A portent from above.
Once more, he murmured a prayer. One of thanksgiving and hope. When at last he rose, his decision was made.
As soon as he could muster what few men Duncan could spare him, he would journey across Scotland to aid a damsel in need. A lady he would offer not just his warring skills and protection, but marriage.
A true one.
If by God’s good graces, she would have him.
Chapter 3
Cold rain pounded the outer stair to Dunlaidir Castle’s towering keep, drenching not only the steep stone steps but also the coarse woolen cloth of Lady Caterine’s mantle. Preferring a soaking to moving aside and bidding entry to the Sassunach earl standing before her, she met his arrogance with the haughtiest look she could muster.
“You will forgive my lack of hospitality, Sir Hugh,” she said, letting the iciness of her voice convey her true sentiments. “The hour for our evening meal is soon upon us and I fear our humble pottage of dried peas and broth is not worthy of your exalted palate.”
“Lady, a dry crust of bread would taste as savory as roasted venison if consumed in your fair presence.” Sir Hugh de la Hogue gave her a thin smile. “Would you cease your pointless attempts to resist me, I shall see you dine on naught but the finest of victuals for the rest of your days.”
“You needn’t trouble yourself.” Caterine stepped backward until she met the barrier of the keep’s half-opened door. “What I sup upon is my concern and no one else’s. With our cattle all but vanished these past months, I’ve grown quite fond of watery soups and seaweed pasties.”
“A pity your tenants have stooped so low as to steal from their own lady’s herd.” The earl made a great pretense of studying the rings adorning his small fingers. “Would you honor Edward’s writ and welcome me as your new lord husband, I should deal swiftly with the thieving peasants.”
“There are some who doubt our own people have aught to do with our dwindling resources.” She leveled a narrow-eyed stare at de la Hogue. “A good night to you, sir. You will excuse-”
Sir Hugh’s arm shot out, his fingers curling in a tight grip around her elbow. “Very dear lady, I urge you not to wax too proud,” he said, his features growing stony, the glint in his eyes, menacing.
“Heed my words well.” He cast a meaningful glance at the walled courtyard below. His henchmen arrogantly sat their restive steeds, the horses’ iron-shod shoes making hollow clacking noises on the rain-slick cobbles.
To a man, his mail-clad knights’ appeared every bit as hostile as their lord, their hands hovering threateningly near the hilts of their swords in a silent but not to be mistaken show of might.
A warning only one as desperate as Lady Caterine would dare ignore.
Even so, she lifted her chin, let her eyes fire more anger at him.
“I did not ask you to come here this day,” she said, her tone icy. “Not on any day, that I recall.”
“Lady, if you cannot be amenable, well…” His steely grip on her arm became a slow and far too intimate caress. “Be aware it would cost you dear to vex me. Already I grow weary of standing in the rain. Do not provoke me further.”
Caterine lifted her chin a notch higher. “Then do not delay your departure. I wish you Godspeed on the journey to the rainless refuge of your own hall.”
She met his glare with equal arrogance, not even allowing herself the much-needed relief of blinking away the raindrops dripping onto her lashes and into her eyes.
More annoying still, her futile efforts to free herself from the earl’s grasp seemed to amuse him.
And – the saints help her – whet other interests.
Releasing her, he stepped back and let his gaze rake the length of her. His breath quickened, its foulness coming at her in fast little bursts while his generous paunch rose and fell with ever-increasing rapidity.
As if he could see beneath the scant protection of her well-worn garb, he gawked openly at her breasts and other secret places, clearly enjoying the way her rain-wet garments plastered themselves to what curves remained on her too-thin body.
“I bid you good night, sir,” she said, her skin crawling as his gaze fastened on the vee of her thighs. Nigh slack-mouthed, he brought his hand to the hilt of his sword. But unlike his dour-faced knights whose hands simply hovered near their weapons, Sir Hug left his fingers toy with the leather-wrapped grip as if fondling a woman.
Or himself.
Caterine shuddered. Either image was too repulsive to ponder. Too reminiscent of other English hands doing other vile things, black memories best left buried beneath the weight of years.
A great heaving began in the depths of her stomach, roiling waves of aversion, flaming hot one instant and bitter cold the next, but she remained standing tall. Unyielding and hopefully not showing the dread he and his minions ignited within her.
“So you would see my back?” His fingers slowed even more, his stroking of his sword-hilt, obscene. “Nothing else?”
