Rab refused to think that he took the coward’s way out, but once he reached his chamber, he decided to take a tray there rather than go to the Great Hall for the evening meal. He soaked in a much too narrow and short tub until the once steaming water chilled him. He ate his meal alone and in blessed silence. He’d been around other men with no reprieve for more than two moons, so he relished the solitude. He didn’t wish to admit that he neither looked forward to facing the scrutiny that was inevitable whenever Highlanders came to court nor the inevitable fallout from rumors that already swirled around the court. He’d seen how people glared at him as he moved through the passageways. He could only imagine what version of the truth was circulating. He didn’t take Andrew for being a gossip, and he was certain neither Andrew nor Catherine volunteered to discuss the attack.
Rab also knew he didn’t want to face Catherine. He wanted to see her, to hold her, but standing before her made his heart pinch. He prayed she hadn’t overheard him describe his retribution against his own family. His rage had been so consuming, that even three days after the raid and even though his cousins spent that time cramped together in the oubliette, he’d barely been able to see straight when he and five guards rode out with his cousins. The culprits taunted him, reminded him of Catherine, and that was what ultimately sealed their fates. He might have merely hanged them, but when they boasted of the violence they’d intended for Catherine, he lost all sense of humanity and mercy. He’d shocked himself with his capacity for cruelty, but he couldn’t dredge up any remorse, which shocked him even further. He didn’t want Catherine to learn of that side of him. He wished for her to remember him as the young man he’d once been before the real burdens of being tánaiste settled on his shoulders. Instead of facing her and the rest of the royal court, he hid in his chamber.
Rab laid in bed, staring at the canopy over his head. He’d laid in his own bed at Edinample, staring into space countless times, his thoughts as they were that night. He wondered how Catherine fared during her years at court. He wondered if she remembered half of what he did, and if she did, did she remember them as fondly as he? He recalled the year the Mackenzies held the Highland Gathering as though it were yesterday. He and his brother, Douglan, planned to filch apricots from the orchard. They were teasing one another as they walked through the gates, only to find a gown and two feet hanging from a branch. Without warning, the branch shook, and the woman’s body swayed. Down came a handful of apricots, followed by the woman who seemed to be after what Rab and Douglan intended.
Rab could never forget the unrepentant expression Catherine shot the brothers when she turned around and found them staring. She had the audacity to pick up two apricots, chucking one at Rab and one at Douglan. The petite brunette had prepared neither brother for the force that came with her throw. As they watched her in shocked silence, she gathered four more apricots, which she stuffed in her arisaid, and walked past the brothers. She’d cocked an eyebrow and pointed over her shoulder, telling them they’d have to go further into the orchard since she’d already gotten the best ones from the tree she’d scaled.
She didna even blink when we caught her. Granted we were there to steal fruit too, but nae a moment of remorse or even fear. Happy as ye please, she walked right past us. I should have kenned right then and there. She’s nae easily cowed. She may have admitted later that Douglan and I terrified her, but neither of us would have ever kenned. She is a woman meant to be a partner and helpmate to a laird, a woman who can lead when her husband is away. God help the mon or the clan who thinks to cross her. How could Mòr and Óg even consider that toad Gunn?
Rab hadn’t known who she was when they met, even though he recognized the MacFarlane plaid. The MacLarens and MacFarlanes had been on tense terms back then, but Catherine hadn’t seemed to care about, or even notice, their plaids. He could tell from her plaid’s pattern that she was part of the laird’s family, but he didn’t know if she was Andrew Mòr’s daughter or someone else. It was clear the brothers wearing the MacLaren laird’s plaid failed to impress her. It was that same mischievousness that he’d seen for a moment that afternoon before they recognized one another in the stables. She’d been three-and-ten, and he was barely eight-and-ten. He encountered the young woman he considered a woodland nymph throughout that gathering, but it was the following year that their friendship began in earnest.
Rab had marveled at the difference a year made in her appearance when he stumbled upon her at Castle Varrich, home to Clan Mackay. She hardly resembled a girl and appeared far more like a woman. At nearly nine-and-ten, he assumed he had little in common with the young woman, but he spoke to her often because she was Andrew Óg’s constant companion. Rab and Andrew weren’t nearly friends, instead often fierce competitors. But they were the same age, putting them in the same groups for the various races. He discovered Catherine had a wicked and off-color sense of humor from spending too much time with Óg and his friends. She eschewed being stuck inside sewing with her cousins and escaped the keep whenever she could during that year’s gathering. It didn’t take long for Rab and Catherine to realize they shared the same favorite color and favorite foods.
She’s the only person I ken who could happily feast on Arbroath smokies for days. Nay one else I ken likes haddock that much. Yet she and I both do. She may have laughed when she noticed me pushing aside all the neeps and keeping the tatties, but she didna fool me. I watched her do the same. Turnips are hideous. She didna even flinch when I pulled the eel from the basket when the Sinclairs hosted at Dunbeath. She asked how much I’d share with her at the evening meal. Cheeky. She still owes me an apricot tart.
For the next two years, they sought one another at the gatherings and when they both attended the same weddings. Their friendship had always had a charged air of attraction, but the year Catherine was seven-and-ten, Rab thought he might ask her uncle for her hand. However, it was during that gathering when Clan Ogilvy hosted that an argument erupted between Caelan and Andrew Mòr. The clans had raided one another off and on for years, but the explosive disagreement threatened to derail the entire gathering as other clans took sides. Rab didn’t learn the cause until after he’d returned home. Each laird accused the other of being dishonorable and liars when they denied being the culprit to the other clan’s missing cattle and razed fields. It was that year that the feud escalated.
Three years later, it came to a violent head when members of his own family murdered members of Catherine’s. It shocked him when she even spoke to him in the stables rather than spitting in his face. It further shocked him that Andrew didn’t plunge every dirk he carried into Rab. While his attraction to Catherine hadn’t waned, his hope of a joined future had. That hope surged back to life the moment she stepped into his arms. But knowing he must speak to Andrew and remind them all of why he was at court crushed that hope. Now as he laid alone in his chamber, everything ached—his head, his body, and most painfully, his heart.
The sooner I can leave, the better. If Óg finds her a husband while I’m here, I dinna think I can keep from running the lucky bastard through. I ken I’d wish her happy and be lying with every word. Ma chance with her might be over, but that doesnae mean I have to like that her time with someone else may be just starting. If the Bruce doesnae take ma head from ma neck, then I will do what I must and ride out before I watch her swear to join her life with someone who isnae me.
Chapter 3
Catherine struggled against the yawn that insisted upon reminding her that she’d barely slept the night before. She’d been so restless that she was certain she’d kept her roommate awake by constantly shifting and rolling over. At first, she told herself that she merely couldn’t get comfortable, but it was her mind that found no comfort. The initial excitement of encountering Rab wore off during the evening meal when she realized he wasn’t coming. Remembering that even if he came to the Great Hall, they couldn’t dance together—they couldn’t even speak to one another—compounded her disappointment. The castle was abuzz about both Rab and Andrew Óg being under the same roof. While Catherine knew they’d brokered their own sort of truce, at least while they were both in Stirling, no one else knew. The possible entertainment of two massive Highlanders tearing one another apart spurred the gossip.
As she laid in bed that night, her mind was more restless than her body. She couldn’t cease thinking about Rab’s expression when they recognized one another. She wondered how she hadn’t recognized his voice since it played in her mind most days of the week. Something she caught sight of or did would trigger a memory, and her heart pinched. But it no longer stole her breath like it had her first year at court. When she was both homesick and pining for a man she knew her uncle would never consent to marry her. After the combustible tension at the Highland Gathering three years earlier, Catherine never dared mention her interest in Rab to her uncle. She feared he’d have an apoplexy and banish her. She recalled the scent of fresh air, pine, soap, saddle leather, and a hint of wet wool that she inhaled as they embraced. Not that unlike from what Andrew smelled like, but the effect was vastly different, eliciting an entirely separate range of emotions.
It was the wee hours of the morning before Catherine fell asleep, and her eyes felt like someone rubbed them with sawdust when they opened to the sound of her roommate preparing for Terce. Catherine dragged herself from her bed, then from her chamber and into the castle chapel. She kept her head down as she made her way down the aisle, but her eyes skimmed over the gathering congregation until they met a pair of ice-blue orbs that locked with her own cornflower blue irises. She nearly missed a step, and the lady-in-waiting behind her stepped on her hem. But even that didn’t break the moment between Rab and her. They watched each other until Catherine entered her pew and too many heads blocked them from gazing at one another.
It was as though she moved in a trance, resisting the need to yawn with each “amen,” mouthing the liturgical responses. But all she was aware of was Rab’s physical nearness, and all the things that set them a world apart. She wished for nothing more than to go back to bed and pray for God’s mercy that she might fall asleep. Alas, no such divine intervention came. She trailed after the other ladies and the queen as they made their way to the Great Hall to break their fast. Catherine was used to the other ladies tittering when new Highlanders arrived at court. It was a mixture of moral condescension and physical inquisitiveness. She’d listened to women speak about her cousin much the same way as she listened to women speak about Brodie and Dominic Campbell, the various Sinclair brothers, Kieran MacLeod, and even the shy Ronan MacKinnon. They all wondered if the rumors were true about what lay beneath the heathenous plaids that many of the Highlanders refused to relinquish, despite most men wearing breeks and doublets at court.
“Who’s that?” Evina Murray wondered. “I haven’t seen him before.”
“Who?” Blythe Dunbar asked, but she shrugged when her gaze followed Evina’s outstretched finger. “You would think after all these years here, I might learn the plaids, but the Highlander ones look so much alike to me. Dark. Do they think they’re coming to court to hunt down wives? There are no woods to blend into within the castle. They stick out more than ever.”
Many of the ladies-in-waiting were Lowlanders, unaccustomed to the frequent wearing of their clan plaids. While several young women over the years hailed from the Highlands before they came to court, most assimilated to the Lowland customs to keep from sticking out. Catherine was one such lady, losing her burr on the way to court. Her aunt had warned her it would do her no favors to sound like the savages most Lowlanders believed them to be. She only wore her arisaid on days that were too brisk to go without the extra layers of wool but not yet cold enough for her fur-lined, sealskin cloak. She cared not what the other women thought since they nearly froze during the queen’s morning constitutional. An excursion the queen expected all ladies-in-waiting to attend whether the weather was fair or foul.
“That’s a MacLaren,” Catriona Douglas whispered, a darting glance at Catherine. The latter recognized apprehension in Catriona’s eyes, and it made her wonder how much her relatives told her the last time they visited court. Representing various branches of the powerful clan, there were always at least two Douglas delegates at court besides Catriona as a lady-in-waiting.
“His name is Rab.” Catherine hoped the nonchalance she attempted came through. “He’s the clan’s tánaiste and heir.”
“Oh, dear.” Lady Margaret Hay’s whiny voice held no sincerity. It was pure mocking, and Catherine wanted to drive her fist through the woman’s teeth. She could barely tolerate Margaret, but she despised the woman’s younger sister, Lady Sarah Anne. The younger Hay sister had a cruel streak to her that made anything the legendary Madeline MacLeod or even the shrewish Laurel Ross did, seem meek. Catherine learned quickly to keep her distance from the Hay sisters, and when she couldn’t, she remained quiet most of the time. She was ashamed to admit that sometimes she was less than courteous because it was easier to appear on Sarah Anne’s side than to stand against her. If it were only Sarah Anne, and even Margaret too, then Catherine would have stood up to the women long ago. But women who genuinely feared Sarah Anne, and by extension Margaret, surrounded her. If she alienated herself from the others while putting herself in Sarah Anne’s crosshairs, it would make an already challenging existence at court excruciating.
Catherine remained quiet, not interested in encouraging Margaret’s inevitably snide comments. When she said nothing, Margaret turned to Catriona. Catherine braced herself for whatever came next.
“You’re one of them.” There was no doubting Margaret meant Catriona was a Highlander. “How is he not dead for what he did?”
Catherine’s stomach both clenched and roiled, a sensation she would be happy never to feel again. The bit of porridge she’d forced down threatened to spew forth as she waited for Catriona’s answer.
“As best I know, the mon did naught.” Catriona shrugged and turned toward Blythe, refusing to engage with Margaret. But the older Hay sister was unsatisfied, having not gotten the reaction she wanted.
“He’s a butcher. He should be out at the sty rather than in here with civilized people.” Margaret’s eyes locked with Catherine’s as she spoke. But once more, Catherine refused to acknowledge Margaret. When Margaret grew impatient, she opted to thrust the knife directly into Catherine’s heart. “He let them rape and murder your family. Where is that Highland honor your people are so famous for? How can you allow him to dine in the same chamber as you?”
“Allow? Last I checked, I’m a MacFarlane not a Bruce. It is not for me to decide.” Catherine turned away, but Sarah Anne joined the conversation.
“You’d break bread with the mon who slaughtered your family. You’d have been one of them if you weren’t here.”
Catherine slowly turned toward Sarah Anne, who sat on the other side of Evina, who was to Catherine’s left. Her fingernails bit into the wood bench upon which she sat. Bile burned the back of her throat as she rapidly considered how to respond. If the Hay sisters didn’t cease, Catherine would find herself on her knees in prayer until the day’s end, the queen’s favorite punishment for wayward ladies-in-waiting. Her temper was sliding to where she struggled to control it. It wasn’t often that she lost her temper, but it put any Highland blizzard to shame with its ferocity.
