The Frost Maiden's Kiss (6 page)

Erik smiled just a little at his wife. “And you will not take my counsel.”

Vivienne’s smile was impish. “Not in women’s matters, nay, my love, although in all other things, I cede to you.” She stretched up to kiss Erik’s cheek, and he appeared resigned—and not entirely unhappy—with his situation.

“Sweet Jesus,” Rafael whispered.

Malcolm glanced at his friend, who looked as if he had been struck to stone. He then followed Rafael’s gaze to the serving woman and felt a similar shock.

It could not be Ursula!

Malcolm could not help but stare himself. The woman drew closer, carrying the youngest child of Blackleith, and he realized to his relief that he was mistaken. To be sure, she was taller than most women and had long fair hair, but this woman’s expression was cold and judgmental, while Ursula’s manner had been feminine and sweet. Malcolm felt Rafael’s tension ease along with his own.

This woman was strikingly beautiful, younger than both he and Vivienne, with hair like spun gold and lips that were both rosy and full. She was a beauty, but not the beauty he had mistaken her to be. Ursula was dead, and he knew it well: this woman but shared her coloring. Malcolm was startled not only that her eyes were such a clear blue, but that they were filled with suspicion. Beyond that, she stood regal and tall, a queen wrought of ice rather than a meek serving maid with the poor luck to bear a bastard child.

For she was fairly bursting with the burden of her unborn child. Her uncovered hair indicated that she was unwed, and her hair was plaited into a long fair braid down her back. Her lack of a veil should have meant that she was a maiden, but there had only ever been one maiden to find herself in such a state and yet untouched.

All Malcolm’s old ire rose again, kindled by the memory of Ursula and her vulnerability.

For truly, it was obvious who the father of this woman’s child had to be! Why else would she be sheltered in this household and given so intimate a role as to care for the Laird of Blackleith’s own children? It was evident that she carried another of the laird’s seed in her belly, and that Erik had not truly changed his ways.

Which insulted not just this serving woman but Vivienne.

There was naught Malcolm despised more than to see a woman ill-used. Though he should have bitten his tongue before a guest, this indignity and insult to his sister could not be allowed to pass.

No matter who took exception to his words.

He would give Erik but one chance to explain himself, though Malcolm knew that man would not succeed.

* * *

Catriona had been disconcerted enough that they approached the home of a warrior and mercenary, never mind one said to be a sorcerer as well. None of Ruari’s chatter, though, had prepared her for her first close look at her lady’s brother.

If ever there had been a man wrought to tempt her, this was he. The Laird of Ravensmuir was well made and perhaps only a decade older than she. She had thought the laird would be a hardened warrior, well advanced in years. This Malcolm was young and handsome, close in age perhaps to Lady Vivienne.

He had been laboring himself, to her surprise, clad in only his chausses and boots. She saw that his body was taut and trim, taking note of that detail before he donned his shirt. The white chemise contrasted with the golden hue of his skin, its color an indication that he had been doing such work in the sun for some weeks. Something hung around his neck, some token that snared the light for a moment before his chemise hid it from view.

Catriona’s fingers rose to the talisman she kept hidden beneath her own chemise, struck that she should have anything in common with this man.

He was a warrior, though, for there was a hardness in his gaze that revealed he had seen much of the world, and not all of it good. He was handsome, to be sure, though his nose had a crook in it as if it had been broken. That and the dark stubble on his chin served only to make him look more powerful and masculine, so she could not say that his appearance was marred. He looked like a man who knew what was his to claim and had no qualm in taking it.

As alluring as he was, he terrified her, given his reputation. Catriona dared not reveal her fear, for she knew that the weak were always the first to be targeted. Instead, she summoned every vestige of strength within herself and feigned indifference.

Catriona heard his companion declare that he was called the Hellhound, a confession that did little to make her glad to be upon his holding.

All of this would have been more than sufficient to unsettle her, but worse, the laird eyed her with an intensity that made her heart pound. His glance fell to her belly and if anything, his expression turned more grim.

’Twas clear he thought her a whore.

Catriona’s heart pounded in trepidation. She could guess what he meant to do to her, if she lingered in his hall. She knew how warriors treated whores.

They had to go to Kinfairlie immediately!

Catriona refused to let her step falter, even though she feared she had been chosen once again as prey. She walked to her lady and held out Euphemia, as if oblivious to the laird. His bright gaze could have been a touch, for she felt her skin prickle and her blood heat. A flush stained her cheeks, she knew it well, though there was naught she could do to dismiss it.

“Here is my darling girl, Euphemia,” Lady Vivienne said, as if unaware of her brother’s scowl. She kissed her daughter, who nuzzled her mother’s neck and went back to sleep again.

The laird’s expression did not soften. “Your serving woman appears close to her time,” he said tightly. “Is her spouse in your party?” His tone revealed that he knew the answer and disapproved.

Here was the root of it. Once it was confirmed that she had no husband, Catriona knew she would be considered available for the laird’s use.

“Catriona has no husband, Malcolm.” Lady Vivienne’s voice dropped yet lower, and Catriona appreciated her lady’s protection. “Do not make an issue of it.”

“Do not make an issue of it?” the laird echoed, his voice rising with incredulity and anger. His green eyes flashed with fire, but his words surprised Catriona. “I will not, if you tell me who is the father of her child.”

This mercenary showed righteous indignation? Catriona was certain she misunderstood. She dared to glance directly at him, only to find him watching her so closely that a lump rose in her throat.

He looked to be outraged.

Surely not on her behalf?

“Malcolm!” Lady Vivienne scolded then dropped her voice to a whisper. “Leave it
be
.” Her counsel had precisely the opposite effect.

“I will not leave it be!” the laird retorted. “Even if you do not know for certain, even if you would disguise his deed or pretend ignorance of it, I will not stand aside while this man—” he jabbed a finger toward the Laird of Blackleith “—dishonors you yet again!”

Catriona felt her lips part in surprise. Certainly, Laird Erik did not appear to be any less astonished. To have a mercenary take issue with a laird over her state, even in error, was so remarkable that she could scarce make sense of it.

But the Laird of Ravensmuir had not had his say. “I do not care if he was ultimately convinced to wed you. This is unacceptable, Vivienne! You serve him well enough as wife, it is clear, for you bear him babes aplenty. He could restrain himself while you bear him another.”

Lady Vivienne was shocked. “Malcolm, whatever do you mean?”

“He thinks the child is mine,” her husband said shortly.

The Laird of Ravensmuir’s eyes glittered with anger as Catriona watched in amazement. “It would not be the first time you abducted a woman for your pleasure.”

“Catriona came to our door with a child in her belly,” the Laird of Blackleith retorted, his voice rising in turn. Catriona saw his fists clench. “Vivienne
chose
to give her shelter.”

The children looked between the two men, their eyes wide.

The Laird of Ravensmuir did not back down. Indeed, he took a step closer to the Laird of Blackleith. “I would wager my sister has good reason to show compassion to this woman. But beyond that, your lack of consideration for her state is unacceptable.”

“How so?” Laird Erik was bristling, the weight of his wife’s hand on his arm making no discernible difference to his manner.

The Laird of Ravensmuir propped his hands on his hips, his own fury clear. “You would keep your wife from traveling when she is ripe with child, but not the serving woman who bears your seed? Matters may be different in the Highlands, but here, where
my
word holds sway, a man who plants his seed shall wed the woman who carries his child. Indeed, he will wed her before he gets a child upon her, and once his vow is made, he will honor her as his wife for all his days and nights! I am ashamed that you would see fit to bring your pregnant lover to my sister for shelter, and yet more appalled that you would compel this woman to travel as your servant in her state, thus risking the welfare of both her and her child!”

The younger children hid behind the skirts of Catriona or their mother, while Mairi watched, transfixed.

The Laird of Blackleith’s hand unsheathed his knife and his lady wife gasped. “You dare too much!”

“Aye?” The Laird of Ravensmuir folded his arms across his chest and held his ground. The fact that he did not touch his weapon did not make him look vulnerable in the least. “Prove to me that your nature has changed!”

Catriona had heard enough. It was not her place, but she would not be the cause of argument in the family.

She stepped forward, confronting the Laird of Ravensmuir. “I do not carry my lord’s child,” she said with resolve, hoping that her word would not be doubted. “Indeed, sir, though I appreciate your sense of honor, you have the matter wrong. I was abandoned in my state and compelled to seek shelter in unfamiliar lands. This lady and laird have shown me only kindness in my time of need. I would not have you think poorly of either of them, for they have been most good to me when they could readily have done otherwise.” She felt her lips set as she held his gaze. “I will swear to the truth of this on any relic you choose.”

He considered her for half an eternity, those green eyes glittering, while the rest of the party seemed to hold their collective breath.

Then he astonished her again.

“I do apologize,” the Laird of Ravensmuir said, bowing in her direction as though she were royalty. His tone was temperate, his anger dismissed. Catriona blinked. “I have been compelled to witness many foul deeds in my time, but cannot countenance a woman being abused.” His eyes narrowed slightly as he glanced anew at Laird Erik. “It will
never
happen in my abode.”

Catriona took a breath, sensing that he was not prepared to abandon the argument. Here was her chance to ensure that she was not seen as prey. “And yet I heard tell that you had become a mercenary, sir,” she said, her tone challenging. “It seems that we are both destined to have our assumptions challenged on this day.”

The laird was clearly astonished by her audacity. His olive-skinned companion smirked and averted his gaze. To Catriona’s dismay, her manner and her condition appeared to have done little to diminish the Laird of Ravensmuir’s interest in her.

Indeed, he took a step closer. Proximity only increased the effect of his attention. Catriona was keenly aware that he was a man accustomed to winning his way, and winning it with force when necessary. A treacherous part of her wondered what it would be like to be the focus of his affections, whether he truly would treat a woman as he so vowed. In her experience, men like this used women for their pleasure and cast them aside.

She knew better than to be seduced by a possibility, however enticing it might sound.

All the same, his voice dropped low as if he
would
entice her. She could not imagine why he would trouble himself—or at least she could think of no good reason for him to do so. His gaze locked with hers, as if they two were alone in all of Christendom. Catriona could scarce draw a breath.

“To have witnessed violence, even to have participated in it in the past, does not necessarily breed a will to inflict it upon others in future,” he said, his words so silky and intent that, a year past, she might have believed him. “For my part, experience only increased my determination to defend those less powerful than myself.”

That was a lie, it had to be.

No man of power ever defended the weak. Men used power as a weapon: when they did not, they were perceived as weak and became prey themselves.

She saw no reason to let him believe he had convinced her.

“Pretty words, my lord, though I am skeptical of your claim,” she said, standing tall. Before he could argue with her, she continued, knowing her boldness was uncommon and that her lady was appalled. “You should also know, sir, that your concern for my condition is misplaced. It was my request to be included on this journey. My lord and lady both advised against it, but I confess that I was adamant.” She let him see her resolve. “I would have followed them on foot, if not given a place in the cart.”

“And with this exchange, I do not find it difficult to attribute such a force of will to you,” he said in that soft tone. To her amazement, it did not seem he disapproved. “It is a fine thing for a woman to know her own mind.”

There was something about his watchfulness that seemed to coax words to fall from her lips, when Catriona knew it might have been more clever to have held her tongue. “Only a woman, sir?”

He almost smiled then. The corner of his mouth quirked in a most intriguing way, making her wonder how his countenance might change when he did smile. But suddenly he frowned anew and she was aware again of the violence such a man could do. She restrained her urge to step back, or to flinch, but she imagined that he noticed it all the same.

“You speak aright,” he said quietly, surveying her again as if she were a mystery he was determined to solve. “All should know their mind and be unafraid to declare it aloud.”

Catriona found herself wishing he had smiled, just so she could see the difference in his demeanor.