Bride of the Beast (14 page)

No further murder-minded miscreants would use the chute to breach Dunlaidir's walls.

At least not until he knew his lady safely on the other side of Scotland, happily ensconced in his own soon-to-be-claimed, better guarded, and eminently more comfortable Balkenzie.

But closer than Balkenzie and, at the moment, of far greater import, the storm that had appeared so far out to sea neared at an alarming pace. The air around him crackled, prickling his skin and lifting the hairs on his arms.

Arms no longer slick with mere sweat and salt spray, but streaked with grime.

His hands were worse.

Swallowing hard, Marmaduke stared at the tossing waves. Cold and wild, there was no question they'd be invigorating as well as cleansing.

And he had promised himself a dip in the sea.

Above him, James leaned through one of the crenel openings, watching him. His baited expression left no doubt that he waited to see if Marmaduke would make good his boasting.

He'd lose already-gained ground with James should he abstain. His decision made, and before his good sense prevailed, he dived off the narrow ledge of rocks.

The icy water embraced him, its shock near stopping his heart. A strong undertow threatened to whisk him out to sea, but before the current could pull him deeper, another more powerful cross-current caught him in the side, rolling him over and over before slinging him against a wall of submerged rock.

His head and shoulders broke the surface close enough to the base of the cliff for him to grab hold of one of the rocks and swing himself over its edge to safety.

His lungs screamed for air, his entire right side burned as if afire, and the sting of the saltwater near stole the vision from his good eye, but he'd kept his word.

For a long moment, he didn't move and simply let the water course down his limbs. He took several deep, restorative gulps of air, filling his lungs before he squeezed the water from his hair, then ran both hands down his face.

Clean hands.

Clean arms.

A body freed of every last speck of foul matter, his manhood so thoroughly chilled even the tempting image of his lady unclothed and willing wasn't potent enough to stir him.

For the moment.

The corners of his mouth lifted in a wry little smile.

It was time to face another challenge.

One requiring an infinitely greater act of faith than diving into the sea.

He was about to discover if James Keith was man enough to help him scale the cliff.

And to rule as Dunlaidir's master once he and his lady were gone.

a brace of
candles, tall ones of purest beeswax, and a bronze oil lamp suspended from the ceiling on a chain, illuminated the late Niall Keith's private solar. Caterine sat on a stool next to the chamber's curtained bed, scarcely breathing, and trying hard to quell the disquieting sensation that someone,
something,
watched her from the shadows.

Shifting pools of blue-black filled the corners, well beyond reach of the wavering candle glow and the cresset lamp's low-burning flame.

Dark and eerie, of a certainty, but not a trysting place for spirits.

Feeling somewhat better, she drew a deep, backbone-steering breath and unclenched her hands. Her edginess was as foolhardy as Rhona believing in stones that cried.

The room held naught more daunting than dust and stale air.

Originally intended as a true solar, her late husband had preferred to sleep within its mural-painted walls, leaving her to her own quarters, a much more welcoming room, if colder with its windows opening directly onto the sea.

The haven of her bedchamber called to her now, but she tamped down the urge to return there and, instead, reached down to stroke Leo's back. The little dog lay curled atop

her feet, his warm weight a comfort in the oppressive silence.

A heavy quiet broken only by the patter of rain beating on the windows and Sir Lachlan's occasional snores. The injured Highlander slept in the freshly dressed bed, lulled to a deep slumber by the potency of Caterine's specially prepared painkilling elixir.

Once, he'd opened bleary eyes and smiled at her, mumbling a few unintelligible words before falling swiftly back to sleep. If the saints smiled on her, he'd awaken again. His genial company would be a glad respite from the uneasy memories welling inside her since crossing the solar's threshold.

Reaching out, she smoothed the bedcovers for the wounded knight. His steady breathing and lack of fever foretold a rapid recovery, and little else mattered.

Least of all
Mali
's ghost peering at her from the shadow-cast corners.

Mocking her for having ne'er been able to rouse him.

Caterine's brow knitted.

Niall hadn't been an ogre. He'd not even sought her affections after the first year of their marriage. And not once had he chided her for her inability to properly stir him.

He had understood how her initiation to womanhood had robbed her of all desire to explore her femininity.

Patient even in those first twelve months, her late husband often let her withdraw to the sanctum of her own chamber, tactfully claiming her next visit to his bed would prove fruitful.

But they never had and he'd eventually ceased sending for her.

And now, with a new marriage looming on the horizon, the very walls of Niall's old solar seemed steeped with his presence.

Disquieted, Caterine shifted on the tapestry-covered stool. She'd brought the stool from her own chamber, not wishing to sit in the cumbersome chair of richly carved oak Niall had reclined in to watch her disrobe during those early attempts at what he referred to as conjugal pleasure.

Determined to vanquish him, she scooped Leo onto her lap, snuggling him close against her, her gaze on the three arch-topped windows set into the opposite wall.

Unlike her own chamber, the solar boasted windows of glass. Small, round panes set in lead and of an indiscernible opaque color. Difficult to see through, but a luxury nevertheless.

As were the thickly strewn furred skins covering the cold stone of the floor. An extravagance Niall had allowed himself, and one that kept the room much warmer than hers.

So why couldn't she banish the chillbumps from her arms?

Even the pulsing heat emanating from the hearth's low-burning peat fire failed to warm her.

Fighting the urge to chatter her teeth, Caterine glanced at the Highlander. He'd rolled onto his side and flung one well-muscled arm over his face. But still, he slept.

Relieved, she turned back to the windows. Gloaming neared and the light, what little there was of it on such a storm-swept afternoon, had changed, lending a rare, luminescent quality to the milky window glass.

The skin of her nape prickled, for the color of the panes came very close to the pale gray of her late husband's eyes.

Eyes that peered at her from the rain-streaked glass!

Hundreds of pairs of Mall's eyes.

Her heart slammed against her ribs and a cry rose in her throat, lodging there when the image shifted and the silver rivulets of rain became tears, the hundreds of staring eyes, her own.

A loud crack of thunder shook the room, rattling the fragile glass panes and sending Leo bolting from her lap to seek refuge under the great four-poster bed.

The thunder's still-echoing rumbles banished the disturbing image as well.

Once again, the three tall windows appeared as they always had, with naught save a fine layer of dust and a sad build-up of grime to distinguish them.

A great shudder ripped through her, streaking clear to her toes. Amazingly, the young Highlander slept on, blissfully unaware of the storm raging outside, blessedly ignorant of the one warring within Caterine's own breast.

Only Leo sensed her ill-ease. He peered at her from beneath the bed, his round eyes quizzical and tinged with sympathy she didn't want. Not even from dear sweet Leo.

She alone crafted her nightmares, and she alone would besiege them.

To prove it, she twisted around and stared hard at Niall's oaken great chair. If aught in the chamber wished to taunt her, it would be his monstrosity of a chair.

But the empty chair stood mute.

Harmless.

A hulking mass of dark wood in the farthest corner, well-hidden by shadow.

No image of an aging husband reclined in the chair, his gaze anxious and hopeful, manifested to torment her.

Her pulse slowing somewhat, she started to turn away, but the cresset lamp's flickering light flared bright before she could. Caterine stared, spellbound, as the lamp's soft glow spread into the murky corner to mesh with the echoes of days and nights long past, and sprang to bold life in the massive oak chair.

But it was not Niall's sprawled form her imagination conjured.

It was
his.

Her champion's.

And wearing his fur-lined great cloak with naught beneath!

He'd flung one powerfully muscled leg over the side of the chair and held a magnificently jeweled chalice to his lips. His cloak gaped slightly, its heavy folds draped open just enough to give her a tantalizing glimpse of his hard-trained body in all its masculine glory.

For it was the glory part of him the gaping mantle revealed.

Fine, manly splendor fully aroused.

And every bit as imposing as his jesting men had implied.

Caterine gulped, her heart thudding.

Looking more real, more full-bodied and whole, than a dream image aught do, the Sassunach took a slow sip of wine, then lifted his chalice in silent toast to someone she couldn't see. His expression held a wealth of some emotion she couldn't define for she'd ne'er seen such a look on a man's face.

A look her heart recognized even if she didn't.

A look of infinite adoration.

Of love,
shining, pure, and true.

Something she'd doubted existed and might be tempted to believe was possible... were she looking at a flesh and blood man and not peering deep into the darkest corners of her own soul.

There, where her hidden desires resided.

A fierce yearning consumed her, a need so intense she ached with wanting. Her throat tightened painfully even while the rest of her seemed to soften and grow warm.

But another great peal of thunder and a silvery flash of lightning shattered this image, too, and then, as if the raging elements meant to mock her, the storm seemed to hold its breath, going so silent she could almost hear the fierce pounding of her own heart.

That, and a low rumbling too near to be lingering echoes of thunder.

Not rumbling ... growls.

And by the time the realization dawned, Leo's snarls
erupted into a series of sharp little dog barks. Hackles raised, he burst from beneath the bed to charge the door, reaching it just as it swung open to reveal
him.

In a flash of golden-brown fur, his jaws snapping, Leo pounced on Sir Marmaduke's ankles. His shrill barks reached an ear-splitting level only to stop abruptly when the tall English knight turned a stern look on him.

With a yelp, Leo streaked back beneath the massive bed. Still shaken, Caterine would've yelped and run for cover, too, but her limbs proved too leaden to move and her throat seemed stuffed with wool.

Lachlan
gave a low moan and tossed on the bed, the distraction allowing her time to gather her wits. She cleared her throat. "W-what are you doing here?" she asked her champion.

"In this chamber or beneath your roof?"

He came forward with confident strides, his broad-shouldered presence overwhelming in the close confines of the solar.

Caterine swallowed, her heart skittering out of beat.

Candle shine glinted off the thick mane of his dark hair and spilled across the hard-muscled expanse of his tunic-clad chest, but the flickering light didn't illuminate his face, and with his features half obscured by shadow, traces of the handsome man he'd once been were hauntingly apparent.

Caterine pushed to her feet, amazed her legs supported her. Faith, but her knees trembled. Nay, they
knocked.
"I..." she trailed off, a heated blush flaming her cheeks.

"I know what you meant." Placing his hands on her shoulders, he cast a glance into the dark recess of the curtained bed. "I came to see how
Lachlan
fares. I'd heard he rests comfortably, but wanted to see for myself."

"Oh." Caterine blinked.

Ne'er had she felt more a fool.

But, of course, he'd come to look in on his man.

Then she caught the twinkle of humor in his good eye.

He caught her hand to his lips. "And I came to see you," he said, releasing her.

A veritable cascade of pleasurable sensation swept through her.