“Catherine, I hate telling ye that yer feelings dinna matter because they do to me. But ye ken naught will come of this. Ye must marry, and it will be to someone else.”
“So must you. How aboot I send Mòr suggestions for brides? I can come up with a lengthy list he can choose from.” Catherine watched as anger settled into Andrew’s stormy gray eyes. “Aye. You don’t like that much, do you? I know who you want, and I believe she wants you, too. But the MacFarlanes aren’t nearly wealthy enough or strong enough for her father and uncles to agree. You know how it feels, yet you still dance with her every chance you can. You talk to her when it’s possible. You don’t seem to stop your feelings any more easily than I can.”
“And it feels wretched. I would spare ye that, Catherine.”
“You think ordering me to ignore him spares me?” Catherine scoffed. “Why not take your own advice? Hmm? Because you can’t. You can’t keep from wanting to be near her any more surely than I can stop wanting him. The only difference is, talking to her isn’t likely to get you killed. Lucky.” Catherine’s last word had a bite, a bitter edge.
“It may vera well get him killed. That alone should be the reason for ye to stay away. If ye love him—”
“Finish that thought, and I’ll knee you in the bollocks,” Catherine warned. “We’re careful.”
“Careful nae to have a bairn?” Andrew knew he crossed the line when Catherine stepped around to look him in the eye. The fury in her gaze reminded him of when they were children, and he’d mocked her for being upset when her favorite dog died. She’d knocked him over, kicked dirt in his face, and hadn’t spoken to him for a fortnight. Her mother finally convinced her to forgive him. There was no one at court to rally behind him.
“Mayhap that’s exactly what I should do. Neither Mòr nor Caelan want a laird’s niece carrying an heir’s bastard. That would solve it all.”
“Ye wouldnae dare.”
“I wouldn’t risk an uncertain future for any bairn, but don’t put aught past me, Óg. Push me to desperation, and you won’t like what I choose.” Catherine and Andrew stood staring at one another, at an impasse, neither wanting to back down. A clap of thunder and a streak of lightning forced them to walk inside, but neither spoke. They parted ways, going to their respective chambers to change.
* * *
Catherine hadn’t had to pretend to sneeze when she approached the Mistress of the Bedchamber the day after she met Andrew in the bailey. She’d prayed she hadn’t truly made herself ill by standing out in the rain. She sought the woman who oversaw the ladies-in-waiting after pretending to shiver in front of Evina, when her roommate prepared for Terce. Evina offered to make her excuses and suggested Catherine skip morning Mass. Once Catherine was alone in her chamber, she stoked the fire, wrapped herself in her arisaid, and added her sealskin cloak. She was soon perspiring, but it didn’t convince Catherine that her skin was warm enough if anyone checked.
When she believed Mass was over, and she nearly convinced herself that she had a raging fever, she made her way toward the Great Hall, pinching the tip of her nose nearly the entire way. She rubbed her eyes until they watered. She was certain she looked nearly on her deathbed by the time she presented herself to the matron. The woman took one look at her and sent her back to her chamber with the command not to appear until she fully healed. The woman hissed that Catherine had better not cause an ague to sweep through the keep and infect the French emissary.
Catherine was only too happy to rush to her bedchamber and lock herself inside. She knew Rab observed her performance because he sucked his lips in between his teeth as he struggled not to laugh as she walked past his table. Their gazes didn’t meet, but a charge of excitement thrummed through them both as Catherine made her way out of the Great Hall.
Once in her chamber, Catherine took advantage of the quiet and slumbered most of the day. She’d slept poorly while Rab traveled, and she was already sleep deprived before he left. She foresaw several hours on horseback over the next three days, and likely far more if they fled the castle. She was determined to get as much rest as she could. She squirreled away food from the midday tray her maid brought, nibbling on the leftovers when she turned away the evening tray. She had no way to let Rab know all was well on her end, so she had to pray he knew, and that nothing prevented him from taking her to the monastery in the morning.
It was a few minutes before sunrise when Catherine slipped out of her chamber on All Hallows Eve morning. She wore her plainest kirtle, the one she wore to visit the poor and orphans. The weather had cleared, but it was freezing that morning. She knew she couldn’t wear her arisaid, since anyone who knew plaid patterns could recognize her as a MacFarlane. She hesitated before wrapping her finely stitched cloak around her, but she feared she had no other option. It was far too fine to match her gown. As she peered at herself in the looking glass, she shook her head before darting a glance at the sleeping Evina. She removed the cloak, hoping Rab or one of his men might have a spare plaid for her. She figured wearing a MacLaren plaid among the MacLaren men made her far less conspicuous.
She creeped from her chamber, easing the door shut without a sound. She turned toward the end of the passageway and discovered a shadowy figure near the stairs. Like the first night she slipped out of the Great Hall to meet Rab, the hulking figure would have scared her if she hadn’t recognized him immediately. She gathered her skirts to keep them from swishing around her legs and dashed to his side.
Rab stood with a MacLaren plaid in his hands and opened it for Catherine. It took her but a minute to have it folded and wrapped around her as an arisaid. She pulled the wool over her head and kept her head down as Rab guided her through the keep.
“The postern gate,” Rab whispered. Catherine didn’t respond but followed Rab as he led her to the smaller hatch in the bailey wall. When they passed through, Rab explained, “Ma men and I rode out as soon as the gate opened. I left them with the horses and came back through the postern gate in these breeks and doublet. I’m glad ye thought nae to wear yer own plaid or yer cloak.”
“I’m grateful that ye thought to bring an extra plaid. I was going to ask for one.” Catherine raised her head as they moved through the town, needing to watch where she stepped as people began moving around the streets. They stopped outside a pub called the Wolf and Sheep, making Catherine look askance at Rab.
“It appears normal for a group of men to gather outside a pub with their mounts. It seems like we’re aboot to leave, which we are. Let’s get ye onto Bolt and be away before anyone considers why a woman has joined us.” Rab hoisted Catherine onto the steed’s back and leaped into the saddle behind her. He barely had his feet in the stirrups before he spurred his horse forward. The guardsmen fell into a circle around them. Once again, Catherine kept her head down, shielding her face from anyone who might recognize her since she frequented various merchants.
The hourlong ride passed in a blur as Catherine leaned back against Rab’s broad chest. He wrapped his left around her waist, loose when they trotted, but much tighter when they cantered. Each time he pulled her closer, she sighed, despite also needing to clutch more of Bolt’s mane to brace herself. The men walked their horses into the monastery courtyard as villagers filed in for the Sunday Mass. Catherine thanked God once again that All Hallows Eve fell on a Sunday when a priest would say Mass anyway, and then there were two holy days following it. There weren’t many times in the year with two holy days together, let alone a Sunday followed by two holy days. She considered the timing Divine Providence.
Once they stabled their horses, the party took their places toward the back of the cavernous church. It reminded Catherine far more of a cathedral than any monastery she’d ever seen or heard described. They watched as Father Michael took his place to begin the holy liturgy. Catherine recalled squirming in her pew as a child, but it had been years since she wanted to fidget in church. She went through the motions, even apologized to God a few times for not being attentive, but she couldn’t concentrate. Her mind raced with all the ways in which the posting of the banns could go wrong.
“Mayhap we should have handfasted first,” Catherine whispered. “Then I could claim MacLaren as ma clan name, and it seems like we’re clansmen marrying.”
“I just thought that too. He’ll have to pass us to reach the doors. Mayhap we can stop him before he nails aught to the door.” Rab glanced around the congregation. “I dinna think anyone here can read, so they wouldnae ken if he changed it.”
“Aye.”
“Catherine Eloise MacFarlane,” Rab began, shooting an intimidating glare at the few people who frowned upon their whispering. He softened his volume further. “I pledge maself to ye for the rest of ma days. Once we depart from this earth, I pledge to seek ye in heaven and remain by yer side until the end of days. To ye, I pledge the clothes on ma back, the meat on ma plate, the coin in ma purse, and all other worldly goods along with ma love eternal. Unto ye I pledge to be yer faithful husband. To thee I plight ma troth.”
“Robert Clyde MacLaren, I pledge all that I have and all that I am to be a faithful and loving wife to ye in this life and any to come. Ye are the mon who I will fall asleep beside, and it is in yer arms I shall wake. It will be ye who I turn to in times of joy and sorrow, and nay other. I pledge to love and honor ye until ma last breath and then in eternal life in the Lord’s kingdom. To thee I plight ma troth.”
Unable to share a kiss, they entwined their fingers and squeezed each other’s hands. They knew they likely resembled fools grinning broadly, but neither cared. Catherine shifted so their shoulders pressed together. Hands still clasped, Rab brushed his knuckles against her thigh, hidden by her kirtle’s fabric. As the service ended and the congregation rose, Rab inched halfway out of the pew. It wasn’t hard to catch Father Michael’s attention, since he stared directly at the couple.
“We handfasted,” Rab whispered when Michael could hear. “She’s a MacLaren.”
