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Chapter 8
Conrad had already shared their plan with his marshal, a skilled swordsman who had led his father through more than one successful battle, but there was still much to be done before leaving. He would take nearly two hundred men, a large enough contingent to be of use if they could not peaceably overtake London.
But Conrad had no intention of leaving Licheford undefended either. He would keep his people, and Cait and others, safe.
Preparations needed to be made. There was work to be done. But this discussion could not wait.
He would not chance another interruption, hence their descent into the buttery.
“Conrad, where are we going?”
The air cooled as they wound their way down the stone stairwell.
“Careful,” he said, turning. Though he’d thought to reach for a candle just before entering the dark space, it provided little light for him, less so for Cait, who followed.
If she were any other woman, he’d reach for her. But this was Cait. And she was not any other woman.
“The buttery,” he said, holding the candle closer to her. “Can you see?”
“Aye.”
She stepped into the room with him, and Conrad immediately went to work. Reaching for a wooden box, he removed four additional candles, their stands in a separate box just beside it. Using his own light, he lit all of them, placing them on top of four wine casks, illuminating the brightly colored stone walls around them.
Like any buttery for a castle such as Licheford, this chamber was as ornate as the one above it, a showcase of his great-grandfather’s accumulated wealth. In some ways, this was the most important room in the keep, and it showed with bright colors and painted walls.
“’Tis beautiful.”
Cait spun around, her cream and pale yellow gown gleaming against the flickering candlelight. He watched as errant strands of her hair kissed the bare shoulders that peeked out from what was a fairly modest gown for a woman of her status.
“It was long when I last saw you,” he said of her hair.
The day after the attack. Terric and his brother had left before the tournament was over. He’d wanted desperately to say more to her that day. To ask if she was well. If she would return the following year. Instead, he had watched silently as the Kennaugh clan departed.
Although the other boys, Terric and Lance and Guy, who had been strangers to them at the time, had seen Cait and her attacker at the same time Conrad did, it was Conrad’s sword that had pierced the man’s heart. The blade had broken, and they’d dumped it into the river with the body.
“It’s been short for many years.”
As before, they stood too close. His body responded to the swell of her breasts, so he took a step back, hoping Cait did not notice.
“Colin MacGregor likes it short?”
He shouldn’t be surprised that he’d made her wince. They had learned about each other through letters, and she had never borne the brunt of the ire that sometimes took hold and threatened to strangle him.
The legendary Licheford temper.
But he would not take the bitter words back. Conrad wanted her answer, to that and many other questions.
“Enough to wish to wed me,” she shot back.
His jaw clenched.
“Who is he?”
He would not pretend that he didn’t care. He would be leaving in two short days and had little time for flowery words.
“The son of a neighboring clan chief. A good man whom I’ve no reason not to marry.”
No reason . . .
