The Scotsman Read Free Page A

anticipating his return as she had done since she was small, and he watched for her. Now he bent slightly from his huge, snorting destrier to scoop her up beside him, ignoring their father’s disgruntled oath.
    “It is raining, kitten, do you not know that?” Nicholas teased, laughing as he pulled her against his side.
    Catherine held tightly to him, her fingers sliding over the rough metal links of his mail to grip the thick wool surcoat. He smelled of rain and mud, and other vague odors that she preferred to ignore. She leaned slightly away, her voice accusing to hide the choking relief that he had safely returned. “You are near a fortnight longer than you said you would be, you know.”
    “Aye, so we are.” His arm tightened around her. “Butthe rebels were more troublesome than usual. Thick as fleas on a camp cur, and near as vicious.”
    Catherine’s hand closed on a handful of wool and wet hair, and she pressed her mouth against her brother’s ear. “I must talk to you. Will you meet me later?”
    ‘Yes, kitten, so I will.” His voice was gruff and low, his squeeze quick before he reined in his great destrier and lowered her to the muddy ground by the forework. With a wink, he bade her go inside to ascertain their evening meal was hot. “I will eat no cold meat tonight, by God!”
    Catherine made a face at him, keeping a wary eye on the agitated warhorse as it pranced in a tight, nervous circle. Those lethal hooves could bash a skull in quickly if one got too close. She backed away, skirts lifted in her hands to clear the muck of the bailey, and swept a brief glance toward her father. The earl ignored her. His attention was trained elsewhere, and she caught a glimpse of scarlet and blue against the anonymous drab of mud and mist.
    Pausing, Catherine peered through the tangle of horses and men toward the flash of color. An angry curse rose into the air, followed by the unmistakable sound of a blow. At once, horses neighed and reared, and men began to shout. In the confusion, no one noticed as Catherine crept closer, her curiosity stronger than even dread of her father.
    She was startled to see that one man was the source of all the chaos, and he was shackled with heavy chains about his wrists and ankles, standing in the midst of the heaving mass of shouting men with his garments awry. Oddly, he did not look at all afraid, but rather contemptuous of those around him. His hair was dark with mud and rain, but she could see that it was a lighter color, almost as pale and coppery as her own. He was forced to his knees, and she saw then that he was shackled to anotherprisoner, who was being dragged down into the muck beside him.
    With a shock, Catherine realized the second captive was young, even younger than herself, and cuffed as brutally as the older man. Both were hauled roughly to their feet again. The boy glanced up, and she saw the youthful features twisted with ancient hatred. A thin trail of blood trickled down from his brow to his chin as he turned to regard the earl with contempt.
    “Murderin’ Sassenach swine—”
    One of the guards struck him, a backhanded blow of his mailed fist that caught the boy across the face and sent him staggering to one knee. More blows followed, raining down on both prisoners, and Catherine gasped with horror. Or perhaps she cried out, for her father turned toward her with his brows lowered over his colorless eyes in a scowl. His voice was low and tight:
    “Go inside, Catherine.”
    “But what have they done? If they are prisoners, should they not be treated more kindly?” The words were out before she knew it, and she realized at once that she had done the prisoners no favor by questioning her father in front of his men. It was all she could do not to turn and flee when she saw fires of rage leap in her father’s eyes. White lines bracketed his mouth with tension.
    “This is none of your affair, daughter. Get inside with the other women, and do not dare speak of