Not heeding her friend, he gave Caterine a half-smile, and in the flattering play of light and shadow, that one brief smile clearly revealed that Sir Marmaduke Strongbow, late of England and soon of Balkenzie Castle in the west, had once been a very handsome man.
A very handsome man indeed.
“I said I regret if speaking with me ill suits you, but, nevertheless, we should do so,” he said, his tone brisk, less warm. “Now, before I join my men on the battlements.”
He studied her, and the intensity of his perusal gave her the disturbing impression he peered into her very soul, saw all her deepest secrets.
Her dreams.
And laid them bare one by one.
Something - anger? frustration? - flashed across his face, but vanished before she could decide.
He stepped closer then, causing a strange shift in the air around them. “Lady, I assure you my intent in coming here was not to aggrieve you.”
Heat surged up the back of Caterine’s neck. “I know why you are here.”
“But you did not expect a Sassunach.”
You did not expect a man whose face would give you worse nightmares than those already plaguing you.
The unspoken words seemed to flare in the brief space between them, so clearly Caterine was sure he’d spoken them aloud.
Yet she knew he hadn’t.
Not that it’d been necessary – the sentiment stood all over him, as clear as if he’d shouted.
“I did not expect any man,” she admitted, standing. “Aye, we must speak, but not here. I will accompany you to the battlements.”
Chapter 6
Marmaduke didn’t flinch when Lady Caterine ignored his proffered arm. “After you, my lady.” He made her a stiff bow instead, carefully hiding how deeply her slight had stung him.
Calling on every shred of his iron will, he followed her through the hall’s gloom, pausing only to retrieve his fur-lined cloak before climbing the winding steps, always an arm’s length behind her. When they reached the top landing, he swirled his mantle about her shoulders.
“It will be cold out there,” he said simply, his fingers brushing the smooth warmth of her nape, the silken weight of her braided hair cool against the back of his hands.
To his relief, neither of the two men he’d sent to patrol the ramparts watched this segment of the wall-walk. Nothing but the chill dark and countless twinkling stars greeted them.
The night sky, a frigid wind, and the steady thumping of his heart.
Going straight to the crenellated wall, he rested his hands on one of the square-toothed merlons and gazed out at the sea. A crescent moon rode low on the horizon, its pale glow casting a thin ribbon of silver across the night-darkened water.
Glad for the peace, he gripped the cold stonework and let the wind’s stinging bite ease the tight knot of heat Lady Caterine’s rejection had put at the base of his neck.
Steeling himself, he turned to face her. “Your sister sends you warm greetings and bade me to assure you she is well,” he began, purposely omitting any mention of Linnet MacKenzie’s tender state, as had been the lady’s express wish. “She would like-”
“I doubt, sir, that you wished to speak to me about Linnet,” Lady Caterine said, the agitation in her voice at contrast to the haunted look in her eyes.
A goddess of ice. Beautiful, proud, and barriers all around her.
As if to prove it, she stood as straight as she could in his heavy mantle, drew a deep breath. “What I must tellyouhas nothing to do with her either.”
“Then speak your heart, my lady.”
“My heart, sir, has even less to do with it.”
Marmaduke leaned back against the merlon and folded his arms. “I am listening.”
