The Scotsman Read Free Page B

matters that do not concern a maiden.”
    Rebellion flared in her, and might have spewed unwisely forth had Nicholas not intervened, leaning from his great mount to say in a soft voice, “They are my captives and I will see to them, kitten. Do not tweak our father’s nose for what you cannot change.”
    “Very well, but only because you ask it of me.” With afleeting glance at her father, she turned angrily on her heel and ascended the stairs of the forework.
    Lady Warfield met her just inside the entrance to the great hall, and a glance at her expression made Catherine sigh inwardly. Were there never any secrets at Warfield?
    Exasperation edged Lady Warfield’s cool rebuke: “Must you behave like the lowest scullery maid, Catherine? Look at you. Garbed in a filthy gown, hair uncovered, flying loose and as wet as cat’s fur—hardly the conduct of a lady.”
    Catherine held her tongue and stared down at her ruined slippers. Sodden velvet toes peeped from beneath the frayed and muddy hem of her gown. The contrast between her appearance and her mother’s could not be more vivid—Lady Warfield was elegant in the gilt barbette atop her head and thinly woven gold threads of the crispinette that held her hair, down to her small embroidered slippers encrusted with pearls and gilt. Her mother’s grandeur made her achingly aware of her own disheveled state. She focused on her feet while Lady Warfield delivered a scathing lecture, allowing the French language preferred by her parents to drift over her head until one particular remark captured her attention.
    Catherine’s head snapped up with consternation as the countess finished, “… and hardly suitable should your betrothed witness your unbefitting demeanor. God grant, he is not yet arrived, but with the date so soon now—”
    “Soon? What date do you mean, my lady?”
    Lady Warfield’s elegant features remained stern and unlined. “It is unseemly to be so rude, Catherine. Must you interrupt me?”
    “I crave your pardon, madam, but I do not know what you mean by the date being so soon.”
    “No doubt. Nevertheless, you will go immediately to your chamber and allow Bess to ready appropriate garments for the morrow. Wear the blue velvet gown, as we expect important guests. You are required to behave with decorum and not as if you are no more than a rebellious serf. I am certain that you understand me.”
    “Of course, madam, but I—”
    “Your father will wish to see you in the solar right after Prime is rung in the morning. I insist that you heed the customs you have been taught, and act accordingly.”
    Catherine stared after her mother as the countess turned to move away in a familiar, silent glide, as if her feet did not touch the floor. No one would listen to her. She was trapped, and her freedom was slipping further and further away.

2

    Lord Warfield did nothing to lessen her apprehension the next morning when Catherine stood silently awaiting his attention in the solar. Her father pored over a parchment, goose quill in one hand and a pot of ink at the ready. The family seal and a carved box of sand waited at his elbow; when the document he studied had been signed, it would be sanded and sealed. After what seemed an eternity, the earl looked up at his daughter.
    “Bothwick’s envoy arrives today to sign the nuptial agreement. You will make ready to move to Bothwick keep, and your wedding will take place on Saint John’s Eve.”
    Catherine blanched. “But I do not wish to marry!”
    “Do not be foolish, Catherine. You are female, and this is your purpose in life. Indeed, ’tis long past the time for it. What else is there for you to do.”
    He made it sound like a statement instead of a question but she answered: “I could live on the estate my grandmother left to me. As it borders the Solway Firth, I—”
    “What crackbrained notions do you entertain in that head of yours, girl?” His brows lowered, and despite his angry tone, a glimmer of