Chapter 9
Lusty, full of folly and sass.
Too fond by far of men of steel.
Swayed by smoldering gazes, her mind turned by heated dreams of warriors hewn of blood and fire.
Caterine stood in the comforting circle of warmth thrown out by the great arched fireplace in Dunlaidir’s kitchens, a near-full pail of steaming water clutched in her hands, a dozen or more accusations burning the tip of her tongue.
And each one vied to be the first to fly at her meddlesome companion for bringing her to this pass.
Unfortunately, an equally damning charge, one aimed at her own foolish heart, kept her lips pressed together.
How could she scold Rhona when she was guilty of such yearnings herself?
Of late, her own dreams echoed with the allure of mail-clad men.
One mail-clad man in particular.
Outrageous imaginings that burst into bloom the instant she closed her eyes to sleep. Disturbing wanderings of the mind ever ready to pierce the cloak of indifference she attempted to wear by day.
Ice didn’t run in her veins – as the bold Sassunach champion sadly reminded her.
Pushing him from her mind, she slanted a look at Rhona. Unaware of Caterine’s agitation, her friend busied herself spreading thick woven matting around the bases of three wooden bathing tubs.
James, already submerged to his shoulders in one of the them, followed Lady Rhona’s every move, his dark eyes carefully hooded to shield his adoration.
A condition Caterine suspected she alone was aware of.
“This should do it,” Eoghann’s gravelly voice drew her attention as he filled a small bucket with hot water from an iron cauldron suspended over the cook fire. Striding toward Caterine, he carefully tipped the bucket’s steaming contents into her larger pail.
Newly bathed himself, but with cold water drawn from the cistern just beyond the kitchen wall, the seneschal returned the scooping bucket to its hook above the hearth.
“The good sirs will have baths worthy of any great lord’s hall,” he said, pride in his voice.
“And you, dear sir, should not have to serve as a common bathman.” Guilt pricked her at seeing the loyal retainer thus demoted.
“Nor should you be doing the work of a kitchen lad, my lady.” The deep voice, so English yet irresistibly compelling, laid fast claim to the torch-lit kitchens and all within the vast, smoke-stained walls.
“Oh!” Caterine whirled around, hot water spilling onto the floor. The Sassunach stood in the open doorway, the stone-walled passage to the keep looming dark behind him. Fire glow from the wall torches gilded the length of him, emphasizing the wide set of his shoulders and his great height.
With his injured friend cradled in his arms, he looked more the lord of the castle than her late husband ever had, even in his best years.
A wave of heat washed over Caterine, an inner blaze that had nothing to do with the room’s smoky warmth.
She’d half-dreaded, half-desired this moment ever since the need to offer heated baths arose. Yet now her heart lodged in her throat and despite her best efforts, she couldn’t squeeze the simplest greeting past her lips.
“Set down the pail,” the champion said, and she obeyed, any refusal she may have attempted, undone by the intensity of his gaze.
Stayed as well by the obvious care with which he held his friend, for he displayed a depth of concern even she couldn’t deny. A shame the portent, that he possessed a good heart, held ramifications she didn’t care to consider.
“You shouldn’t carry pails, my lady.” His glance flicked to the bucket, then back to her. “For sure, not one filled with steaming water.”
“I have carried worse.”
“Those days are behind you.”
“That remains to be seen.” Caterine lifted her chin. “Dunlaidir is a stronghold unlike others.”
