“That’s why it’s so sad we have such a weak-hearted poltroon as new lord!” a riled voice rose from one of the other tables.
All color drained from James’ face. When his jaw began working in agitation, but no words came forth, Marmaduke raked a hand through his still-damp hair. Stifling a curse, he started forward at the same time Caterine pushed to her feet.
Her back straight, her pride glowing as brightly as the gleaming gold braids coiled over her ears, she stared accusingly at the Dunlaidir men. “Is it not a greater sorrow that we need the sword arms of a braw English knight and his men to stave off the havoc and disaster you dread, good sirs?”
Her words froze Marmaduke’s feet.
Had she truly called him braw?
She had.
And his heart surged, all manner of possibilities racing through him as he stepped from the shadows.
“Where is loyalty and honor when more than half our garrison abandon us to face every peril alone?” As yet unaware of his approach, Caterine Keith challenged the men who’s shamed her stepson. “Where were you when James chased after the intruder? His daring was not the act of a weakling.”
Some of the men-at-arms lowered their heads, clearly shamed. Others drew their brows together in further annoyance and continued to mutter among themselves.
Sir John frowned, lines etched deep into his haggard features. Lost in his own thoughts, he absently slipped bits of cheese to the dogs scrounging in the rushes beneath the high table.
The tiniest dog, Lady Caterine’s pet, ceased his scavenging to bare his teeth at Marmaduke. Ignoring the wee beastie’s snarls, he stepped up to the table and placed a hand on Caterine’s shoulder.
“Sir.” She glanced up at him, her deep blue eyes still sparking with agitation, but to his relief, she made no move to pull away. “My apologies that the hall is not at peace.”
“Men sit at your tables, my lady,” Marmaduke said, speaking to her, but nodding to her men. “That is worth much. Disloyal retainers do not stay on when they could dine off silver plate elsewhere. Good men stay on through all weathers, as these here have clearly chosen to do.” As he’d hoped, his words wiped a fair portion of the ill-humor from their faces.
“’Tis looking after the horses, we were,” one of them called out, his gaze on Caterine. “Some of us thought we saw lights flickering in the stables. We are too few to be everywhere, my lady.”
“He has the rights of it,” another agreed. “We ne’er thought some craven would come climbing out of the jakes!”
Nods and hearty blusters echoed the voiced sentiments, and the tension gradually dissipated. Satisfied, Marmaduke looked back at Lady Caterine.
His breath caught at her radiance. She was staring past him, looking at the garrison men. Flickering torchlight silhouetted her profile, gilding the elegant lines of her face and the proud lift of her chin.
Her dignity stirred him, but the vulnerability evident in the flush high on her cheeks moved him more. Something rare and potent slid through him, seizing hold of his very soul.
He watched her, his heart pounding slow and hard. The smoky hall and all in it seemed to merge with the shadows until only she remained, clear and bright as a sunlit day.
The disgruntled Keith men, his amused-looking ones, and even the rows of tables and benches, everything faded save his keen awareness of her.
She stood tall and proud, the fireglow caressing her, the shifting light and shadow revealing the sleek lines of her body, teasing him with the pleasing fullness of her breasts, and tempting him with a subtle sensuality any man would burn to awaken.
Already intrigued by her, he now found himself captivated.
He fisted his hands around his sword belt as desire slammed through him. His body tightened, responding to her with gripping need. A yearning far more powerful than the well-rounded wenches he’d favored in recent years had ever stirred in him.
The saints knew he’d avoided slender coupling partners, hadn’t craved the supple curves of a lithe-limbed woman in years. Not since-
Frowning, he gripped his belt even harder, his knuckles now white. Anything to banish the image rising in his mind – and the sharp lust heating his blood. A throbbing ache much deeper than mere physical want.
“Aye, and ’tis full loyal we are,” a loud voice rang out, dashing cold water on his need and soundly dispelling memories better left unstirred.
“Not all can be turned by coin or cowed by that son of Beelzebub!” another agreed.
Others joined in and the disruption poured relief through Marmaduke, swiftly restoring his wits and resealing his most tender wound.
The one that bore his late wife’s name.
Drawing a great breath, he gave his new bride’s shoulder a light squeeze. And knew profound satisfaction when she leaned into his hand, welcoming his touch.
