The Scotsman Read Free

sennight.
    Dredging up her most aristocratic tone, she said, “Inform my lady mother that I will join her anon, Bess, then thou dost hurry to the kitchens and tell Cook that I will need a cup of hot spiced wine to chase away my chill.”
    “Aye, milady. At once, milady.”
    Bess bobbed a curtsy, half lifting her drenched skirts in one hand as she turned away, obviously delighted at the thought of going to the warm cavern of the kitchen. It was one of the girl’s favorite spots, and Catherine knew she would linger there as long as possible.
Neatly done
, she congratulated herself with a faint smile as Bess disappeared amid the turret shadows, leaving Catherine in peace.
    Another gust of wind snapped the hem of her cloak, a loud popping sound like the crack of a whip. The heavy wool and fur slipped from one shoulder, and she had to grab for it swiftly before the capricious wind sent it sailing over the edge of the parapet into the turbid waters of the moat below.
    Rain began to fall harder, pelting her upturned facewith stinging droplets. Tiny cold rivers streamed over her brow onto her cheeks, chilling her. Wet lashes closed over her eyes, blotting out the gray sky and bare tree limbs. There had to be another future for her. She did not want to wed a man she did not know just to align two powerful houses, and could not bear the thought of spending the rest of her life as her mother spent her days, quaking at an unkind word from her husband, always so anxious to please, so afraid of his displeasure—
    Drawing in a deep, shaky breath, Catherine opened her eyes again and stared across the rolling land stretching away from the keep. Thunder? No, the escalating sound of hooves against solid turf, a low, steady pounding that could be heard above the sobbing moan of the wind. She blinked away rain, and in a moment could make out the shadowy forms of mounted troops approaching along the muddy track that snaked over the hills and through the towering trees. The line of horsemen briefly disappeared from view into a shallow ravine that harbored a winding stream, then appeared again, much closer now. Warfield’s banner flew before them, a red lion against a white field, and to her relief, she saw Nicholas, his uncovered head dark and glistening with rain beneath the unfurled standard of the earl.
    Relief flared, dispelling her gloom and anxiety. Even at such a distance, she knew her brother. His cocky demeanor set him apart from the other muddy riders, a laughing rogue who had his way with far too many village maidens, charming them into haystacks and corn cribs or wherever he fancied. Nicholas—older by six years—her brother, her confidant, her only refuge, and now he was back at last.
    Turning, Catherine flew across the slippery gray stones of the battlement and ducked into the musty shadows inside the turret. Blinking at the abrupt absence ofproper light, she made her way down steep, winding stairs only dimly lit by sputtering torches stuck into iron holders on the newel walls. The smell of burning pitch was acrid in the close air. Darkness yawned beyond the hazy, wavering pools of light as she descended the narrow steps into the great hall, then hurried through the vestibule and out a heavy door onto the open staircase guarded from the bailey by a massive stone forework. Smoke stung her eyes, and the ordure in the moat seemed heavier than usual. No one tried to stop her as she scurried across the bailey toward the gatehouse.
    Was she too late? No, there was the groaning rattle of the portcullis being lifted, the shriek of the winch chains and the inner drawbridge being lowered to admit the earl and his sons, home from Scotland.
    Heart pounding, delight drowning her turmoil, Catherine dodged a woodsman with a heavy load of faggots atop his bent back, and reached the gatehouse just as the first riders thundered over the wooden bridge. Nicholas saw her, as she’d known he would. It was a ritual. She always waited for him here,