Suzanne Barclay - Taming The Lion

“Neither, thank God.” Ross leaned gratefully against the inner wall for a moment. “Though the ledge was narrower and a bit more slippery than I’d expected.”

“You and your foolish risk-taking will be the death of me, yet,” Mathew whispered as he lit a candle.

Ross closed his eyes against the flare of light. “You were safe in here.”

“Oh, aye, but my heart’s been racing fit to burst since you crawled out there.” Mathew pressed a cup into Ross’s hand.

Ross sniffed suspiciously. Ale. He drank deep of the cool liquid then looked toward the door. “Our friends?”

“One’s sitting with his back to our door. The other leans against the wall across the way. Did you find the stills?”

“Possibly.” Keeping his voice low, Ross told his cousin about the orderly storage rooms and the two locked doors.

“Lady Catlyn was there by herself?”

“Aye.” It had disturbed him to see her alone like that. What if he had been Seamus? “Clearly she takes her duties seriously.” Ross was uneasy with his changing image of her.

“What is wrong?”

“Nothing, I... oh, hell,” Ross muttered. “I never could keep anything from you.” Reluctant, but not sure why, he told Mathew of the conversations he had overheard. “Personally, I do not think he stands a chance of winning back Lady Catlyn.” He hesitated, then added, “I am surprised she did not turn Dora out over this. She is more generous and softhearted than I had supposed.”

“You cannot afford to admire her,” Mathew warned.

“I do not,” Ross grumbled. “I was but going over what I learned, deciding how I could use it to gain my ends.”

Mathew grunted but looked unconvinced. “You have that gleam in your eyes, the one you get when you’ve spotted a lass you consider worthy of chasing.”

“This is not that kind of chase,” Ross grumbled. “Hakon said that she alone possessed the secret of the whiskey making. To get it, I must win her trust. I see now that I used the wrong strategy. She rebuffed my attempts to charm her because she has ample reason to distrust such shallow flattery ” A welcome change from the women he’d met at court, who not only lapped up praise like cats did cream, but became petulant if a man did not wax poetic over their beauty. Bah, he could not dwell on that. “She even said that Eoin and I were much alike.”

“How does this aid our cause?”

“On the morrow, Catlyn will meet a different Ross Sutherland. One who does not utter meaningless phrases, but who...” Ross scowled. “What should I say to win her over?”

Mathew shrugged, a grin lurking around his lips. “You are the master in this field, not I. But offhand, I’d say that the lady Catlyn is not like any other lass you’ve wooed.”

“I am not wooing her, I am here to...to...”

“Betray her?” Mathew whispered.

Aye. And therein lay the problem.

Chapter Four

Dawn came slowly, pale fingers of light stealing over the jagged mountain peaks and in through the window in Catlyn’s narrow bedchamber. She greeted the sight with a sigh of relief and climbed from bed.

Sleep had been long in coming last night and filled with dreams when it did. Dreams of a magnificent black-haired man with eyes of sizzling blue.

Ross Lion Sutherland.

Groaning, Catlyn dragged herself across the chilly room, washed her face, braided her hair and pulled on a faded brown gown. She tried to keep her mind on the tasks. ahead of her today, but it kept drifting back to the strange dreams.

She and Ross had been walking through a field of golden barley. Her field. She should have been busy seeing to the harvest; she had preferred being with him. He laughed, and her heart felt lighter than it had in months. He held out his hand, and she wanted to take it. To follow where he led, even though it meant leaving Kennecraig.

Catlyn shivered and chafed the gooseflesh from her arms. It was a dream, nothing more. She would never leave Kennecraig. That she had vowed on her father’s soul.

She threw a light cape over her arm, for the cellars were cold, even in summer, and hurried into the dim corridor. Habit slowed her steps outside her mother’s door. Hoping her mother had slept better than she had, Catlyn headed for the great hall.

“Lady Catlyn!” The deep voice of the man she had hoped to avoid echoed down the corridor from behind her.

Run, urged her instinct for survival. Pride stayed her steps. She stopped, braced herself and looked over her shoulder.

He advanced toward her through the gloom, his movements quick and lithe, his smile a white slash in his tanned face.

“Were you lying in wait for me?” she asked sharply. Eoin had taken to doing that till Adair threatened to turn him out.

“Nay.” He halted close to her, so close the tips of his boots nudged the hem of her skirt.

Catlyn fought the urge to run. “I thought you were, er—”

“Confined to my room, or rather, your solar?” He grinned, something he did often. “Adair said we might be about the keep.”

“Oh.” She fumbled for words. “Why are you are up so early?”

“It is my custom, but today I was up before the sun, anxious to check on my wounded men.”

“Ah. How fare they?”

“Well enough. One of the men-at-arms took an arrow to the arm, but is already up and about. My squire...” He sighed.

“The lad? He is worse?”

“A little fevered and restless. I feared he’d tear out the stitches your Freda set in his shoulder, so I came up to fetch this.” He held out a dark object. “I should have asked before borrowing it, but I did not realize you would be awake.”

Catlyn squinted. “A book?”

“Yours, or at least it and two others were in the solar. The Green Knight. I thought the tale might entertain Callum.”

“It is in French.”

“You already pointed out that I speak it.”

“And read it?”

“Not as well as Father Simon would have liked.” His smile turned rueful. “As a lad, I was more interested in swordplay and the like, but Mama and Papa insisted we all learn.”

“My brother felt the same way about studies,” she said.

“You have a brother?”

Into her mind flashed the image of Thom, lying cold and still in a pool of blood. Guilt rose in her throat.

Catlyn shook her head and shoved the memory away. “He died when he was ten and five.”

“I feel for you,” he said gently.

And Catlyn believed he did. As she stared into his eyes, she fancied she saw her own pain reflected there. “Thank you.”

“I have two younger brothers and a sister. Much as they did plague me when we were growing up, I do love them dearly.”

“You are fortunate to have a large family.”

“Aye.” Something shifted in his eyes, a shadow of remorse or a trick of the light? “I did not fully appreciate how much they meant to me until just lately.”

“I, too, took my family for granted,” her heart contracted, “not realizing how precious they are till they are gone.”

“Or threatened.” His voice went hard and flat. “When your family is in danger, you will do anything to protect them.”

Catlyn nodded, understanding that grim determination. Sharing it. “My father died a month ago while taking a shipment of whiskey to Doune. I know Hakon had a hand in it, though I cannot prove it. As I stood over Papa’s grave, I vowed on his soul that Hakon would not get Kennecraig, too.”

“That is a large undertaking.”

“For a woman?”

“For anyone. From what I saw, he is ruthless and canny.”

“We will survive.”

His eyes locked on hers, and his expression changed. What looked like respect flickered in their azure depths, along with something else. Something strong and earthy.