Page 61 of The Refuge

“The truth. I’ve had many offers for her, including most recently—and most importantly—one from Colbán.”

“Your captain wants Catrìona? But I thought it was Elspeth he favors.”

“The young, silly one? Nay. He may dally with her, but ’tis the redhead he has asked for.”

Margaret pondered a match between Catrìona and the captain, to her mind a rough warrior who would do best with a gentle bride. “Colbán is a good man, but I doubt he knows much of Catrìona’s strength and her spirit. As I recall, he allows no dissent in the men he commands or the women he possesses.”

“That is as it may be, mo cridhe, but he has earned such a prize. For some time, I have been thinking to raise Colbán to a mormaer and award him lands. But I would have him closer to Dunfermline, not far to the west. ’Tis also possible Cormac’s daughter has no desire to return to the place where her parents were murdered. After all, the home she remembers is gone. If I give her to Colbán, he could have the woman he wants and different lands.”

Margaret let out a breath. “Oh.”

“What is it, mo cridhe?” He nibbled on her neck sending shivers down her throat, making it difficult to concentrate. “I have yet to speak to the girl’s uncle, which I will do before I give her to anyone.”

Margaret considered the possibilities. She wanted to give Catrìona what she never had herself. “If ’twere possible, and each man is acceptable in your eyes, I would let it be the lady’s choice.”

“Now that would be a bad precedent, Margaret, to let your ladies think they could select their husbands. Can you imagine the chaos that would ensue? Nay, ’tis best I choose them. Besides, since her father’s death, the woman is my ward and her lands mine.” He nuzzled the tender skin beneath her ear. “Still, you know I always seek your advice.”

Margaret tried not to think of his lips sliding down her neck, but as she pondered the problem an idea came to her. Running her fingers over her husband’s hand now stroking her thigh, she said, “What if ’twere done so that you and I know which man she prefers, but none of the other ladies is aware and the announcement, when it comes, is yours, as always?”

Malcolm laughed. “You are a marvel, mo cridhe.” He kissed her on the mouth, a long lingering kiss. Then he lifted his head to stare into her eyes. “Aye, ’twould work.” He set her carefully on the bench and stood.

Margaret looked up at him. “I was going to make a trip with Catrìona to the shrine of St. Andrew to select a site for the inn on this side of the Forth and was only waiting for your return. If you agree, I could take both guards with us to observe them with her.” To remind him the building of an inn would cost him much coin, she said, “The scribe would also be helpful in accounting for your gold I intend to spend.”

Malcolm chuckled. “Clever, mo cridhe, but ’tis not the gold I think of. You know I would not send you even to the shrine of St. Andrew without a contingent of my men for protection, especially with the babe’s birth two months away. Yea, you can have the two guards and more. Would you take all of your ladies?”

“Nay, only Catrìona and Audra, assuming Audra would be willing to leave her father. Cristina can see that my other ladies are kept busy. My travel to the shrine would also spare Bishop Fothad having to come to Dunfermline to hear my confession.”

“Very well. I regret I must stay here to see to my men and the business of the provinces that has accrued in my absence. As well, I must find a new scribe, mayhap one of the Culdee monks who serve in the chapel. How long might you be gone?”

She could see he was anxious. It was all very well for him to charge off to Northumbria to cross swords with the Normans, but he would not want her to go thirty miles to meet with the bishop at St. Andrew’s shrine. And she loved him for it. Dropping her gaze to her hands, she said, “We could ride to St. Andrews in but two days’ time, except now that I go by cart, I travel more slowly and we will need to make stops to visit the prospective sites for the new inn.” She did not look into his eyes until she said, “There and back again might take a fortnight.”

Malcolm frowned but, before he could object, she added hopefully, “Mayhap less.”

One hand was fisted on his hip as he ran the other through his mane of dark hair. “All right, but do not be surprised if I ride to join you for the return. You have been gone too long from my sight.”

Margaret smiled, pleased at her husband’s concession. “I would welcome you joining us, My Lord. And by that time I may have learned which of your two guards Catrìona would prefer as a husband.”

“You can add that to your prayers,” he said with a smile. He loved to tease her about her many hours spent in prayer. “And let us hope whichever man the redhead prefers will be acceptable to the lady’s uncle. Atholl will have his say, you can be sure.”

A knock at the door revealed the physic returned. “My Lord,” he said bowing. “I believe Duff will recover. He is a man of great strength and determination.”

“Thank you,” said Malcolm.

“Oh, and when I left,” the physic said, “his daughter was with him.”

Malcolm instructed him to see to the other wounded and the physic bowed and left.

Turning to face her, he said, “Would that I could take you to my bed, mo cridhe, but that will have to wait till this eve. There is much to be done at the moment.” He held out his hand. “Come, we must visit Duff and the wounded. On the way, you can tell me about the sites you will visit for the new inn. Then I must change ere we dine.”

* * *

Catrìona sat at one of the long trestle tables crowded with the returning warriors, still coated in the dirt of the road they traveled. They had returned with longer beards and happy faces. The time for the evening meal was not yet upon them, but servants hurried to set platters of cold meat, cheese and bread before the hungry men. Now that they were safely home, the men dove into the food, swapping stories of the raids and quaffing pitchers of honey ale, rarely served in Dunfermline since the king preferred his red wine.

Next to her sat Steinar and across from them were Rhodri and Fia with Giric squeezed in between, his gaze fixed on the scribe. Shadow, the boy’s ever-present dog, had taken shelter beneath the table. She could hardly blame him. The hall was filled with loud, boisterous exclamations that might frighten such a wee dog, but then again, he might be hoping for a dropped scrap.

Giric sat with his elbows on the table, his head resting on his upturned palms, enraptured with Steinar’s description of Rhodri’s flaming arrows.

The bard downed his ale, blushing as the scribe richly embellished the tale.