Bride of the Beast (4 page)

"Be gone and may the pestilence take you!" Rhona dashed forward, near shoving the earl down the stairs. "Go now lest I fetch a blade and run you through myself!"

"Rho—" Caterine tried to call back her loyal companion, but her voice failed her, dying in a sputtering croak, her throat suddenly as dry as Sir Hugh had accused her man-weary body of being.

As if he'd known exactly where to aim his hurtful words.

More shamed by his slurs than she cared to admit, she stood stiffly at the top of the stairs and watched her friend hasten Sir Hugh down the steps. At the bottom, he shook off Rhona's flailing arms and glared up at Caterine.

"Know this, I shall watch for the arrival of this Gaelic warlord," he vowed, his voice reeking of venom and spite.
"If
he arrives, I will be present at your nuptials for only then will I believe it."

Dashing the rain from his forehead, he glowered at her. "Should he not appear within a fortnight, I shall claim this holding, and you, for myself. Fourteen days, lady, and then my patience will come to an end."

Cold anger rolling off him, he stalked across the rain-shrouded courtyard to where his men awaited him, their solemn faces still set in hard, disapproving lines.

Caterine stood as if carved of stone, her hands clasped tightly before her, as Sir Hugh and his cavalcade rode out of the courtyard and across the narrow bridge of land spanning the deep chasm between Dunlaidir's promontory and the cliffs of the mainland, a formidable headland now all but invisible behind teeming sheets of rain and mist.

When the last clattering noises of their departure faded into nothingness and naught more could be seen of them, she relaxed her stance, finally allowing her shoulders to sag.

Only then did she push the wet strands of hair off her forehead and dash the cold moisture from her face. Only then did she allow herself to tremble. Her entire body shook, quivering uncontrollably like brown and dried leaves on an autumn-bare tree.

"Lady, come inside," Rhona soothed, once more at her side. She placed an arm around Caterine's shoulders and urged her toward the shelter of the waiting hall. "In fresh and dry clothes and with a belly full of hot soup, you'll feel better. You must not heed Sir Hugh'.s insults. He is furious because you've thwarted him."

"Aye," Caterine said, her voice flat. "And now it would appear you seek to thwart me. Or dare I hope your fool babble about Linnet sending a champion was just that... babble?"

"I never babble." Rhona flashed her a smile as they stepped into the dimly lit great hall. "I may meddle now and then, but only for your own good," she added, pausing to secure the iron-studded door.

"And what meddling have you done?" Caterine probed, her blood thrumming with a new kind of agitation. "If you've ignored my wishes and sent for a champion, you've not only thwarted Sir Hugh, you've thwarted your own ill-considered plans as well."

"How so?" Rhona tilted her head to the side. "I may not have had the fullest right to send a courier to your sister, but once Duncan MacKenzie's man arrives, you will see the wisdom of having a brave master-at-arms to guard you."

"By pretending to marry me?" Caterine could scarce push the words past the gall in her throat.

Rhona gave her a look so guileless Caterine almost swallowed her ire. Almost.

"Did you consider that with Sir Hugh in attendance it will be exceedingly difficult to hold a mock ceremony?"

Rhona's dark eyes rounded and her lips formed a little 0. When she glanced at the blackened ceiling rafters and began tapping a finger against her chin, Caterine took leave of her, crossing the near-empty hall as swiftly as her rain-soaked clothes would allow.

She did not care to hear whatever new pearls of wisdom her companion cared to bestow on her. Truth tell, she already had a strong suspicion of what they'd be.

Rhona would smile, get that misty-eyed look on her face, and declare a true marriage to Linnet's chosen champion might prove to be the best solution to Caterine's woes.

Aye, such would be the words to tumble from her fanciful friend's too-loose lips.

Rhona would chatter on until she persuaded, or needled, Caterine into believing her. Trouble was, Caterine did not want to believe her. Not this night.

Nor on the morrow.

And most especially not as long as a tiny and annoyingly persistent ember of hope nestled deep inside the hidden-most reaches of her lonely heart.

**

Something was sorely amiss.

Nigglings of unease crept up and down Sir Marmaduke's spine as he surveyed the imposing curtain walls of the cliff-top fortalice that was the end of a long and harrowing journey.

Dunlaidir
Castle
sprawled high atop a massive rock formation jutting far into the
North Sea
, and attached to the mainland by a narrow ridge of land. Sheer cliffs fell straight to the sea on all sides making the stronghold near impenetrable ... if only someone manned the empty gatehouse guarding the castle's sole means of access.

But naught more daunting than wheeling seabirds, a few hardy weeds, and a stiff sea wind, occupied Dunlaidir's most important defense.

No men-at-arms strode forward to question the approach of Sir Marmaduke and his four companions.

The gatehouse stood neglected, leaving the way into the stronghold's more vulnerable inner heart wide open.

Twisting in his saddle to face the four Scottish knights behind him, Marmaduke peered sharply at each man. Their faces reflected his own wariness, and their posture as they sat their sturdy
Highland
garrons bespoke keen alertness.

"
Duncan
claimed Dunlaidir possessed a stout garrison," Sir Lachlan, the youngest of the Gaelic warriors commented. "It would seem they are no more."

Marmaduke nodded at the recently dubbed knight, then cast another quick glance at the seemingly deserted gatehouse. In the distance, Dunlaidir's crenellated curtain walls rose proud against an iron-gray sky, yet not one sentry could be seen patrolling the impressive ramparts.

"All appears abandoned, yet I vow unseen eyes have observed our every move since we crossed onto Keith land this morn." He withdrew his great sword and rested the sharply honed blade almost casually across his thighs. "I do not believe those eyes belonged to the village folk who scuttled away the moment they caught sight of us."

As one, his companions nodded their heads in agreement. Sir Alec, the oldest and most battle-proved of the Gaels, spat on the rocky ground, then drew the back of his hand over his mouth. "An ill wind blows here," he said, unsheathing his own blade. "I don't like it."

The grim set of the other men's jaws assured Marmaduke they shared Alec's sentiments.

And his own.

A dark wind indeed lashed against the cliff-top stronghold, a formidable force of destruction threatening to plunge Dunlaidir's massive walls stone by stone into the cold waters of the sea if naught was done to stave the rampant air of decline so rife all around them.

Even the demesne's vast surrounds had seemed contaminated by an oppressive cloud of dereliction: the once far-reaching arable fields lay untilled and fallow, what few livestock they'd spotted had been small in number and ill-fed, the tumble-down cottars' dwellings forlorn and cold-looking ... as empty as the cluster of stone cottages forming the village and now, the gatehouse and castle as well.

What few villeins they'd come upon had skulked out of sight, their haggard faces averted as if they feared they'd be cast to stone did they but glance at Marmaduke and his small contingent of MacKenzies.

Saints, the contamination swirled so thick Marmaduke could taste its foulness on his tongue.

Then the sharp yipping of a dog broke the silence. The sound came from afar, a welcome reprieve in a gray and
chill world that presented itself more inhospitable than Marmaduke had dared imagine.

"It would seem at least one inhabitant of Dunlaidir has stirred himself to greet us," he said, prodding his mount toward the gatehouse and the narrow spit of land looming beyond.

"Come, ready yourselves to make the little fellow's acquaintance and, if the saints are with us, that of Lady Linnet's fair sister," he called over his shoulder as his companions fell in behind him. "May God have mercy on the perpetrators if aught has befallen her."

Without further ado, he rode beneath the raised portcullis, its steel-ended spikes benign and useless hoisted as they were and without a watchful guard to drop them in place should an enemy dare attempt to breach this first crucial defense.

But the only eyes to witness their passing were those of roosting gulls and a few fleet-footed rodents.

In the distance, the dog's barking issued anew, closer this time, and Marmaduke kneed his horse, impatient to close the remaining distance to Dunlaidir's impressive but unmanned curtain walls.

There, too, a second portcullis was locked into a fully useless position near the arched ceiling of yet another tunnel, this one carved into the very rock upon which the fortalice was built.

And here, too, no one barred the way. Nor did vile-reeking refuse or boiling oil come sailing down from above to impede their passage.

Nothing stopped them at all until they clattered into Dunlaidir's inner bailey and Marmaduke came face to face with the lady whose heart he meant to win.

The woman he so hoped would banish his long years of loneliness and put an end to countless nights spent sleeping in a cold and empty bed.

She stood not far from the outer stairs, a tiny golden- brown dog clutched in her arms, a look Marmaduke could only call serene resignation clouding what would surely be an angel's face if only she would smile.

His men drew up beside him, reining in their smaller garrons in well-rehearsed formation, two to his right, two to his left. Marmaduke took scant notice of them, so blinded was he by the vision before him.

The indrawn breaths of his companions left no doubt that they, too, were struck witless by the lady's stunning beauty and grace.

In truth,
two
lovely damsels stood before them, one tall and fair, the other pleasingly rounded and dark, but Marmaduke knew instinctively which one was his.

The fair one.

He knew it deep in his gut, and not simply because of the faint resemblance she bore to her sister.

It was the look of vulnerability in the depths of her dark blue eyes that skewered his heart and gave away her identity. The invisible burden of long-borne unhappiness, an unseen but palpable air of resignation weighing on shoulders she held so proud and straight.

His liege and his wife had spoken the truth. Here
was
a gentlewoman in dire need of a champion, and perhaps in more ways than they'd been aware.

And with a driving urgency Marmaduke hadn't felt in more years than he cared to count, he wanted to champion her, burned to chase the shadows from her face and replace them with the glow of happiness ... of
love.

His heart thumping against his mailed hauberk with the exuberance of a green and untried youth, Sir Marmaduke swung down from his saddle and strode purposely toward her. At his approach, she set the small dog upon the cobbles. The wee animal immediately bared his teeth and growled at Marmaduke, but scampered behind Lady Caterine's skirts as he drew near.

Recognizing the MacKenzie colors flung proudly over the approaching knight's shoulder, Caterine steeled herself

against the man's formidable appearance and offered him her hand when he dropped to one knee before her.

Caterine's old nurse, Elspeth, the woman who'd raised her and her sisters, had e'er impressed them never to judge a man—or woman—by appearance alone.

What mattered was the goodness of one's soul, one's inner worth. The scar marring this champion's otherwise arresting face was surely the remnant of some noble deed or a battle worth fighting.

Even though she'd rather he hadn't come at all, she knew Linnet would never send her a man she could not trust, a man she could not rely on—even if his countenance might prove a bit difficult to gaze upon.

More than scarred, he appeared blind in one eye as well, but the expression in his good eye, a fine brown one, seemed a look of honest compassion and warmth. And, much to her surprise, the touch of his calloused hand as he lifted hers to his lips for a kiss, proved not entirely unpleasant.

Ne'er had a man touched her in such a courtly manner. For truth, he held her hand with so much tenderness, Caterine suspected he feared she might shatter beneath his fingers.

"Fair lady," he began, his
English-accented
voice instantly banishing the faint fluttery feeling his gallantry had stirred inside her. "Allow me to introduce myself," he addressed her in fluid Gaelic, perfect save the coloration of the Sassunach speech of his mother tongue.

"I am Sir Marmaduke Strongbow, soon of Balkenzie Castle in the west, come from your sister, the lady Linnet, to champion you."

"You are English." The words came out sharp and cold, colder than she'd intended.