Eight

Catherine rode along the beach for about three miles before turning inland to follow a path that skirted a large limestone outcrop. The sky had cleared for the moment, and the moon hung low and full. She followed the steep track up and then down, to a narrow inlet where seawater met river at the mouth of a limestone cave. The entrance was wide enough for her to ride right in, and at high tide, a boat could enter. She splashed through a pool of water and went inside, taking a moment to get her bearings in the dark. She’d come here often as a child, looking for her mother. Her nurse had said her mother was a selkie who’d strayed from the ocean for love of her father, leaving Catherine as comfort when she’d had to return to her watery home. She’d kept coming long after she’d outgrown such childish notions. No one else bothered to stray this far from the castle, and she’d claimed it as her own.

She slid from the saddle and searched for the oil lamp she kept hooked on the wall, lighting it and raising it to pierce the gloom. The flickering lamplight cast an eerie glow over the strange Pictish script and many drawings on the west wall, including the figure of a dancing woman, an old Viking ship, and a leaping salmon. The cave went back a good thirty feet before it narrowed and dropped to an underground river. Halfway back was a ledge spread with several sealskins and a heather bed. She noted the stack of wood and coal, and the buckets, kettles, blankets, and sacks of food piled neatly by the fire pit, and nodded with satisfaction. The cave was as comfortable as it could be. Martha had done well.

Grunting, she pulled the inert body of the Englishman… her husband… off the long-suffering mare, stumbling and nearly dropping him. Staggering under his weight, she managed to heave him onto the heather bed face down, before dropping to the floor to rest and catch her breath. Her exertions had opened the wounds on his back, and her shirt was stained with blood.

He’d stopped shivering, which wasn’t a good sign, and his body was bluish and pale. She hurried to build a fire, stoking it high and placing a kettle over it to boil. She tethered the horse near the entrance where its heat could help warm the cave, and rifled through the supplies, looking for rags and whiskey and Martha’s poultice. A daughter of clan Macbeth, an ancient family of bards and healers hailing from Ireland, Martha had also been her nurse, and her father’s before her. Her loyalty was absolute. She was the closest thing Catherine had to a mother, and she was the only one who knew what she’d done. She hadn’t asked any questions when Catherine had asked for her help, just winked and grinned and given her instructions on what to do.

She followed them now, sitting on the ledge beside him with hot water, a rag, and a jug of whiskey. The fiery liquid was well known as a medicinal drink that could prolong life and relieve palsy, colic, and smallpox, but Martha insisted it could also prevent infection and fever when applied to a wound. Catherine dutifully applied liberal amounts of hot water and whiskey to her patient, cleaning his wounds and rubbing him briskly, trying to bring some warmth to his body, although with little apparent success.

She couldn’t help but admire him, as she applied Martha’s salve to his back. The poor man had come here looking for her—he must have! But despite hours of torment, he hadn’t said a word. What could he possibly want? He’d known nothing of her fortune. They weren’t even… they hadn’t even… he hadn’t wanted her, in any case. He’d talked of an annulment and he’d all but told her it was an inconvenient chivalry that had prompted him to come to her aid. She’d honestly thought he’d be glad to be rid of her. Now here he was—a big nuisance, a very big nuisance indeed! He was a brave man, though. To walk into her lands, bold as you please, straight to her door. He’d shamed them all with his courage. He’d taken a vicious beating and whipping with nary a scream or a whimper. Even among the Highlanders, there were few who could claim as much.

Her heart had jumped and her pulse had been racing when he’d landed in front of her, appearing from thin air, and it wasn’t all from shock and surprise. There’d been a thrill of excitement and a start of pleasure, too. She wasn’t sure why, but it had pleased her to see him again. She continued working the salve carefully into his wounds, noting that his back, though badly lacerated, was taut and well muscled, and he had a strong neck, broad shoulders, and sinewy arms. She moved higher, worked vigorously on his shoulders and arms, massaging and kneading, hoping to ease muscles that had been tormented, stretched, and torn.

She blushed in the lamplight when she realized she’d been rubbing salve on them as well, and returned to tending to his back. Despite her efforts, his skin was still clammy and cold. She looked with concern at his soaked breeches. They would need to come off. She reached gingerly around his waist and released them, then tugged and cursed, struggling to remove them, tripping and landing on her behind in the process. When she was done, she washed his lower body… well, his backside at least. She felt a slight twinge of shame as she rubbed down his long, muscular legs and taut buttocks. He groaned and shifted and she stopped, her hand in the air, blushing bright red. Good heavens, what was wrong with her? He was her patient, her husband! She was acting as if she’d never nursed a man before. Well… she’d never nursed a man who looked like this.

When she’d finished washing him, she replaced his wet bed with dry heather and rolled him back upon it, applied the poultice, bandaged his wrists, and covered him with strips of linen, a soft wool blanket, and a couple of sealskins. She lifted the whiskey to her lips and took a healthy swig as she admired her handiwork. “Well, English… how does it feel to be helpless and completely under my control?”

“I don’t know. I’ll let you know if it ever happens. Have you anything to drink, love? I’m parched,” he rasped.

She gasped and jumped up in surprise. “What? I thought you were… how long have—”

“In and out, love. In and out. Christ, girl! Have mercy. I’m freezing and I’m dying of thirst.”

She filled a hipflask with whiskey, honey, and hot water, and hurried over to him, holding it to his lips.

“Bless you, lass,” he mumbled, and was gone again.

She sat watching him, lost in thought, contemplating her new situation and trying to figure out what to do next. The sound of the waves on the shore was muffled and distant, the river outside sounded barely a trickle, and all was silent but for her horse’s occasional snorts of impatience and the steady drip of the water falling from the limestone roof. He was a handsome man, striking, even—and he was bloody inconvenient! She’d finally had the upper hand with Donald and her brother, and he was going to ruin all her plans.

If she’d left him hanging on the scaffold he’d be dead by now, and her life would be that much simpler. That was unthinkable, of course. He’d saved her life, whatever his reasons, and when he’d had her in his power he’d been careful not to harm her. She’d been too frightened to realize it at the time, but she’d thought about it since. She’d bitten him, smashed his nose, bloodied his lip, and taken her dagger to him. He’d been remarkably tolerant of it all. Nonetheless, she wasn’t going to let him complicate things any more than he already had. She would help him, as he’d helped her, but that was all. She’d see to it he recovered, and as soon as he was well enough, she’d see him on his way.

Hearing a sound outside, she leapt to her feet, but it was only Martha.

“Well? I’ve come to see what all the fuss is about. Where is he? I haven’t got all night.”

“Over there, Martha. I did everything you told me. I’ve tended him as best I can.”

“Oh, my! He’s a braw one isn’t he, Cat? Who is he, child?”

“He’s my husband, Martha.”

“Is he now? The Englishman who stole you from the O’Connor? And he came all this way to find you? A hungry man smells meat far, my Ma would say. You’ve done the right thing, girl. ’Tis your duty to protect him. This one will give you fine, strapping sons.”

“I’ve no intention of having fine strapping sons with him, Martha. He’s… he’s English… and I don’t even know his name! As soon as he’s strong enough I want him gone.”

“Well, don’t be in a hurry, lass. English, Irish, Scots, or Welsh… under their trousers they’re all the same. No need to throw a perfectly good one away. He may grow on you yet. Let’s take a closer look, shall we?”

Catherine watched as Martha bustled around, humming to herself as she peeked under bandages, heaved Jamie over onto his back, felt his forehead, and poked and prodded him all over.

“Happy is the maid that’s married to a mitherless son.”

“What’s that, Martha?”

“Eh? What?”

“What did you just say?”

“Oh heavens, child! You know me. I’m always blathering on about something, and half the time I dinna know what it is.”

But it always ends up meaning something, Catherine thought. “Will he be alright?”

“Hard to tell, girl. You’ve done a good job here, but you’re going to have to find some way to warm him or he’s like to die of shock and cold before the morning,” the older woman said, giving her a meaningful look. “We need to keep his wounds clean and hope there’s no infection, but he’s a strong lad, as tough as any Highlander I’ve ever seen. I would never have guessed he was aught else from the brave show he gave in the courtyard. You must be very proud. If you can get him warm and keep away the fever, he’ll soon be right as rain. He’s a bonny fellow isn’t he, lass? Not as broad as the O’Connor, but quicker I’d wager, and taller, too.” She passed her fingers over his face, feeling the swelling and bones. “Nose is broken. Twice in a short span, I’d say. He’s a belligerent lad, or a clumsy one, but I can set it straight. It won’t spoil his looks, Cat. I promise you.”

Catherine turned away, hiding a guilty flush. There was a slight cracking sound and she cringed in sympathy. She was glad he was unconscious. He’d suffered more than enough for one day.

“There… that should do it! We’ll shift him over on his side now. He’ll breathe easier and it’ll be better for his poor bloody back.”

As Catherine moved to help her, Martha flipped back his blanket and grinned. “Will you look at that, lass! Faith, but I was wrong! They’re not all the same under their trousers. I’ll wager he outdoes the O’Connor there, too!”

“Martha! Leave the poor man alone!” Catherine cried, scandalized.

“Oh hush, child! Every man has one. Why, I used to wash your father’s when he was a bair—”

“Martha, please! I don’t want to hear it. That’s quite enough!”

Martha grinned. “Well lass… I’ll be off now and leave you to it. Take good care of your man, lucky girl! You must keep him warm. I’ll be back to check on him in the morning.”

Catherine gave her a hug and walked her to the entrance, then returned to her charge. Long lashes and tangled strands of hair framed sculpted cheekbones marred with livid black and purple bruises. His face was drained of color and his full lips were tinged blue. He looked defenseless and forlorn, and her heart stirred with pity. She reached out her fingers and brushed back his hair. He looked like a motherless child. His skin was icy to her touch, and she remembered Martha’s words, ‘You’re going to have to find some way to warm him or he’s like to die of shock and cold.’

The blazing fire and several layers of furs and blankets had failed to warm him, and she hadn’t brought him here to watch him die. Removing her clothing, she slid in beside him, gasping as she did. He was freezing! She piled on more furs and blankets and wrapped her arms around him, hugging him tight, trying to share her heat, but he felt like a block of ice and soon she was shivering and her teeth were chattering, too. Desperate to warm him and herself, she began vigorously chafing his arms and legs, continuing for almost an hour, not stopping until she felt life returning to his body. Exhausted, she rested her head against his shoulder and her hand on his hip. Moaning and mumbling something incoherent, he reached for it, grasping it and pulling it down, cupping it over a huge erection. She tried to pull it back, but his grip was determined and strong.

“Aye, Molly, my love. That’s it! Right there. You do wonders with those fingers, sweetheart.”

She narrowed her eyes, wondering who Molly was, and indulged herself for a moment, letting her hand close round him. She’d never had a sweetheart. No man but Cormac had been tempted to cut himself on her tongue, sword, and bones. But she’d grown up with the frank talk of the village and castle women; and, accepted as one of their fellows, she’d been privy to the unguarded talk of the men. She’d long been curious—he was her husband, and there was no one to know.

He was hot and heavy in her hand, and he jumped to her touch. Feeling just a little guilty, she caressed him gingerly, amazed he could feel so hard and solid, yet silky smooth. She’d grown up around men wearing kilts and seen a kit or two in her day, but she’d never touched one. Martha was right! He was certainly—

He began to grind against her. Mortified, she yanked her hand away, placing it firmly against his chest. He groped for it and found it, gripping it tight, but this time he was content to leave it there. He quieted against her, clutching her hand to his breast, and she relaxed and closed her eyes, listening to the sounds of distant water, her restless horse, and her husband’s even breathing close against her cheek. He smelled of camphor, herbs, and whiskey, and it lulled her to sleep.

She woke several hours later. Years of traveling and adventuring with her father’s men had taught her to sleep anywhere and wake when she needed, completely alert. It was still full dark, but dawn was coming soon. Somehow, in the night, they’d shifted positions and now he was holding her, one hand in her hair, the other clasping her breast. Curse the man, he never stopped, not even unconscious or in his sleep! She batted his hand away, removed his arm from around her waist, and slipped from the bed, shivering and hugging herself in the chill air. He’d warmed up considerably overnight and his color had returned. She dressed quickly, added coals to the fire, checked his bandages, and adjusted his covers, and then hurried back to town, crawling into bed with Mary as the village started to wake.

* * *

She stood by the river with her father, just past the footbridge, watching closely as he used light green silk to wrap a jay’s and a peacock’s feather around a body of deep green mohair. “There, Cat, like this,” he whispered, handing her the fly, a delicate work of art and beauty. “Only the finest will do for the brawest of fish.” The sun was high overhead, dappling the water and warming her face despite the cold spray from the salmon leap just yards away. The fish surged through the booming water, powerful, glorious, iridescent in the light, and her father took her shoulder and passed her the rod.

* * *

She jerked awake, startled from her sleep by a booming at the door. A moment later, it cracked open on its hinges, as Mary shrieked in alarm.

“Good Christ, you fools! What are you doing? What is wrong with you?” Catherine shouted, leaping from the bed.

“We’ve been looking for you, lass,” Jerrod said. “The prisoner’s missing and we feared he’d taken you with him.”

“Who’s going to mend my door, Jerrod Drummond? I’ve lost my man and now you’re pulling my house down about my ears!” Mary cried.

“Hush now, Mary. We were that worried about the lass. I’ll have a couple of the boys set it straight, right away.”

“What do you mean, he’s missing? And didn’t Alan tell you where I was?”

“We didn’t think to ask him until just now, Cat. No one knew you were gone until Donald sent for you and you didn’t appear. We thought he might have come to steal you. He wouldn’t have known you were already married, and you’d make a bloody fine prize.”

“Aye, like a prize heifer or mare, only with lands and money attached.”

“No need to get your dander up, lass. It is what it is.”

“So while I was visiting with Mary, you lot were busy boasting and drinking and breaking down poor widow’s doors, while a man who was strung in the air, whipped bloody, and nigh froze, detached himself and went for a stroll?”

Jerrod blushed red and grunted, shifting uncomfortably. “There’s no call to be cruel, lass. He escaped… one way or another, likely with help. We’re thinking he might have had others with him. A raiding party. Donald wants you back at the castle. Now.”

“Pah! What nonsense! He was in no shape to be stealing a bride after the harsh treatment you gave him, Jerrod, but if he was, than mayhap I want to meet him and leave you lot behind. He could be the man of my dreams. You all want to sell me to the O’Connor and ship me to Ireland anyway.”

“You know I didn’t approve it, Cat. And you’ve seen to it for now in any case.”

“Aye, until one of you can find my husband and make me a widow, then marry me off with blood on my hands. The man kept me safe. He did me no harm, Jerrod.”

“You’ve too soft a heart, lass. Cruel times call for cruel measures. Like yesterday.”

“I never saw my father do that to a man.”

“No, lass, you didn’t. Your father had men to do it for him,” Jerrod said with a hard look. “So you’re not coming, then? What shall I tell Donald?”

“Tell him I’m a married woman, and as he’s not my husband, I’m free to do as I please.”

“He’s your chieftain, Cat.”

“Aye, but these lands were left to me. I’m laird here. Not Donald, and not my brother.”

“You’re a woman. Have a care not to push things too far.”

She returned to her solar in her own good time, indulged herself in a warm bath, changed into some warm and comfortable clothes, and lay down to rest. Martha would be watching over their patient in the daytime, and she would do the honors at night.

Donald himself came to find her later, barging in without knocking.

“Have you no manners then, Donald?”

“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours, Cat.”

She grinned, remembering the early years when she used to like him, and motioned gracefully for him to sit down. “How can I help you?”

He barely managed a stiff smile. They’d been rivals and adversaries too long. “I’ll ask you to listen, Catherine… and think carefully on what I’m about to say. I’m well aware you’ve no liking for the O’Connor, but he would have treated you fairly and it would have been a good match. One your father would have approved of. Your wild behavior in chasing across the country after Alistair has put an end to that. No one outside the clan knows about your English husband and no one can. We’ll find him and make you a widow soon enough.

“O’Connor was told you wouldn’t accept him. He’s left in a great fury and he’d not have you now if we begged him, but you’re going to have to marry, girl, as soon as your Englishman is dead. You’re the greatest prize in the Highlands right now and that bastard yesterday was only the first of many. The man who claims you, claims this castle, Catherine. And he has to be someone your clan approves.

“You think the man you captured was here to steal a bride?”

“I’m certain of it. We’ll head out today, to catch and kill him and whomever he’s with, as a warning to others with the same idea, but they’ll keep coming until someone succeeds or you’re safely married. It would go ill for you, girl, if some backwoods North Country savage carried you off. Now, I’m willing to admit I’ve made some mistakes. I should never have considered sending you from your home. So what say we make a fair deal, lass? You’ll not stray from the castle until the matter of your marriage is settled, and I’ll not force a man on you that you don’t want. I’ll choose three, and then you choose the best of the lot.”

“So… I’m to stay in the castle, forgo this and any future raids, and once you’ve murdered my husband, I’m to choose one of three men you will provide for me.”

“Aye, the one you like the best.”

“Change the boundary from the castle to the river, give me five men from which to choose instead of three, and swear if I marry again I’ll remain here, and we’ll have a deal, Donald.”

Surprised at how easily she’d agreed, Donald fought to suppress a look of triumph, and held out his hand, clasping hers.

“Deal!” they said in unison.

“Thank you, cousin,” Donald said. “I will dare to hope this signals warmer relations between the two of us.” He gave her a formal bow and left.

Catherine couldn’t believe her luck. They’d be gone for days on a wild goose chase without wondering why she hadn’t offered to go with them, leaving her free to deal with the Englishman without fear of discovery. She was always heading off alone to go fishing or for a walk, and no one would question her comings and goings. It was perfect, and with any luck she’d have her inconvenient husband well on his way before they returned.