Rebel Warrior (Medieval Warriors #3) Read online

  “One of the queen’s ladies. I assume you know her being one yourself.”

  Catrìona was suddenly anxious. She hoped it was not Audra for already she was fond of her and, selfishly, did not wish to see her go.

  “ ’Tis Davina of Lothian,” he said.

  Catrìona inwardly breathed a sigh of relief. She did not know Davina well, but remembered the quiet woman with honey-gold hair and soft brown eyes, a woman of few words who was content with her needlework. “She is lovely.”

  “Aye, she’ll do,” said the former sheriff, obviously pleased with the match.

  “If you will excuse us, Maerleswein,” Domnall interjected, “I promised Catrìona a walk ere the evening meal begins.”

  “Of course.” Maerleswein bowed and strode off to join the king’s men.

  “Come.” Domnall offered his arm. “We have just enough time.”

  She placed her hand on his forearm and they walked out the open door into a summer evening. The sky was gray with clouds and she smelled rain in the air. Angus was nowhere in sight. For at least a little while, they would be alone except for the people who came and went from the king’s tower.

  She wanted to ask Domnall about his plans for the future and more precisely, when he would speak to her uncle about their betrothal, but she did not wish to appear anxious, or as the scribe would say, overbold.

  “You look lovely this evening,” he said. “That color becomes you.”

  He had said as much of her other gowns in former days. She was pleased but it seemed such a common remark when she wanted to hear so much more. “I am glad you approve.” If he would speak of mundane things, so would she. “How went the hunt?”

  He smiled. “We will dine on roast boar and venison tonight. ’Twas a vigorous battle to bring the boar down. The king loved it. Malcolm is never more content than when he is in battle, be it against the Normans or more natural beasts.”

  “Aye, he is quite the opposite of Margaret. But I think she complements him well.”

  Domnall seemed to consider her words. “The Scots have accepted her.”

  “How could they not?”

  “Yea, the Lady of Scotland is well liked. Malcolm made a wise match, gaining a princess as well as a rich dowry.”

  “I would rather speak of you,” said Catrìona, “Will you linger in Dunfermline?”

  “For a while yet.” The look in his eyes told her ’twould not be long. Mayhap they would marry here and he would take her with him when he returned to Leinster. It was her most fervent wish.

  “I am glad. I would not want you to leave.” With a laugh, she added, “Unless, of course, you took me with you.” When she saw Domnall’s gaze slip to the ground, she instantly regretted disclosing her thoughts.

  “In time, Catrìona. All things in time.” Then looking up, he said, “You only just arrived. There is much to learn from the queen.”

  Mayhap the king’s scribe had the right of it. She did tend to be too direct. More like her father than her mother. But she was not slow. Domnall had put her off and his words made her squirm inside. Something was holding him back. What could it be?

  “Are things well with your family?”

  He was silent for a moment telling her she had hit upon a sensitive subject.

  “My grandsire has passed.”

  “I am sorry. Were you close?”

  “Not for a long time,” was all he said. Then he changed the subject and returned to the topic of the day’s hunt, describing the fight the boar had given them.

  She listened attentively while her mind spun with possibilities.

  Finally, placing his hand over hers, he said, “We had best go in.”

  Again he had refrained from speaking of their betrothal. Why?

  * * *

  The River Clyde loomed before her, cloaked in swirling mists. A woman’s scream pierced the air, raising a scream in her own throat. She tried to run but her feet seemed to be stuck in the sand. With great effort, she pressed forward. And then she was running, running.

  Behind her, Catrìona heard the roar of a harsh voice and the panting of a huge beast. On she ran as screams erupted around her.

  Suddenly she was grabbed and wrenched to the ground. A brutal hand clenched her arm, dragging her over the sand and pebbles. She fought to break free, kicking out with her feet but was held fast in a powerful grip.

  In a tongue she did not recognize, the savage beast shouted and lifted her over the side of a ship, thrusting her to the hard wooden deck.

  Sobbing, she scurried away, but the beast leaped over the side of the hull and stalked toward her. Grabbing her, he bound her hands, bruising her tender skin. She cried out and tried to crawl away but was hauled back.

  A dark shadow loomed above her.

  “Nay!” she cried out, sobbing.

  “Cat! Cat, wake up!”

  From deep in the dream, Catrìona’s mind cleared of mist as Fia shook her awake. Opening her eyes, she stared unblinking into the darkness, her heart pounding in her chest. Soaked in sweat, she panted out breaths as if she were suffocating. “What—?”

  “ ’Twas only a dream, Cat,” said Fia, drawing Catrìona into her arms.

  “Oh, God, Fia. ’Twas so real,” she gasped.

  “You are all right now,” her cousin crooned softly, gently brushing the wet strands of hair from Catrìona’s face. “ ’Tis over.”

  She clung to her cousin, a tether to what was real. “In the dream,” she murmured, as she regained her senses and her heart settled in her chest, “I was one of the captured.”

  Silence hung in the air, then Fia said, “You only imagine what it must have been like for Deidre and the others.”

  “Aye,” Catrìona said, thinking it must be so. “ ’Twas horrible.”

  CHAPTER 5

  After the terrible dream, Catrìona’s life settled into a routine of early morning prayer followed by very busy days. Margaret undertook many acts of charity in which she enlisted her ladies’ help. Catrìona willingly participated, for the work was to her liking and diverted her mind from the past.

  Not every day was she able to steal away to fly Kessog. But when she did, she enjoyed the thrill of the falcon’s hunt and the boy’s company, savoring the days left before Kessog began his molt and she would not fly him.

  On one of their excursions, Giric had taken her and Niall to the village. It was larger than she had expected, the thatched stone cottages scattered on either side of a wide dirt path. A blacksmith was kept occupied, Giric told her, mending mail and making swords and knives. Two taverns served the people and visitors. Some of the king’s men were married and had cottages in the village.

  She was surprised when the boy led her to a small cottage where several pallets were laid out on the dirt floor.

  “ ’Tis where I sleep,” he said, pointing to a pallet in the corner. Her heart went out to the boy, living in such conditions.

  “And the other pallets?” she asked. “Who sleeps on them?”

  “The other orphans.”

  Catrìona shot a glance to where her brother stood examining the broken shutter over the window. “And besides breaking your fast in the hall, who feeds you?” he asked.

  “Some of the village women.”

  “Mayhap we can make this a better place. It must be cold in the winter.”

  “Aye, ’tis,” was the boy’s only reply. It tore at her heart to see the orphans living in such poverty. She was certain Margaret did not know of it. Catrìona could feel her resolve to help building within her and vowed to take a hand in the village.

  “I will ask the queen to allow me time and servants to make some needed changes here.”

  Niall turned from the window. “I will help, too.”

  Margaret had been pleased when Catrìona later asked her for supplies and servants to clean and repair the cottage. The queen had offered to provide clothing and assure the women who fed the children had sufficient stores of food. Catrìona set about seeing the child
ren had new clothes, enlisting her fellow ladies to make the girls pretty tunics, embroidered with flowers. And, because she had suggested the work, Catrìona could hardly fail to participate in the needlework, but the constant company of the chattering women and her frustration at her dismal ability with a needle often left her bored and restless.

  A few afternoons later, she had thought the piece she was embroidering was finished until she turned it over. She let out an exasperated sigh when she saw the tangle of knotted thread. It would have to be ripped out and done again. How she wanted to escape the task and the small talk of the queen’s chamber to walk alone in the woods.

  Her eyes flitted about the small chamber and, not seeing Margaret, remembered she had left to be with her young son. Angus would be busy in the practice yard with the king’s men and Niall would be with the archers. A perfect time for what she had in mind.

  Leaving the other ladies engaged in their sewing, she left the chamber and, once outside the tower, took the path through the woods, following the burn. It was a glorious day, the sun streaming through the leaves to fall on the yellow flowers growing by the path. Birds sang above her, drawing the chitter of red squirrels.

  Giving in to a sudden urge, she slipped off her shoes and stripped her feet of the linen hose, wriggling her freed toes in the grass growing to one side of the path. She relished the way the tender green shoots tickled her feet. Undoing her plaits, she let her hair fall free down her back. Stuffing her hose into her shoes, she clutched them in one arm and began to walk.

  And then she ran.

  Exhilarated by the breeze on her face and the wind in her hair, she ran and ran until, out of breath, she slowed to a walk. Her heart raced as she deeply inhaled the scent of the pine forest, feeling very alive. Nothing had felt so good in a very long time. It reminded her of those times as a girl she had loved to run barefoot in the vale.

  If only those days had not ended so abruptly.

  To her right the burn rippled over rocks, making a burbling sound. She looked for a place to cross it. A short way ahead she spotted a tree fallen across the stream. Its trunk appeared wide enough for a person’s feet. Determined to cross, she held her skirts away with her free hand and stepped carefully onto the log. With each step she gained confidence. Halfway across, her foot slipped. Hands flailing, she tumbled into the swiftly moving stream with a great splash, her hose and shoes floating away on the current.

  “Argh!” Her bottom resting uncomfortably on the rocks beneath the water, she grabbed for the garments slipping away, relieved when she recovered them.

  For a moment she just sat there, frustrated and chilled. The burn was not deep, but she was most thoroughly soaked.

  A chuckle sounded from the woods.

  * * *

  On his way back to the tower from his sword practice, Steinar spotted what looked like a tree nymph darting past him. Running on the path with the abandon of a wild thing, she had not seen him hidden among the trees. But he recognized the slim figure in the leaf-colored gown, her auburn hair, like a crimson banner, flying out behind her catching the sunlight filtering through the trees.

  A free spirit alone in the woods to tempt him.

  He could not help wondering if, like his sister, Catrìona had been indulged by a loving father who allowed her pursuits that were more properly those of a son than a daughter. Women like Serena were rare and Catrìona, so like his sister, called to some part of him long dormant.

  Intrigued, he decided to follow her.

  When she started to cross the stream, he remembered the moss he had seen growing on the fallen tree. Mayhap she had not recognized the danger, how slippery the growth would be under her feet.

  He opened his mouth to warn her just as she gave out a shriek and fell into the water with a loud splash. It had to be cold. But he could not resist a chuckle for her dazed expression as she sat blinking in the shallow water.

  “Does your father allow you to run barefoot in the forest and dance across logs?”

  She whipped her head around and narrowed her eyes. Her long hair fell around her shoulders like a dark crimson shawl, dripping water onto her gown. And still she was beautiful.

  “That is none of your concern, Scribe.” With a muffled curse, she struggled to rise. He reached out to help her just as she added somberly, “My father is dead.”

  The way she had said it, the look of anguish in her eyes, told him she still mourned her father’s loss. Mayhap his death had been recent.

  “Here,” he said reaching toward her, “take my hand and allow me to help you out.”

  There was fire in her eyes but she took his hand while holding on to her shoes, soaked with water.

  He pulled her from the stream, sodden and shivering. It was the first time they had touched and even dripping wet, the feel of her skin caused a surge of desire to course through him. The wet gown clung to her body, revealing her nipples hardened to small buds and her curves in vivid detail. Wet, she was even more alluring than before. He wanted to pull her close, to feel her softness, but instead, he merely steadied her with his hands. “Did you not see the moss that grows on the log? ’Tis quite apparent.”

  Her brow furrowed. “You might have warned me.”

  “You fell before I could.”

  Wiping water from her face, she looked up at him. Her eyes were the green of the forest around them. Light filtering through the trees added a soft glow to her pale, damp skin. His gaze dropped to her lips, the color of wild roses. He ached to kiss them.

  Bending his head, he moved his lips closer to hers.

  Water suddenly dripped from her hair onto her nose, causing her to sniff and step back.

  Still holding her shoes in one hand, she shivered. “I… I must look a mess.”

  “Indeed not, but you are pale.” Recognizing her predicament, he said, “I wear no cloak to offer you, but I can give you the heat of my body.” Taking the shoes she carried and dropping them to the ground, he pulled her into his arms and held her against his chest, ignoring the water soaking into his tunic. Her breasts pressed into his chest, warming him as his body responded to the nearness of the woman he could not dismiss from his thoughts. She might be innocent but she possessed a natural seductiveness that promised passion to the man who would claim her. And he wanted to be that man. Every warrior in the king’s hall had noticed the girl. Of all the queen’s ladies, she was the most talked about. They had taken to calling her the Rose of Dunfermline, a coveted prize for the one who would gain her hand.

  He stared into her eyes as he lowered his mouth to hers, waiting for a sign he should stop. She may have been too dazed or too wet to remember the rules. Or mayhap she did not want to. Her breath came out on a soft sigh, telling him she, too, was affected by their closeness. He allowed himself the briefest touch of her lips. They were cool and soft. Drawing her more tightly into his embrace, he kissed her.

  She responded tentatively, not with practiced movements but with an enchanting innocence.

  He tasted of her, inhaling her scent, not unlike the clean, fresh scent of the woods around them. When the kiss ended, he raised his head. “Can it be the kiss of the king’s scribe does not offend the mormaer’s niece?”

  As if she was rousing from sleep, she blinked, and placing her hands on his chest, pushed. “ ’Twas not at all proper.”

  He stepped away, his lips twitching up in a smile. “Ah, but that is not what I asked you.” For a moment he was lost in the green pools of her eyes. He wanted more of her, all of her. But when he moved toward her, she backed away.

  “I shall say nothing of our encounter,” she said shivering, “and, please, tell no one.”

  “I would not speak of this to anyone. After all, ’twas only a brief sharing of my body’s heat to warm you, nothing more,” he lied. The flicker of surprise in her eyes told him they both knew it, but mayhap she needed the lie. He grinned. “I cannot speak for you, but ’tis certain I am warmed.”

  “You are impudent, Scribe,�
� she said as water dripped from her hair to her face and down her lovely neck.

  “Before we go, you must admit you enjoyed that kiss as much as I did.”

  “I certainly did not. I was merely… allowing you to share your warmth.”

  He returned her a small laugh. “If you insist.” He picked up her wet shoes from the ground and reached out his hand. “Come, I will see you back to the tower.”

  She pulled away and stared down at her wet gown. “I cannot go back like this!”

  The gown clung to her slender curves in a most provocative way. He wanted to strip it from her and carry her naked to his bed, but instead, he said, “No, I expect not. We will take the back way to the mews and you can wait there while I retrieve a cloak for you.”

  “If you ask a servant, she can fetch my cousin, Fia, who will get one.”

  He chuckled. “ ’Tis probably best you not be seen wearing one of mine.”

  They walked back together on the sun-dappled path. Despite the summer day, she shivered with cold. Taking her hand, he let his warmth flow to her, relieved she had not noticed the sword sheathed on his other side. He was not ready for any save Rhodri to know of his practice in the woods.

  * * *

  Catrìona sneezed. Beneath her robe, her skin was chilled like a plucked goose and her shivering would not stop. “I can… cannot seem to get wa… warm.” In truth, she had not been warm since the scribe let go of her hand.

  “What were you thinking that you would run alone in the woods?” scolded Fia.

  In Catrìona’s mind, she pictured them as young girls. “Remember when we were children, those sun-filled summers when we ran barefoot in the woods near Atholl?”

  “Aye, I remember.” Her cousin looked at her askance and, with a disbelieving shrug of her shoulders, chided, “But you are nineteen now, Cat, no longer a child.”

  “I was missing those days, Fia. I just wanted to be free and without the sad memories or the limitations of life as a lady of the queen. I was enjoying myself until I tried to cross the burn.”

  “You are fortunate ’twas the scribe who found you.”