Rhona laughed again.
And Caterine wondered.
But before she could look too deeply into places she might not want to go, she swung back to the windows. Far out to sea, billowing white fog blotted the horizon, smudging it from view much as her champion’s smooth gallantry and carnal prowess had blurred and knocked down every barrier she’d thought to raise against him.
Until not a one remained.
Leastways, none save her determination not to let him go.
A tiny smile curved her lips.
She possessed one remainingallurehe hadn’t yet sampled, and she knew instinctively that once he had, he’d never leave her side.
Men fought wars over suchlike, and even she was woman enough to know it.
Her smile deepened, her hope restored.
Upon his return, as soon as he’d refreshed himself and bathed, she would love him.
Fully.
Chapter 45
Chaos and confusion greeted Sir Marmaduke and those with him as they thundered up to Kinraven’s burning gatehouse. Sleep-dazed men, most half-clothed, some naked, poured from its ruined, smoking entrance to scatter in the turmoil of the red-glowing night.
A brave few souls clashed furious swords with Marmaduke’s Highlanders, and the clanging ring of steel on steel made a hellish echo against the pandemonium of running, shouting men and the neighing of wild-eyed, prancing horses.
Other Keith guardsmen rounded up the English soldiers seeking to flee, while those already subdued, stood under guard in a tight cluster, stamping their feet against the cold, their faces grim.
Pressing into the middle of the fray, Marmaduke pushed up in his stirrups, his sword raised high. “Cease!” His deep voice rang out above the din. “Hear you, my own good men and the rest of you. This is between de la Hogue and myself. All others, sheathe your steel.”
“A pig’s arse, I will!” someone called back.
Sir Gowan.
The rest of his men obeyed at once, expectant, knowing grins spreading across their faces. Others followed suit more slowly, until gradually, the worst of the tumult died down. The Keith men exchanged glances, but kept their blades lowered, so long as their opponents did as well.
The remainder of the shirt-clad English garrison, now stripped of all weapons and circled by hard-faced Keith guardsmen, looked on with a mixture of wariness and grudging respect.
Considering them, Marmaduke drew a long breath of the biting, acrid air. Without the resplendent trappings of their knightly station, wild-haired and half-clothed as they stood shivering before the burning gatehouse, they made a pitiful sight.
With their bared limbs and torn nightshirts streaked with soot, some with blood, they appeared more frightful than his men at their worst.
They also looked young.
Too young to die for an ill-chased cause.
Too English to deserve the leniency Marmaduke meant to spend them.
Swallowing the curse rising in his throat, he swung down from his saddle and tossed his reins to James. “Men of de la Hogue,” he addressed them, raising his voice above the roar of the flames, “I, Sir Marmaduke Strongbow of Balkenzie, greet you.”
Tight-lipped silence answered him.
Unfazed, he swept them with a measuring stare. “Where is your lord? I would challenge him to single combat - if he is man enough to accept.”
“I am man enough, Strongbow, but I see you are somewhat lacking since last we met.”
The voice came from behind him and Marmaduke turned to see Hugh de la Hogue step from the billowing cloud of smoke pouring from the gatehouse’s arched entrance. Ruddy-faced and fully-armed, he strode forward, a handful of bedraggled, choking men stumbling out behind him.
