady regard of him sending a rare heat through his veins. “I have seen it often enough, sir. I lent aid to my mother, after all.” She smiled, a little bit sadly, and her voice softened. “It cannot have been your fault.”

“You do not know that.” Malcolm heard his own voice harden. “You cannot know that.”

The silence was less companionable between them then. As much as Malcolm wished to earn this woman’s trust, he would not speak of Ursula.

“Your comrade thinks I look like her.” Catriona said, continuing the conversation when Malcolm thought she might have been glad of his silence.

He shrugged. “You are a woman. Your hair is blond and you carry a child. Rafael does not look beyond those simple facts. He has seen Ursula’s likeness a thousand times since her death.”

“Then perhaps he was the one smitten with her.”

Malcolm looked up, for he had never thought of that.

“It would explain his awareness that she watched you,” Catriona continued with quiet conviction. “I could see jealousy making him more observant than is his nature, but little else.”

Malcolm knew that there were many situations that made Rafael more observant. Danger was chief of them, but that did not eliminate jealousy. “Perhaps so.”

“And you did not see either his jealousy or her desire, because her desire for you was not returned.” Catriona did not seem to expect a reply to that, so Malcolm continued to milk.

“Perhaps you are right,” he admitted. “I would give all the world to be able to ask her.” The goat had only a measure more milk, but Malcolm would take it all, the better to ensure that Catriona had some milk herself. He guessed well enough that if there was only a small amount, she would give it all to Vivienne. He finished his task, aware that Catriona watched him.

“Why do you build the keep with such haste?”

Malcolm faced Catriona again, finding that she studied him. She looked more at ease in his company than she had yet, and he was surprised by how much that pleased him. If naught else, he owed her an honest reply. “To wring some merit from what I have done, and to do so before I die.”

She frowned in confusion, her gaze dancing over him. “Are you ill? Have you enemies?”

“No man knows when he will be summoned,” Malcolm said, taking refuge in a platitude, for she did not need to know every detail. He took a teasing tone, as he would with one of his sisters. “You are most curious, Catriona.”

She blushed and averted her gaze. “I find you unlike men I have known, sir. It is not my intent to offend you.”

Malcolm set the pail aside and pivoted to face her. “What manner of men have you known?”

She straightened, her gaze turning distant and cool. “Those whose every thought is of their own advantage.”

“Mercenaries and warriors.”

“Among others.” Her disgust was clear, her bearing regal, and that was when Malcolm realized the truth.

Nine months before, Inverness had been burned to the ground by a marauding army of mercenaries, the inhabitants slaughtered and abused. Every tavern he and Rafael had patronized on their trip north had been filled with the tidings of it: every innkeeper had assumed that they had been to Inverness themselves.

And here sat a woman whose voice carried the music of that region, a woman who was ripe with a child, a woman who wished the father of her child dead and feared she bore a monster.

Because the babe had been wrought in violence. He knew the old tales as well as any soul.

He was so surprised that he uttered his conclusion aloud. “You were raped.”

As soon as the words had passed his lips, Malcolm knew that he should have kept silent. Terror flashed in Catriona’s eyes and she leapt to her feet. She spun, then fled from the stables, too quickly for him to halt her. Malcolm seized the bucket and the lantern, fearful that she would stumble in the dark.

“Catriona!” he shouted in a hoarse whisper, not wanting to awaken Ruari and Erik. He was not surprised that she neither halted nor replied.

Malcolm swore as milk sloshed over the side of the bucket. He opened the door with his shoulder, holding the lantern in the other hand.

To his relief, Catriona was waiting just outside the stable, her back against the wall. One fist was clenched at her side and the other locked around whatever talisman she wore at her neck. Her gaze flicked from the tents of the masons, across the broad expanse of dark bailey to the portal of the keep, and back to Malcolm.

She was suspicious anew.

He looked and saw a trio of workers were talking together outside the nearest tent, but still some distance away, their figures wreathed in shadows and their voices too low for words to be discerned. Malcolm could sense their awareness of Catriona and knew that their presence had compelled her to halt. Her breath was coming quickly, her gaze darting between him and the three men.

“So I am the lesser of the possible evils,” he said. “There is encouragement to be found in that.”

He handed her the lantern and indicated the hall.

* * *

There was something truly dangerous about the Laird of Ravensmuir.

That he should be the one to guess her secret had been startling indeed. This laird was perceptive beyond belief, though, and even the slight relaxation of her guard had granted him an insight she would not have expected. The flash of fury in his eyes had been all too familiar and Catriona had bolted, convinced that he meant to partake of the same feast in the same way.

She felt like a fool after she found herself alone in the night, with three burly laborers watching her intently from the mason’s camp.

She breathed slowly and compelled herself to review what she had seen thus far. A man such as this laird should have filled Catriona with terror, the very sight of him reminding her of all she had endured. Instead, he consistently challenged her belief that all such men were the same.

More, there was something in his manner that drew her near and made her wish to know more of him. She feared it a dangerous temptation, but she could not deny its power. She closed her eyes and heard his voice.

God in heaven, but she loved how he said her name. It was like a caress on his tongue, particularly when he whispered it, his voice low and husky. The sound made an unfamiliar heat unfurl in her belly and awakened a yearning that she had never felt before. Worse, it was one she longed to explore.

Perhaps the Laird of Ravensmuir was a sorcerer, after all. For it was more than his watchfulness and his handsome features, more than the way his eyes gleamed and the way he said her name, that undermined her surety she knew his true nature. Never would Catriona have imagined that it would be easy to speak with a man of his station, much less that she would feel more at ease while alone with him than in company.

Perhaps it had been the familiarity of a stable, and the quiet trust of the goats, as much as the manner of the laird himself. The goats reminded her of her own childhood, the laird’s confession of his mischief making her feel that they had more in common than she had believed.

Despite Catriona’s protest, when he had glanced over his shoulder with his eyes sparkling, she had been able to see him as a mischievous boy—never mind one who could win his way with charm.

Though it might be a whimsy she would never confess aloud, she liked how the goats trusted him. In her experience, animals were even less frequently wrong about men than children. She had seen goats scatter before warriors and kick at servants who were rough or impatient with the milking. These goats were at ease with this man, and Catriona acknowledged that her own fears had to be at least partly wrong.