Afew hours later, but worlds away from the little stone chapel and the thrill of a champion’s kiss, Caterine stood in the shadowy cold of Dunlaidir’s undercroft and watched as her new husband pulled his handsome blue surcoat over his head.
He tossed its resplendence onto the stone-flagged floor, then discarded his mailed hauberk as well. Now, wearing nothing but leather hose, knee-high boots, and a linen undershirt, his magnificence stole her breath.
A bold air of confidence surrounded him, a calm and steely determination she hoped would see him through the coming raid unscathed.
Her own bravura faltered when he took a fine English-styled gambeson from Eoghann’s outstretched hands, and donned it with the quiet assurance of a man who’d seen many battles, and didn’t flinch at facing another.
Shedid quake at the notion, and the well-padded leather shirt sent rivers of dread pouring through her.
Knights – the well-equipped Sassunach ones – wore such protective garments beneath their hauberks to absorb the shock of heavy blows.
Or lessen the penetration of a well-aimed bow shot.
Never had she seen one donned for the mere lifting of a few head of Scottish cattle.
Alarm constricting her heart, she stepped from the shadows. “I would speak with you,” she said to her husband. “Privily.”
“Then do.” He smiled, the dangerous glint in his good eye warming to one of amusement. “Lest you wish to discuss that which we shall attend upon my return, there is nothing you cannot address before my men.”
Behind her, one of his not-so-gallant stalwarts chuckled.
The others joined in.
“I see matters differently,” Caterine dared. Her cheeks flaming, she slid a look at Black Dugie.
The smithy guarded an archway out of the undercroft, blocking the stairs with the sheer mass of his bulk and a frown as dark as his name.
Fisting her hands against her hips, Caterine looked back at her husband. “I have eyes,” she said. “All here are not your men.”
“Perhaps not, but there is nary a soul present whose heart I do not trust.”
Caterine just looked at him.
He folded his arms, but relented first, chucking her under the chin. “I am pleased to have married a plain-speaking woman.”
“Meaning?”
“This, my lady.” His gaze locked on hers, he lifted her hand and kissed it. “I shall always enjoy hearing your mind. And I shall do so regarding any and all matters. So tell me what troubles you?”
More chortles came from his men.
“Well?” He held fast to her hand and rubbed his thumb back and forth over the large ruby of his signet ring.
A ring now on her hand.
“Ahhh…” she began, then faltered, distracted by the tingly sensations sweeping up her arm. Unnerved, she glanced at his men, and quickly recalled the reason for her concern.
The Highlanders stood about in varying stages of undress, each one adorning himself with the trappings of war. All save Sir Lachlan, who’d been ordered to remain behind to help maintain the premise that Sir Marmaduke had vanished abovestairs to bed his new wife when, later, he and his small raiding party slipped from the hall.
“Well?” her husband asked again, now smoothing his knuckles down her arm. “Are you still troubled by the incident on the road?”
“Nothing privy ’bout that,” Sir Gowan tossed between them, his words muffled by the boiled-leather jerkin he was drawing over his head. “We all ken what happened.”
“So we do.” Sir Ross looked up from stuffing mail coifs, and the padded head-caps worn beneath them, into a leather pouch. “That blighted devil won’t be darkening the road to Dunlaidir ever again.
“Man’s dead, he is.” He aimed a reassuring smile her way, but the sight of the steel-mesh headgear dangling from his fingers proved more disconcerting than comforting.
It was telling.
