“You will only be of no use if you keep dallying about with your lady rather than aiding me.” Marmaduke reached out and gripped James’ arm, testing his brawn. “You have strength enough for what we must do.”
“And what is that?”
Marmaduke smiled again. “Come with me and you shall see.”
* * *
Caterine watchedthe two men’s exchange from the high table, her amazement growing. Rather than protest when the Sassunach tested James’ arm muscle, a faint flush crept onto her stepson’s cheeks and he stood a bit straighter.
And he did so without losing his balance.
When they made for the hall’s main entrance, she would’ve sworn she’d caught the hint of a smile on James’ face as he snatched his cloak off a bench near the door.
Sir Marmaduke waited while James adjusted his mantle before he fetched and donned his own. Then he slung his arm around the younger man’s shoulders as they exited the hall, her champion’s stride powerful and self-assured, her stepson’s less confident but not as hesitant as his usual limping gait.
Caterine’s heart warmed.
Never had she thought to see James walk with a spring in his step again.
Slowly sipping her wine, she stared into the shadows of the arched entrance long after they’d closed the great oaken door behind them.
More and more, her sister’s chosen champion was proving himself a man truly worthy of the title.
But even as her heart softened toward him, her mind wrestled with other concerns.
Grave ones of a most serious nature.
Such as when exactly she’d stopped referring to him as the Sassunach champion and started thinking of him as simplyherchampion.
Pondering the meaning of such a revelation, she leaned back in her chair, her brow pleated as she stared into the shadows they’d left behind them.
* * *
Other eyes watchedtheir departure as well.
Brooding, hate-filled eyes hidden by the gloom near the bottom of the castle’s outer stairs.
The observer’s brow arched with disdain when they passed.
Soon the English interloper would ride a swift and cold wind straight to the bowels of hell, hastened there by a well-aimed English arrow.
That irony curling the watcher’s lips, the dark-cloaked figure slipped deeper into the dank chill of the white mist still blanketing much of the bailey.
Chapter 13
“’Tis as I told you,” James said, a short while later. He peered into the dank interior of the long-deserted forge. “There is nothing of use here.”
“Shall we see?” Unperturbed, Marmaduke retrieved a wobbly three-legged stool from the shadows and used it to prop open the door. The once bustling workshop needed airing.
Dunlaidir’s forge wasn’t just neglected, it smelled.
Of damp charcoal and rusting iron, of sea brine and mold.
Worse things he didn’t care to identify.
A gust of brisk salt-laden air swept past him, blasting through the opened door to lift choking clouds of dust and ash of the hard-packed earthen floor.
“Enough. Let us go.” James wrinkled his nose, the flare of purpose he’d displayed in the hall rapidly fading. He crossed his arms. “I will not go in there.”
