4
Cate 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 subject 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!”
“I fear I may have to do more, though not at the moment.” He smiled down at her, his eyes heavy lidded, almost sleepy. “Try a bemused and adoring look, Lady Catherine, if you can manage it. It may be helpful just now, since Trilborn seems to be panting to know what passes between us.”
It was an instant before she caught the meaning of his last, softly murmured phrase, and glimpsed Trilborn scowling at them from where he leaned on a support post. Her reaction then had more to do with instinct than conscious thought. With the lift of her chin, she stepped closer and laid her hand upon the daring Scotsman’s wrist.
“Yes, I do see what you mean,” she murmured. “Shall we walk again? If we do not, I may be forced to sing, after all, and I promise you won’t like it.”
To act a part went against the grain, Ross thought, as he stared out over the snow-covered town and the chalk hills beyond, watching as the king’s falconer set his charge to coursing after hares in the open fields beyond the castle walls. He liked matters to be simple, preferred to state his views and intentions and stand by them come what may. That he could not do that in the matter of Lady Catherine was unsettling.
He had remained with her through the noon meal. They had enjoyed a place near the king’s table, and been honored by choice dishes sent down to them. The mark of Henry’s favor had not gone unnoticed. Only a blind man could have failed to guess that a betrothal was in the offing, particularly with the tale of their night spent together in the New Forest spreading through the room like a bad odor.
Lady Catherine had smiled and played the blushing bride-to-be to perfection. Her hands had been like ice, however, and she ate almost nothing. Ross pressed tid-bits upon her while seeing that her wineglass was kept filled. Afterward, he’d accepted her excuse of a headache and escorted her to the door of the hall, where her sister awaited her.
God knew she had reason enough to make an escape; he felt the strong need of solitude himself. That his strongest inclination was to take her away to a place where they could be alone again together was maddening in its lack of logic.
Worse still was the welter of emotions that beset him whenever he looked at her. She fired his blood beyond imagining; the need to have her made his body ache until his eyes watered. Her grace and courage, the way she smiled, moved, tilted her bright head—everything about her fascinated him. Yet he was the son of a contentious laird who despised everything English, and she the ward of an English king. To tie himself to her, to act the part of pawn in the game Henry played, would cut Ross off from his family and his homeland. He had sworn he would not wed her, and she depended on him to keep his word.
Trilborn wanted her and her dowry; that much was clear. Ross resented the simplicity of the Englishman’s desire, and was determined he should not gain it. Ross wanted to think this was for Lady Catherine’s sake, because she intended to remain forever a maiden, but feared it was purest dog-in-the-manger spite. To see Trilborn gratified in any manner was anathema, but particularly when it involved so lovely a prize.
Ross had sworn not to wed Lady Catherine, but had not foresworn bedding her. He had sworn not to bow to an English king’s will, yet had said nothing of combating his own will in the matter. These facts had reared their ugly heads in those first moments after their audience with the king. They troubled him still.
Did Lady Catherine realize the self-serving distinctions a man could make in order to satisfy his desires? She was an intriguing blend of innocence and sophistication, no doubt the result of her months at court, where she was free to enjoy the licentious atmosphere while under strict royal protection. She recognized the base motives of those around her, but was somehow above them.
“Dunbar!”
Ross pushed away from the battlement’s crenellated wall. He turned without surprise to see his old enemy bearing down on him with his cloak flapping at his heels and a petulant glare on his smooth, aristocratic face.
“Trilborn,” he said with scant politeness. Dealing with the arrogant fool was the last thing he needed. The sight of him, still wearing the black and silver he’d had on early that morning, set Ross’s teeth on edge.
“Who would dream you’d be up here? I’d think you’d have had your fill of cold wind.”
“What do you want?”
If the bluntness of the question registered with Trilborn, there was no sign of it. “Precisely what you’d expect, I’m sure. I want to know how matters stand between you and Lady Catherine. Is there to be a wedding?”
He should concede nothing, Ross knew. The temptation to tweak his enemy’s pointed beard, at least in a manner of speaking, was just impossible to resist. “The king sends to discover if the laird of the Clan Dunbar can be persuaded.”
Trilborn eyed him with disfavor. “And you are overjoyed.”
“Why not, given so lovely a lady?”
“So wealthy, too, though there is always the curse to consider. Come, Dunbar. You can’t mean to accept this arrangement. What will you do about it?”
Ross allowed a small smile to curl one corner of his mouth. “What would you? I wait on my father.”
“You could take a horse and ride out of Winchester. No one is likely to stop you. They’ll scarce even notice you’ve gone.”
“I make no doubt you would supply mount and escort.”
The man’s eyes narrowed to conceal their glint of triumph. “Why, yes, if you like.”
“It grieves me to disappoint you, but I must decline. I gave my parole, and cannot go back on my sworn word.”
“What do you care, when it was given to an English king?”
In that was an echo of his thoughts about his father’s word, Ross saw with an internal grimace. “What matters is that I gave it of my will.”
“At the behest of others, for matters of state that would not touch you otherwise.”
“The reasons make not a whit of difference.” That was also true of his betrothal to Lady Catherine, he saw with inescapable clarity. He had vowed not to marry her, and must now abide by that promise.
If simplicity was what he craved, he should be well pleased. Odd, how little that was so.
“So you would take a Sassenach wife, no matter what your father answers.”
Ross turned his head to study Trilborn. “Instead of leaving her to you, you mean? You think with me gone, Henry may give her to you?”
The Englishman fastened upon him a look of purest detestation. “It was discussed between us. He would have agreed to it soon enough, but for your interference.”
“If you think Henry is swayed by anything other than what may benefit the crown, you don’t know him.”
“So you think he’ll push Cate—that is, Lady Catherine—into your arms for the sake of a tie with Scotland? The conceit of it beggars the imagination.”
Cate. Ross tested the shortened name in his mind. It suited her. Even as the thought occurred, however, another arrived full blown in his mind.
“My interference?” he inquired without inflection.
“The honor of rescuing her should have been mine!” Trilborn said in savage indignation.
He was not talking about his arrival this morning, for that was scarce a rescue at all. Was it possible Trilborn had known Lady Catherine would fall behind the hunt? Had his old enemy, just possibly, intended an abduction, followed by a night in his company and a wedding shortly thereafter?
It was feasible. Everyone knew she was reluctant to be present at the kill.
So what had prevented him from carrying out his intent?
The boar. Yes, of course. Trilborn had not counted on the beast sending Lady Catherine’s palfrey careening into the deeper forest. Neither could he have guessed she would stumble upon the ambuscade built by forest outlaws to catch wayward members of the king’s hunt.
“Except that I happened to gain the honor,” Ross said quietly. “Your loss, I fear.”
“Or not,” Trilborn answered, his black eyes hard with promise. “You are unlikely to live long enough to take Lady Catherine to wife.”
He swung away with a jerk that sent his cloak flapping like the wings of a bird of prey. His strides were long and powered by rage as he took himself out of sight.
Ross watched him go, listened to his footsteps echoing on stone, listened to the hollow echo of his threat as it bounced back and forth in Ross’s head. And he marveled that he was more fraught at the idea of never having Lady Catherine than he was at meeting his promised death.