The Frost Maiden's Kiss (16 page)

It emanated from the ground beneath his feet, winding into his ears and unlocking secrets in his memory that he would have preferred to have forgotten. He frowned as images unfurled in his mind, as scents assailed him and choices haunted him. He saw the battlefield once again, the day that Franz had been lost, and felt sickened anew at all he had done.

Never mind all that he had left undone.

He knew that he would have nightmares this night, if he could not compel himself to remain awake. His soul would be the Fae’s tithe to Hell, gathered at the Midsummer Eve for the tribute they paid every seven years.

And the Fae music ensured that he recalled all his deeds, convincing Malcolm that Hell was precisely where his sorry soul belonged.

To remain awake, he would go to the one place where he found solace, the place where he felt closest to his uncle Tynan.

* * *

Why had she done such a thing?

To kiss the laird had been folly, yet she could not regret it.

Catriona lay sleepless long after her lady had fallen asleep, wondering at her impulsiveness. She had never encouraged the eye or the touch of a man before, and truly, her state was evidence of the danger in attracting any man’s attention. She might have guessed that her impulse would be seen as an invitation by a man accustomed to claiming whatsoever he desired.

And yet, and yet, the Laird of Ravensmuir had been the one to step away. He had more restraint than she had expected, perhaps even more than she herself when faced with such temptation as his kiss. She could never have guessed that any embrace would leave her longing for more.

Let alone one from a mercenary laird.

One who called her a warrior queen.

That recollection gave Catriona more pleasure than any compliment she had ever been granted. She held his words as closely as the memory of his kiss. It had been the first she had been granted by a man, distinctive for that, as well as its combination of tenderness and desire, and a far better thing than any tentative kisses shared with boys in her past. The laird’s kiss had been passionate, to be sure, but not inflicted so much as coaxed. She licked her lips and tasted him again, closed her eyes and recalled the hard strength of his body so close to her own. His power made his tenderness all the more seductive.

In the darkness of the solar, as her lady and her children slept, Catriona admitted to herself that she had been tempted to surrender more than a kiss to the Laird of Ravensmuir. She surely would have regretted such a choice, but Catriona found herself surprised to imagine that there might be much of merit in a night spent in his bed.

He had been beaten in an attempt to defend a woman assaulted as she had been.

He had awakened her child with his kiss.

He knew the misery of having only poor choices from which to select. The lesser of available evils, indeed. Would that she had never been compelled to learn what he meant.

Would that neither of them had been.

But then, she and the Laird of Ravensmuir would not have understood each other so well, and Catriona could never wish for that.

Not now.

She stared at the ceiling of his solar, listening to the rhythm of slumber. Her babe, now awakened, was active indeed, its stirrings not the only reason she did not sleep. Lady Vivienne and the children shared the thickest pallet nearest the brazier, while Catriona rolled herself in a blanket near the summit of the stairs.

She heard snoring from the hall below and wondered if the laird of the manor slept or if she heard his companion. She wondered whether he dreamed of their kiss, no less whether he wondered about her as much as she wondered about him.

Some impulse drove her to rise and look out the window at the rhythm of the sea. She saw the man on the cliff immediately and knew he should not be there. Catriona studied his figure, silhouetted against the sea, wanting to prove to herself that it could not be the laird himself.

But it was. She was sure of it. There was no man so broad and so tall in this holding, no less none who strode with such purpose. He walked toward the ruins piled upon the cliff, even as the rain began to fall in large drops.

He did not hesitate but stepped into a gap between the stones.

Did he take refuge from the storm? Catriona held her breath, but the laird did not reappear. Thunder boomed and lightning cracked, the rain falling in a torrent upon the keep.

Catriona stood at the window and waited, watching for the laird’s return and fearful of his fate. Was it safe in those ruins? She could not imagine as much. Why would he go there? Was he injured? There was no sound but the crash of the waves upon the cliff and the pounding of the rain on the roof. Water ran down the outside of the walls and the wind whistled through the chinks.

The laird had not cried for help, and no one sought him. Should she rouse his companion?

Catriona could not do that. Yet, she could not sleep either, not without knowing that the laird was hale. Her feet chilled as she stood at the window. Her babe tumbled and kicked in her belly as the onslaught of the storm slowed.

To her relief, the laird appeared in that darkened opening, but he did not return to the hall. He stood there, watching the sea then surveying the keep, his glance making her draw back into the shadows.

What did he do in the ruins?

If she asked him this question, would he answer?

There, after all, was only one way to discover that.

Knowing he was hale, at least, Catriona curled on her pallet, tucking her feet beneath the hem of her cloak, closed her eyes and slept.

* * *

Catriona fought against her dream. She was in the cottage again, though, the fire stamped to cold ashes, the violence of the night carrying through the walls. She held Ian close and covered his ears, for he was too young to hear the words that were being screamed in the streets.

She clutched the cross that hung from a chain around her neck and prayed for their survival. Catriona had barred the door when the armies had arrived in the city, determined to defend Ian with her life. She listened for Hamish’s return, hoping that he would remember his family but knowing he would not. It was falling dark when the men had begun to pillage in the streets.

Catriona had no idea what to expect from these vandals who seemed intent upon destroying all they could see. Her heart was pounding in terror and Ian was huddled against her chest, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. He was tired and hungry and only three years of age. He understood even less than she, but he had wept all his tears of frustration.

The sounds of slaughter became louder in the lane beyond the door and Catriona tightened her grip upon him. She touched her fingertip to his lips even as a mighty crash sounded from the lane. Orange flame was visible through the slats of the shuttered window and he cried out in fear.

“Shh!” Catriona advised, trying to hug him tightly. He kicked her in the stomach and in the instant that her grip was loosened, he broke free of her.

“In here!” shouted a man and something pounded at the door. “Just as we were told!”

“Catriona!” Ian bellowed, as a battering ram hammered at the wooden portal.

“Ian!” Catriona whispered, trying to beckon him to her side. The boy ignored her plea, though, and darted to the far side of the door. The door crashed open then, hanging limply from one hinge and emitting the smoke and fire of the town beyond.

A trio of men stood in the doorway. Their faces were blacked with ash and their hands were red with blood. They were unrecognizable, but there was a lust in their eyes that made Catriona shrink into the shadows. One seized the young boy, who hollered in frustration and then in pain.

Even knowing how it would go, Catriona could not keep silent, not even in her dream.

“Ian!” she cried and all three of them looked upon her with an intent that nigh stopped her heart.

Catriona awakened with a pounding heart, uncertain where she was. There was no hint of the fire and smoke she had smelled just moments before, no stone floor beneath her cheek, no blood on her face and no men in the doorway of her home.

Certainly there was no sign of Ian.

Catriona’s hands were clenched so tightly that her nails dug into her palms. Her breath was quick and sweat trickled down her spine. She closed her eyes, seeing Ian as she had seen him last, and tasted her own tears.

She had failed her younger brother so badly.

“Catriona,” a man murmured and her eyes flew open in terror.

The Laird of Ravensmuir was there, standing motionless at the top of the stairs, his eyes glittering in the darkness, his hand on the hilt of his blade.

She was at Ravensmuir.

Catriona exhaled and tried to still her racing heart. “But a dream, my lord,” she whispered and he nodded. He waited until her breathing returned to its normal state, watchful and cautious. When she nodded to him, he nodded in return, then disappeared down the stairs again.

Catriona clutched her cross and said a prayer for Ian, liking very much that the laird stood guard, even over her.

* * *

Who was Ian?

Catriona’s nightmare distracted Malcolm from his own. He returned to the hall below, her anguish vivid in his thoughts. He had thought her so cold when first they had met, but it was clear she was filled with passion.

Who was Ian?

What had happened to him?

And why did he haunt Catriona’s dreams?

Malcolm wanted very much to know. He could well imagine that Ian might be the man she had loved in truth, the one who had died and left her alone, even the one who had abandoned her. Whatever the tale, it was clear from her anguish that Ian was a man Catriona had loved.

To his surprise, that realization tormented Malcolm even more than the memories awakened by the Fae.

Friday, June 18, 1428

Feast Day of Saint Mark and Saint Marcellian.

* * *

Chapter Six

Erik could have done without this sojourn to Ravensmuir, however brief it might ultimately be. In fact, he would have much rather remained home, but it was difficult to deny his beloved wife anything she asked of him with such passion. He understood her close relationship with her family and had no desire to compromise the connection with Kinfairlie.

Ravensmuir, however, was another matter.

Erik believed he was a temperate man in most matters, but the fact that Vivienne’s brother had become a mercenary did not sit any better with him than it did with Alexander. That Malcolm was Vivienne’s favorite brother and that she was inclined to accept his deeds without so much as a whisper of protest was irksome, as well. That his children and his wife slept in the solar, where he was clearly unwelcome, was nigh enough to keep Erik awake all the night.

He had slept, against his own expectation, though his dreams had been troubled. He awakened feeling unsettled and more than ready to be away from this cursed place.

And that was before Ruari began to lament.

“No good will come of it,” that man said as soon as Erik opened an eye. “Mark my words, boy, our night here will cast a long shadow.”

“We will leave this morning, Ruari,” Erik said. “Fear not: you will be at Kinfairlie before midday with more than ample opportunity to ensure that Vera’s affections have not changed before this evening. Never mind that Alexander is certain to have ordered some of that ale you so enjoy from the Kinfairlie’s brewster.”

“You think my concern is for my own pleasure?” Ruari was more indignant than Erik could have managed at this hour of the morn. It was barely light, the first touch of daylight just sliding along the floor of the stables. “Did you not hear the music?”

“I heard the rain. It was quite a storm.”

“No wonder for there was Fae music!” Ruari whispered, his tone filled with horror. “They were dancing all the night, making their merriment, playing their fiddles. In all likelihood, they
summoned
the storm!”

Erik granted his loyal companion a severe look, but it made as much difference as he might have expected.

“I could not force the melody from my dreams, though I put my fingers in my own ears.”

“From whence did it come?”

“Everywhere. Nowhere!” Ruari flung out his hands. “It was beneath the earth, the very floor of the stable humming with the tune.” His fingers tapped against his thigh, marking out the tune that Erik had not even heard.

Or perhaps it was responsible for his own troubled dreams.

“I count myself fortunate that you were not convinced to dance, Ruari.”

“And so you should be. You would be alone then, and me lost for a hundred years,” the older man said, his tone dour. “If not forever.” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “Look at the marks upon my arm! I have been pinched in the night by those fiendish creatures.”

Erik did not note that Ruari could have simply rolled in his sleep and gotten the bruises, for he knew the older man would not be convinced. “So, the affection appears to be mutual.”

Ruari pointed to Erik’s arm. “I am not alone in being punished by their thieving fingers.”

Erik was surprised to see bruises rising on his own flesh, just as if tiny fingers had pinched him hard and repeatedly. “I must have rolled over my knife,” he said. Though the explanation made little sense, Erik preferred it to the notion of the Fae plucking at him while he slept, unaware of their pranks.

Ruari scoffed. “Believe what you need to believe. I know what is what in this place.” The older man made his way to the trio of goats tethered in a stall closer to the keep itself, and in his absence, Erik had a better look at the bruises rising on his skin.

They were all over him!

“More mischief!” Ruari declared. “The goats are dry this morn, though their teats should be hanging low.”

“Perhaps someone has been from the keep already to milk them.”

“Perhaps you create explanations rather than face the truth.” Ruari returned to the stall, folding his arms across his chest as he faced his laird. “We cannot be away from Ravensmuir soon enough, my lord. Even with the ravens gone, it remains a strange and dangerous place, one where no man of merit should linger.”