Catherine stood, stunned, uncertain what to think. That this mysterious jar of salve wasn’t hers at all seemed the least of her worries; Mariah and her apparent dislike provided more concern. The woman was rather bold for a servant. This wasn’t the first time she’d made pointed view of her, and her expression was never the least bit submissive. It had been the same that first morning, when she’d come at Gray’s bidding to help Catherine with her hair.
Could Mariah be one of the spies Eduard spoke of? Might she have been listening outside the chamber when Gray questioned her about the portrait, to see if she would reveal information that Eduard had forbidden her to tell?
Sinking to sit at the edge of the bed, Catherine hugged the jar to her chest and stared at the unyielding silence of the door Mariah had closed so soundly behind her…
Left, as so often of late, to face her fears and worries alone.
Chapter 9
“Come now, ’tis not so difficult. Just cast to the water and pull back smoothly. The motion must be fluid if ’tis to bear fruit.”
Struggling to follow Gray’s suggestion, Catherine bit her lip and squinted at the offending string dangling from the rod in her hand. A snip of blue feather fluttered near the metal tip at its end, seeming to mock her efforts. The cast-off plumage was supposed to lure the fish, enticing them to bite, though why they’d choose to eat something so awful Catherine couldn’t guess. It didn’t look very appetizing to her.
Giving her pole a few practice flicks, she eyed the dripping feather again. It was a sad sight indeed. Aye, she’d warrant her bedraggled bait had more to do with her lack of success so far this morn than want of proper technique. But she’d not say as much to Gray. To do so would only invite him to devise some practice even more outrageous, she was sure. As it stood, her muscles and joints already groaned from his inventive methods of training these past weeks. When she wasn’t in the clearing practicing sword strokes, she was doing other strengthening skills that he conjured up.
Just two days ago, he’d told her to drag baskets full of dirt back and forth across the tilting yard; last week he’d insisted that she raise buckets of water from the well until she could lift no more. Before that, he’d had her climb a gnarly tree to fetch each of a score of linen strips that he’d tied among the upper branches.
And now this.
Yet she couldn’t deny the success of his methods. Her hands were developing protective calluses from wielding her weapon, and she could sense the growing power in her arms, back, and legs. For the first time in her life she felt strong instead of merely awkward and clumsy.
Still, she’d debated begging off of this exercise today, thinking the better of it only when she realized that, unlike some of the other activities he’d put her to, this task had another purpose; theoretically, there would be fish to eat at the end of it.
Bolstered by the thought, she shot Gray a look, pulled back her arm and cast the line again, jerking it toward the water. She followed his direction to the very point, and was rewarded with naught but disaster; she succeeded only in catching the line in a thorn bush that jutted from the stream. Biting back an unladylike curse, she yanked the pole, ensuring that the string knotted itself more securely on the branch.
“Saints preserve us, but this is useless!” Stomping over to the bush, she began to snatch at the string to untangle it. Thorns jabbed her as she worked, and she gritted her teeth.
The fact that Gray stood there watching only fueled her temper further. She felt his gaze, calm as always, boring into her back. Even without looking, she knew that he stood with his arms crossed, legs slightly apart, with that familiar, mildly amused expression on his damnably perfect face. One brow would be arched, the corner of his mouth lifting in that way that maddened her beyond reason.
Curse him, but he seemed to revel in her struggles—all masterminded by him, she reminded herself—and to take pleasure in her feeble shows of resistance when she found enough courage or daring to show them.
“Aren’t you going to help me?” she finally yelled over her shoulder.
“Nay.” Gray shook his head and smiled. “One of these days you’re going to learn to harness your anger. It can serve as your best or worst enemy, depending on how you handle it.”
Catherine ground her teeth not wanting to give him the satisfaction of a reply, but in the end she couldn’t resist mumbling, “You’llbecome my worst enemy in a moment, if you don’t help me with this.”
Gray made a clicking noise of reproach as he strolled closer. She could still feel his smile on her and, rankled by it, she stiffened. He leaned in, reaching his arm over her head to clip the string from the branches. His breath tickled her ear, sending a delicious tingle down her neck. But she’d not let him know it.
“That passion of yours, lady,” he murmured, “will get the best of you if you cannot learn to govern it. Try to focus. Channel it. Use it to your advantage.”
“And how might I do that, pray tell?” she snipped, turning to glare at him; it was a mistake. He stood dangerously close, and the glint in his eyes made her go still. Sweet heavens, but he was handsome. And when he gazed at her like that…
“You should channel your passions, milady,” he said softly, “into endeavors like this.” All thought ceased when he brushed his lips over hers; he came back to taste again, drawing her into a maelstrom of sensation. She felt like she was falling, drifting to a place both strange and wonderful. Reaching up, she gripped his shoulders to steady herself and found that she couldn’t stop her traitorous hands from moving up to tangle in the dark waves of hair at his neck.
With a growl of pleasure Gray pulled her to him and deepened their kiss, taking her mouth this time with sweet urgency that left her breathless.
Finally, he pulled back a little, smiling. “Hmmm. It seems you’re capable of learningsomepursuits rather quickly. I’m relieved, considering your dismal show at fishing.”
Laughing, Catherine shoved at him, but the motion threw her off balance; she started to tip back, heading toward a good dunking in the stream. Gray laughed too and grabbed her, swinging her around to land with him instead on the mossy bank.
The fall knocked the breath from her, though she felt certain that if it hadn’t, her husband’s physical proximity would have accomplished the same result. He lay half over her, his lips hovering a breath away from hers. Grinning, he moved to kiss her again, but a bloodcurdling yell from the meadow made him stiffen. In the space of an instant, he leaped to his feet, clearing his sword from its sheath.
Three boys charged over the knoll, shouting mock battle cries and brandishing wooden sticks at each other. They fell silent and slid to a halt when they saw Gray, his upraised blade glinting in the sun, his massive warrior’s frame silhouetted in the golden rays.
Catherine recognized the lads as some of the pages who served them at the castle. One of them was named Tom, she thought. Aye, that sounded right. She didn’t know the other two, but she’d seen them near the kitchens carrying trays or scrubbing pots. All three lads looked to be no more than nine, and they were as pale as ghosts as they faced their fearsome master.
Brushing grass from her skirts, Catherine pushed herself to her feet. There was no need to make anyone feel worse by remaining in her indelicate position.
