Not the stair tower to her bedchamber, but a darker one, dank and cold.
A little-used turret, poorly-lit and reeking of the sea, its ancient, age-worn steps accessing several even lesser-used passages. Including the one he’d follow to his trysting place with the other men. Just as she’d then take another, by-most-souls-forgotten, route to her quarters.
That was the plan, anyway.
And so he paused on the first landing, easing her to her feet, but not releasing her. Instead, he pulled her closer and slanted his mouth over hers in a thunderous kiss. She gripped his shoulders, clinging to him, not wanting him to release her.
But, of course, he did.
The night’s deeds couldn’t unfold unless he left her and rode away into the darkness, across the mainland moors.
“My sorrow that I must leave you,” he said, sounding as if he’d read her thoughts. “Especially here,” he added, caressing her back. “The truth is, I haven’t the belly to see you to your bedchamber and not stay.”
“I understand.”
“I am glad, but it pains me all the same.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead, then pulled back to look at her. “Upon my return, I shall carry you to your bed as a proper bride deserves. That I promise you.”
Stepping away from her, he caught her hand, bringing it to his lips for one last kiss. “I will see you sometime on the morrow, and with fine Keith cattle in tow.”
Caterine shook her head. “I know you seek more than beef for our table,” she spoke plainly, letting her words and the lift of her chin dare him to deny it.
He didn’t, and her stomach clenched. She touched the steel links of hauberk, felt the thick layer of toughened leather beneath.
“You are wise, my lady wife,” he said then, the look in his good eye telling her more than his words.
He rode out expecting battle.
Or another ambush.
And the knowledge sent her heart plummeting to her toes. “Will you return?”
“Did I not just tell you so?”
“Aye, but-”
“Sweeting.” A slow smile spread across his face.
A confident smile.
“I always return,” he said, leaning down to kiss the tip of her nose. “The saints wouldn’t allow otherwise.”
Then he turned away and was gone.
Her man of steel, experienced and able-armed, vanished like a wraith into the shadows before she could question him further.
She waited until his footfalls faded before she turned and walked away. And with each step she took, she prayed.
For the successful execution of whatever it was he truly planned to do.
For the safe return of his men upon its completion.
But most of all that, once again, the saints would smile on Sir Marmaduke Strongbow.
Chapter 34
Much later, in the windy dark of the still-moonless night, Sir Marmaduke, those men he trusted, and one craven snake he didn’t, drew rein on a steep hillside high above Sir John’s English-held Kinraven Castle.
The stronghold’s walls rose dark and proud above the far shore of a long and narrow loch, an endless expanse of low, rolling moorland spreading out behind.
