Forbidden (29 page)

“Forgive me. ‘Twas brainless to push such a
fast pace.”

“Ye look troubled. Want to talk?”

“Dinna worry yerself. ‘Tis my problem, not
yers.”

“Me worry? I have not the patience for it.”
Raik glanced at Ranald’s face. “But I am curious.”

“Of?”

“Yer anger. I felt no heat coming from ye. No
winds blew. No fires lit. No things flying’ through the air.” He
shook his head. “Naught but cold surrounded ye.”

Ranald clenched his teeth together, trying to
find the words.

“Why?” Raik prodded.

“Why the cold?” Ranald saw Raik nod from the
corner of his eye. “Anger is like passion. Hot. Sometimes violent.
I was beyond anger. I steeled my mind to what I needed to do.
Rupert had to pay for all the torment he caused his victims and all
the grieving families of the men he mutilated. It was payment to
them. Had I merely fought with him...,” he hesitated, trying to
explain. “I could have killed him. But it would have been an
honorable death.”

Raik nodded. “No doubt today he wishes ye
had.”

“Aye. To do battle would have been easier for
me, too, even had I suffered a serious injury.” Ranald blinked and
cleared his voice.

“He is not worth risking yer life.”

“Nay? Instead, I risked my
soul!
”
Ranald pressed his lips together. His shoulders slumped for but a
heartbeat before he consciously squared them.

“Ye think sparing his life was worse than
slicing yer sword through his heart?” Raik’s brows rose.

“For me, aye. What I dreaded most when I left
Kelso is steadily coming true.”

“Ah. Ye fear being like Broccin. Even
Moridac?”

Ranald’s lips hardened. He had certainly been
like his father this past day. Heedless of the suffering he caused.
And he thought of Moridac and his hunting lodge. The lust his
brother fed there. Ranald could not deny Lady Muriele had heated
his loins. Every time her gaze explored down his body, he had felt
it as potent as warm lips sliding down his flesh. He could not deny
the desire to experience them on his body had been strong. He
finally nodded.

“Living at Kelso kept ye from the world,
Ranald. It is as it always was. Men fight and hold on with tooth
and nail else another will steal all from under him. If that means
risking yer soul, then all in Scotland, England and Normandy have
likely lost theirs.” He flashed a grin at Ranald.

“I fear I will never be the same.” Ranald
straightened in the saddle.

Mayhap being ruthless was the only way he
could survive. He no longer lived in a peaceful community, though
there were times he had to be the warrior there. Aye. He had
killed. But always Abbot Aymer had been there to listen as Ranald
emptied his mind to him.

He nodded, coming to a decision. Once he
assured himself all was as it should be at Raptor, he would go to
Kelso.

o0o

Catalin watched, curious, when a peasant came
running across the drawbridge. He looked excited, yet fearful, for
his movements were tense.

“Elyne, why is that man waving his arms
around and gesturing toward the south?”

“He is yelling something. A crowd is
gathering around him. Come! Let us see what he has to say.”

Elyne jumped to her feet as sprightly as a
young doe. When she glanced at Catalin, she held out her hand to
help her rise.

Catalin grasped it and carefully pushed to
her feet, for she was not as agile as she had been before her belly
had become her central point.

“I expect he saw someone coming. It canna be
foe, for the guards have not dropped the portcullis or raised the
drawbridge.”

“It is most curious. Do you think mayhap your
brother is returning from tending to Baron Rupert?”

“Aye. I feel him near.” She turned puzzled
eyes on Catalin. “Why is it always
yer brother
when ye
speak to me of Ranald, and never husband?”

Catalin felt heat flush her face. “Calling
him husband feels far too intimate. I do not feel like I thought a
wife would when we are together. I fear he is pretending to be a
husband to me, nothing more.”

“Hm. Have ye not learned how to entice him to
yer bed as yet?”

“Of late, he pushes himself way into the
night and rises afore dawn. If I stay awake until he comes into the
room, the next eve he comes even later. He avoids me still.” She
looked down at the toe of her shoes peeking beneath her skirts as
they walked, before glancing at Elyne.

“Always? How does a man go so long without
satisfying his male urges?” Elyne’s eyes flashed with
curiosity.

“Sometimes during that darkest time of night,
he will roll toward me. When his flesh touches mine, he groans in
his sleep and reaches out.”

Catalin would not speak more of those times
when Ranald’s arms surrounded her, his body hot as any warming
brick could be. Each time, it was mostly the same.

His lips would claim hers so rough and eager
their teeth clashed together, his tongue stabbed through her lips
until she opened for him. He would comb his fingers through her
hair and closed them into fists that held her head so tightly she
could not move the slightest bit. When he finally lifted his lips
to gasp in a breath, she would call his name.

It was at this point he awakened enough to
know what he was doing. He hesitated before he began to part from
her. As their flesh separated and the cold air slid between them, a
deep groan rumbled from his throat. His arms returned to pull her
so close she feared he would crush her breasts against her
ribs.

Her slightest gasp brought gentleness. His
lips caressed hers, a feathered touch. He devoured their softness,
waiting until she parted her own before his velvet tongue
entered.

Gentle hands searched for a breast to cup,
his calloused thumb teasing her nipple till it thrust for more
attention. Always, when his lips claimed her breast to suckle, it
was with tantalizing possession. Such deep pleasure shot through
her body down to where she longed for his touch that she began to
thrash beneath him.

She ached to touch him. He let her hold his
head, to clutch him tighter to her breast. The hair atop his head
where it filled in at his tonsure felt warm and silky. His hair had
grown long enough he tied a leather strip around it to keep it from
hindering his sight.

If she dared slide her fingers onto his
cheek, he was quick to grasp her wrists in warning.

She longed to cup his face, to feel his lips
with her thumbs the way he smoothed over hers. Her body responded
to his slightest touch, leaving her skin burning with fire. His
impatience built until his hands and lips moved so demandingly over
hers she caught fire from his heat.

She opened, inviting him. When he entered,
she clasped her legs around his waist and met him thrust for thrust
as they fought each other to end that impossible tension which near
threatened to shatter her into little pieces. His head would nestle
there at the joining of her neck and left shoulder, his undamaged
cheek against hers. She loved his scent, the feel of his skin
against her face. She caressed him with her cheek, feeling the
light stubble of hair there.

In loving, Ranald was two people.

One, a fierce man who hungered so deeply he
could not wait.

The other, a gentle man who thought only of
pleasuring her before taking his own.

The sounds of people gathering brought
Catalin from her musings. She glanced aside at Elyne, fearing to
see that she had known what occupied Catalin’s thoughts.
Thankfully, she stood high on her toes, peering over shoulders
while gripping Catalin’s hand.

Elyne tugged Catalin along as she used her
elbow to part the last two people in front of them. No sooner did
they have a clear view to the cobblestone path leading in from the
drawbridge than they heard the approaching thunder of hooves coming
from the forest.

Catalin’s stomach tripped with fear of what
she would see when the men came bursting through the barbican.
Would Ranald’s body be slung over Satan’s back, broken and bloody?
Cold icy fear coursed through her veins. Though she might fear
Ranald and what he would do once the babe was born, she feared even
more being alone under Chief Broccin’s care.

“The standard bearer comes first. Sir Dubne
is at his side!” The guard shouted from above the barbican. His
next words were subdued. “He carries a body across his lap.”

Suddenly, the crowd gathered there quieted.
Tension filled the air, making the hairs on Catalin’s arm
stand.

She felt that airy sensation when her stomach
slowly forced bitter fluid up through her chest to her throat. She
swallowed, and swallowed again, forcing it back. She clutched
Elyne’s hand. Something was terribly wrong.

Was it Ranald’s body carried home in the
position of honor, the first to enter the castle after the
standard-bearer? She flattened her hand over her mouth to suppress
any sounds of horror.

“Wait! Satan’s Spawn has burst from the
woods. Light flashed off Sir Ranald’s nose piece.”

Catalin’s held in breath tore loose with a
whoosh. The ground rumbled with the force of the returning men,
accompanied by sounds of thunder in the distance. It seemed to take
forever before the first horses’ hooves clattered over the wooden
drawbridge. Once they came close, she could barely hear herself
think.

Young Finn carried Ranald’s banner high, his
back stiff, his face solemn. Anguished cries broke from women not
knowing whose body Dubne carried so carefully across his lap.

Sounds of “The Black Raptor, The Black
Raptor” whispered over the crowd, floated with the wind. It got
stronger when Ranald’s black horse burst through the long corridor
of the barbican after Dubne. Storm, with Raik seated awkwardly on
his back, danced across the cobblestones.

Catalin’s eyes widened as she watched Satan
advance. Ranald’s black clothing bore large blotches of a color
near as dark as the material beside them. Her gaze flashed back to
Dubne, then Raik. Their tunics bore witness that they had spent a
night where blood flowed freely. Her stomach tumbled. Ranald looked
to have near bathed in blood. She almost gagged.

Hearing a burst of pleased laughter, she
followed the sound to see Chief Broccin, arms on his hips and legs
spread wide, watching Ranald from atop a wooden mounting block
placed in the middle of the path.

Satan’s hooves clopped over the cobblestones,
near opposite Catalin and Elyne, when Broccin spoke.

“If yer pious friends could see ye now, they
would scurry to the altar to give prayers of thanks that ye are no
longer their brother.” His hard eyes combed over his son. “Ye have
never looked more the man than ye do now!”

A cloud moved in the sky as if a hand had
reached up to clear a spot, sending light to bathe Ranald’s face.
The sun glinted off his helmet, his nosepiece.

It drew Catalin’s gaze to his face. He looked
straight ahead at his father atop the mounting block. All she could
see of her husband was the ruined right side of his face. She could
smell the blood on his clothing. She gasped. Held her breath.
Impressions flashed quickly at her. Blood splattered his face. Not
Ranald’s blood. Another’s. He had attempted to wipe it off, but
telltale marks lingered in the creases of his scars.

Broccin laughed again. “Yer lady wife looks
sickened by yer bloody clothing. Or is it that ye returned in one
piece?” Broccin looked pointedly at Catalin.

Ranald’s eyes followed his father’s gaze to
look down on her. His black eyes pinned her. Blinding light bathed
his face.

Every scar stood out. Bold. Telling.

Catalin couldn’t breathe; she couldn’t tear
her gaze away.

Looking at him straight on, to the left of
the nosepiece, that half that was as Moridac, showed the dominant,
handsome man she married. To the right was a man she did not
know.

She knew the eyes, though. They were the
same. Their deep purple-black gaze pinned hers. They bored into her
thoughts, her mind. He must have found his answer, though it was
the wrong one. His scarred lip lifted on the right, baring gleaming
teeth.

All Ranald lacked was the growl of a
wolf.

o0o

Ranald’s hold on his wife broke when
crackling thunder crashed overhead and lightning struck outside the
curtain wall. Satan reared, pawing the air. Ranald clamped his legs
tight to the horse’s flanks, refusing to come unseated. All his
muscles bunched as sheer strength controlled the frightened
warhorse. Finally, he forced Satan’s head down, and his hooves came
jarring back to earth.

He wanted to bolt from this place as surely
as Satan’s Spawn wanted to race back out the barbican and into the
open fields beyond. He would not. It was the coward’s way to run,
to hide from Catalin’s startled look. He heard a strangled cry and
looked to the left to see young Finn, tears of remorse welling as
he felt inside the neck of his tunic where he had secured Ranald’s
mask.

‘Twas not the lad’s fault, but Ranald’s own.
He was the one who had insisted on shielding women from his ravaged
face. He scattered a glance around the crowd that had quieted after
no added outbursts from the sky accompanied the first.

His stare scraped over Catalin, not deigning
to linger. He’d had his answer there. Elyne’s clear eyes never
flickered. Many women looked away. Some did not. Ah, the Lady
Muriele. Her regard held steadfast, understanding shining from
their depths.

He ignored all as he dismounted and walked
over to stand beside Dubne while the big man handed down Egan’s
body to two waiting men. Egan’s young widow stood alongside the
stairs leading into the keep, an infant clutched tight in her arms.
Tears rolled down her face. Knowing all hope faded that they had
rescued her husband in time, a high keening rose from her lips.
Soon, sympathetic wails from other women joined her.