Forbidden (15 page)

“For all that is holy, brother, ye look about
to pound yer fists on someone’s nose. Look around ye. Half the men
here look afeared ye will lash out at them.”

Ranald studied the room. For truth, many
uneasy glances flashed his way. Women had turned their faces, while
some men sidled away to stand in the shadows of the walls. What had
them so wary?

“Are they used to outbursts of temper, or is
my face so ugly, so hard to look upon, that the slightest frown
makes it fearsome?”

“Nay, yer face is far from ugly. The mask
adds mystery. Afore yer scowl, women were eyeing ye like a hungry
bird spotting the first worm after a long, frozen winter.” Elyne
grinned up at him.

“Hm, that statement makes me envious.” Raik
laughed. “No doubt the worm they hunger for lies beneath yer
tunic.”

“Huh! Ye’ll not find yer pallet empty this
eve either, cousin.” Elyne shook her head at him. “Aye. ‘Tis more
likely ye’ll have little space left to lie on.”

“I can suffer that.” Raik’s grin made him
look like a hungry wolf.

“But, ye say the slightest frown, Ranald? Ha.
What makes yer face fearsome is the way yer eyes are near squinted
shut. The way ye stare. And, too, when ye snarl, yer lips do look
right mean.” She ended her description with a chuckle and hugged
his arm before leaving to join Catalin, standing with Letia and
Baron de Burgh.

He watched as Elyne strode away and noted
several knights admiring his sister. One hard glare from him turned
their gazes elsewhere.

Catalin darted a glance his way. Doubt
clouded her blue eyes. Her smiles were forced. She chewed her lips
before quickly looking away.

Ah. No doubt, she worried what evening would
bring.

She read his mood well.

“Yet.”

Catalin jumped hearing Ranald voice. Saints!
He was not there. The word but echoed in her mind with such
strength she had thought he spoke in her ear. He had said he would
not thrash her. Yet. Had she angered him so much today he had
changed his mind? Her cheeks flinched. How would she fare if he
struck her? Uncle Hamon had dealt her more than one blow, near
breaking the bones in her face.

Ranald’s fists were much larger. His body,
too. He held far more power than her piggish uncle.

She near bit her lips raw. She could not stop
looking at him, either. He moved with such stealth. She feared he
would suddenly appear and lift his hand before she had time to
protect her face.

Heaven’s above! He would not stop staring at
her. She dropped her head to study her shoes peaking beneath her
kirtle. She took deep breaths, squeezed her eyes tight, and tried
to picture being in a quiet place with no one around.

Raik’s voice calling Ranald intruded, and of
a sudden, the prickling attention of Ranald’s regard left her. Her
breath escaped in a whoosh.

o0o

Ranald thoughts dwelled on every look, word
and motion of Catalin’s, filling him with doubt. She had best be
wary. His blood seethed. ‘Twas truth. How could he ever trust
her?

Granted, as the monk in the garden, she had
sought to confess her sins to him. But in their bedchamber, she
should have confessed to him, the man. Aye. Her lie was letting him
believe she was a virgin still.

Had she done it before? When he destroyed the
small vial of chicken blood Hannah had provided her, he had thought
hard about that.

Hearing Raik move beside him, Ranald brought
his thoughts back to the hall.

“Ho, cousin. Catalin does not look the happy
bride. She noted yer interest in Muriele. Mayhap she fears ye will
take over where Moridac left off?”

“Do ye forget I was a monk until a few days
past?”

“Oh, aye, I remember well. Still, ye have
many years to make up for. And ye had a twin. That twin was a man
of the earth, one in need of much female flesh. As ye were before
going to Kelso. Mayhap she fears ye will hasten to have all the
pleasures ye missed while ye were celibate?”

“Dinna talk daftie.”

“Tsk. Ye’re scaring the lass into the next
world, ye know. She thinks yer scowl is meant for her.” Raik
chuckled, put his arm around Ranald’s shoulders and urged him over
to where Broccin had already settled with Domnall. Baron de Burgh
sat across the table from him.

Catalin ignored him now and darted glances at
his father. Broccin’s steely black eyes stared at her body, no
doubt looking for some sign that Moridac’s seed had taken. ‘Twas
enough to make anyone uneasy, even a lass so brash she would marry
a man she feared in order to protect her bairn.

o0o

Catalin had watched Ranald with his cousin.
The two seemed taken with Muriele, for they stared and talked, not
doubt, of how beautiful she was. Could Ranald be interested in her?
Catalin had heard talk about Muriele and Moridac. Had heard hints
that he wanted her. The woman had seemed most distressed when he
died. So much so that Catalin had noted it even in her own
grief.

Ranald’s gaze often left the tall, willowy
woman to fix on Catalin. She felt his anger clean through to her
bones as he approached her.

Such a look was enough to make chill bumps
creep over her arms. He had most likely thought all this day on how
marrying had torn his life asunder like a winter’s storm ripping
trees from the forests. And all because of her.

“Do ye oft gaze at nakit warriors when they
wash at the well?”

Catalin near jumped from her skin. Ranald’s
voice was so cold, so condemning. It stirred her anger.

“Only when they display themselves so
freely.”

Heaven help her. Why had she blurted that
out? Her temper of late had flashed at the most unusual times. She
grabbed a handful of grapes in a dish nearby and popped them into
her mouth. Mayhap that would give her time to think before
speaking.

“Display myself? Ye knew as well as I, my
sire would suspect foul play. It was needed that he saw no wounds
on my flesh.”

All the defiance went out of her. She gulped
the last of the grapes down, meaning to apologize. Too late, for
Broccin demanded Ranald’s attention.

“Once Catalin shows to be increasing, I
expect ye to lead a foray across the borders. The time is ripe, for
King Stephen’s barons are angry and rebellious. They fight amongst
themselves and are oft gone from their own lands to gather and
bicker like dafty eejits.”

Ranald skidded two chairs over to the table
and waited for Catalin to sit before he spoke. “‘Tis truth then?
Henry forced his barons to swear an oath to Empress Matilda after
she married Geoffrey of Anjou, but many went back on it?”

“Aye. Men dinna like swearing to rally behind
a woman.” Raik leaned his hip against the table and crossed his
arms. “Hmpf! What was Henry thinking? No woman can rule a castle,
much less a country.”

“The day will come when you will see more
women doing such.”

Catalin grinned hearing Letia’s words. Raik
was in for a surprise.

“Nay. Never. They have not the brains or
skills to command men.” Raik stiffened, near bristled with
disapproval.

“Best not think so, Raik.” Baron de Burgh
chuckled then drew his wife down to sit on the arm of his chair.
“Afore we married, Letia’s father lay near death. He couldn’t lift
his arms much less give commands. Letia took charge, demanding much
from the men.”

“Why did they listen to a woman? Were the
warriors so spineless?” Ranald jaws squared.

“She is an expert archer, and her men
respected her skills. She kept her father’s dire straits secret and
gave commands as if she passed on his orders to the men. No one
else knew she held the castle alone.”

“Why did she not wait and petition the king
for aid?” Ranald asked.

“It was needful she protect her lands before
anyone found out. King Henry’s bastard, Julian, had long coveted
that which is hers. She knew he had spies amongst the workers. If
he had learned of it, he would have besieged the castle.

“Did Julian not find out?” Ranald eyes
narrowed as he studied Letia.

“Aye. He did. But by then she had sent for my
help.”

“Enough chatter. Do ye forget? I asked ye a
simple question, Ranald.” Broccin slammed his tankard of ale on the
table. “Will ye raid across the border?”

“And I will give ye a simple answer:
Nay.”

“Nay? How can ye say ‘nay’?”

Broccin shot to his feet, his face livid.
Ranald rose to face him.

“Catalin’s own lands are across the border,
though they are nearly on it. We sit at table with Baron de Burgh.
The lady Letia is Catalin and Elyne’s closest friend. Do ye forget
they, too, live across the border?”

“Once they return home, they are fair game.
Mayhap even before they reach there.” Broccin’s eyes gleamed
through narrowed lids, his elbows on the table, his fingers laced
with his forefingers tapping his lips.

De Burgh steadied his wife on the armrest as
he eased to his feet.

“You seek to threaten me? While I am a guest
in your keep?”

Never once did he take his eyes off Chief
Broccin. And never once did his hand leave the shaft of a short
sword riding low on his belted waist.

Across the room, knights who had come with
the baron rose, their hands fingering their own weapons.

Ranald bolted to his feet. “Never will Raptor
Castle’s men threaten yer land, Baron. I am lord over Hunter
Castle, Catalin’s home. It lies close to your own Seton Castle. My
men at Hunter will ever be ready to aid ye.”

“Ye may be lord over Hunter Castle, but Hamon
of Cartington declared the castle is his by right of possession and
as the only male of the family.”

“How can he say ‘tis his? He is not of my
line.” Catalin’s face lost all color. “He is my mother’s brother,
not my father’s.”

“Did ye not hear afore? By right of
possession. When last ye came here, he moved his men in with yers
before the dust settled behind your escorts. The men either swore
allegiance to him or were thrown in the dungeons until they
relented.”

Broccin rubbed his hands together, gleeful
there was reason for another battle.

“Can he not be made to leave by King
Stephan?”

“Dinna be dafty, girl.” Broccin scowled at
Catalin. “Had King Stephan cared, he would have already acted.
Moridac and I had planned to leave with enough men to make Hamon
shite his breeches when he saw us approach...”

“How long have ye known, Broccin?” Ranald
interrupted.

“Broccin? I am Father or Sire to ye, ye
ungrateful half-man.” Broccin’s lips lifted in a snarl.

“Ungrateful? Aye. I am that. Somehow, I could
not learn to greet the day with a song of thanks on my lips for yer
rearranging my face. My back. My life.”

Broccin stood, the veins in his neck bulging
as he shouted.

“Ye have Catalin. Her lands. Her castle. Her
filled coffers. All waiting for ye to scoop them up. My son lies
moldering in the vault whilst ye swive his betrothed and hide
behind yer monkish ways.”

Blood pounded in Ranald’s ears, blocking all
other sound from him. His lips curled, twitched. His fists
clenched, stretched, then clenched again, until they tightened and
would not release.

He took one slow step at a time toward
Broccin. Ranald’s tight fists drummed on his thighs. His right foot
rose to the table’s edge. Shoved. Raik and Domnall jumped aside.
The table screeched on the stone floor afore it stopped against the
wall.

For each step Ranald took, it forced his sire
back. If Ranald trod with his right foot, Broccin’s left shoulder
jerked as if pummeled. He staggered back on his left leg. The same
happened when Ranald stepped forward with his left foot. Broccin’s
right shoulder jerked; he staggered back again. ‘Twas as if the air
between them was solid.

Ranald did not touch him. Broccin’s eyes
blinked with disbelief. Finally, Ranald shook his head, clearing
it. His shoulders, arms, hands...all his body relaxed.

“At Kelso I said ye have no son now. Ever
have I known ye believed the old legends that if twin bairns were
birthed, one child’s soul was thought to be good, the other evil.
Ye would only accept one of us. The first born.”

His father’s mouth opened to speak, but
Ranald raised his hand, flat out, stopping him.

“Nay. Enough has been said.”

Domnall slid a chair behind Broccin’s knees.
He plopped in it, his face white.

“Once I have learned the skills of each
knight and warrior at Raptor, and ye and Domnall have told me what
preparations have already been undertaken, we will make our final
plans. That arse Hamon had best cherish his throat. He will soon be
parted from it.”

“Can we not start preparing this night?”
Domnall asked.

“Nay. The morrow’s dawn is soon enough.”
Ranald’s left brow quirked. “Did ye not hear? My
sire
demands a grandson.”

Ranald spun around. His kilt swirled, baring
his thighs.

He crooked one long, brown finger at his
wife.

“Come.”

Catalin gulped and stared at Ranald’s large
hands. Such long fingers, broad palms, the skin brown and
calloused. Moridac’s flesh had been pale, his hands smooth.

Not Ranald’s, though. They looked strong
enough to wield a broadsword with little effort. No doubt he could
snap the life from a man should he grasp him by the head and
twist.

She shuddered, shook her head. How could they
have been so gentle, so exciting, only last eve? Would they ever be
so again? Or would they be rough and cruel, seeking revenge?

Impatient now, he crooked his finger again
demanding she come to him. She swallowed and squared her shoulders.
Her feet lagged. His eyes flashed a warning when he grasped her
elbow to urge her forward. She near had to skip to keep up with his
long strides.

“Do ye want all to know things are not as
they should be?” He snapped the words at her, and had he been an
angry hound, he would have followed them with a feral growl and a
nip.