Another Man's Bride Page 3

  Colyne had no sooner kissed her forehead than Caitrina asked, “Who is she?”

  Caitrina regarded the Englishwoman with frank curiosity. Across the gathering dusk of the courtyard Colyne saw the English lass turn away.

  “Lady Isabella Beaufort,” Colyne replied. “Daughter of the Earl of Somerset.”

  “An English lady? Travelin’ so far into the Highlands?”

  “We took the lot on the road from Edinburgh.” Caitrina looked up at him sharply and he cleared his throat. “The lady will be prisoner here till ransomed.”

  “Prisoner! I canna say I like this, Colyne. Why would ye even risk such a thing?”

  Colyne glanced around; they were far enough away from the others but still he dropped his voice.

  “There was nae risk! Graham brought me the promise of the king’s own chamberlain, Robert Stewart, that the lady’s guards were loyal only to him. We took them with scarce a sword unsheathed.”

  Caitrina glanced at the bruise on Colyne’s forehead—one that had turned to a tender, bruised lump—from the English lass’s kick. Colyne touched it self-consciously.

  “Me own fault for underestimatin’ the lass’s aim,” he confessed with a short laugh. “I’ll nae do it agin.”

  Caitrina put her hand on her hip. “And so we risk all for Robert Graham?”

  Colyne shifted uneasily at Caitrina’s tone; the plan had seemed a goodly one when Graham explained it. Take the Somerset heiress and keep her great fortune out of Douglas’s hands, keep Douglas from a marriage tie to the crown and his promise of half the lady’s dowry to the king’s coffers. Drain the dowry further with a ransom and deny the king his windfall while Colyne repaired his clan’s own fortunes so brutally decimated at the king’s hands.

  “We’ve done Graham a great service,” Colyne retorted. “One he’ll remember.”

  Caitrina shook her head, the frown on her face clear even in the gathering darkness. “I would nae put great faith in Graham, Colyne. He was lucky to escape into the Highlands when the lairds refused to rise with him against the king. I think his star will fall still further.”

  Colyne’s mouth tightened. “Ye best hope not, lest ours fall with it.”

  Caitrina looked toward the English lass. “What are ye askin’ of the earl for ransom?”

  “Her father’s dead. Alexander Douglas’ll offer up her ransom.”

  “Douglas?”

  Colyne looked across the courtyard, watched the clansmen being greeted home by wives and children. “Her betrothed.”

  “Colyne! Yer keepin’ her from marryin’ as well? An’ what if Douglas will nae raise the coin to have her back?”

  “Then the king will pay.”

  “The king?” Caitrina asked, her frown deepening as she shifted her weight on her crutch. “But why should he pay it?”

  Colyne looked toward the carriage. The English lass was covered head to toe in her cloak and at this late hour the light was too dim to make out her face from this distance. “Lady Isabella is cousin to Queen Joan.”

  Caitrina’s face went ashen.

  “Oh, Saint Andrew, ye canna mean it! Ye’ve taken the king’s cousin? Have ye gone mad, Colyne?”

  Clansmen in the courtyard were busy with their own reunions, but Caitrina’s shocked cry sent a number of curious glances their way.

  He took her elbow and, as always, mindful of her leg, gently led her further away. “I promise, there’s nae danger.”

  “Nae danger?” Her lips were white. “Have ye forgotten Father hanged at the king’s order? Of Mother and little Margaret dead, and me—” She broke off, shaking her crutch meaningfully at him.

  “Do ye think I have forgotten?” Colyne asked tightly. “Do ye think I ever could?”

  “What if the king comes for her?”

  Colyne gave a short laugh. “James canna come into the Highlands, ye know so! He’ll nae ride out again alive.”

  “Ye took his kin, Colyne! The king’ll have to come for his own.”

  “King James himself was prisoner of the English from the age of six. He knows a prisoner can be treated well and we will treat her well. The queen’ll send the ransom and we’ll return the lass to her man. Ye’ll see, ’twill be well.”

  Caitrina glared at him. She looked toward the carriage then shook her head. “Well, I suppose there’s naught to be done about it tonight. I shall settle the lady and make her as comfortable as I can.”

  “The lady is nae on her own. There are two others with her, English as well.” He shifted his eyes away from his sister. “The woman is verra ill, the man hurt.”

  “Ach! Why dinna ye say so?” Caitrina demanded, pushing past him. “Where are the poor souls? And bring me a light to see by!”

  Colyne allowed himself a small smile as he watched Caitrina, moving swiftly across the courtyard despite her crutch, already snapping off orders.

  Caitrina could be counted on to nurse every illness, every injury, human or animal, within a day’s ride. Years ago, not long after Colyne returned from fighting for the French king, they caught a MacLaulach lad raiding their land with his clan. The lad was badly injured and none had thought he would live even a day, but, as if by force of will, Caitrina saved him. Little by little, under Caitrina’s care the lad regained his strength and the MacLaulach clan returned two cattle to retrieve their man.

  She tended the clansmen, the women, and the bairns as tenderly as a mother would her own brood. She had a rare gift for healing and did not stint any who came to her in need.

  Sighing, Colyne followed his sister to the carriage. At least now, he thought, the English lass would stop pestering him about their care.

  When Isabella pulled the carriage’s curtain back the smells of perfumed, oiled wood and fevered sickness wrinkled her nose. William lay slumped against the side of the carriage, the bandage at his head oozing.

  Kat’s eyelids fluttered and she turned in her seat, weakly shifting to face Isabella. Katherine’s wan cheeks were sunken, as if she were drawing on the last of her strength now.

  As she always could, Kat read her expression.

  “Poppet,” she said hoarsely, reaching for her.

  “Oh, Kat!” Isabella cried, feeling her cousin’s icy fingers.

  “Bring the torch here, man! I canna see them without light!”

  Isabella glanced back to see MacKimzie’s woman approaching, the outlaw following her. As the torchlight was brought closer, Isabella could see the girl’s face was pleasing enough, but her hair, thick waves of fine gold, was her real claim to beauty.

  “Ye need to move,” the blonde woman said, briskly nudging Isabella aside with her eyes on the two in the carriage.

  She pulled Kat’s hand away from Isabella’s and held it in her own, nodding to herself as she looked Katherine over.

  “A fever then, and still yer nigh to frozen. Headache?”

  Kat looked up at the woman weakly and Isabella could see she lacked strength to do anything more than nod.

  “Angus, tell Mary we will need the fire good and hot in the solar. We must warm her feet.”

  “Excuse me—” Isabella began.

  William groaned as the Scotswoman probed his wound with her fingers.

  “Ach, who wrapped this bandage? Did ye fools even properly clean the wound? Jamie, Malcolm, get the man up there straightaway. Now, lads, mind ye carry him gently!” the woman scolded. “Been emptyin’ his stomach as well, has he? Tell the cooks I need water boiled, and send me a kitchen boy to—”

  “Excuse me!” Isabella repeated.

  The flurry of activity came to a halt. The company, MacKimzie too, looked round at her, surprised.

  “I thank you,” Isabella said to the woman, trying to keep her voice even. “But we must fetch a physician to tend them.”

  The Scots looked at her as if she had grown wings and announced she intended to circle the castle.

  “I will nae have ye interfering,” the blonde woman replied, her face taking on a stubborn, set expr
ession. “If ye canna do as yer told, I will nae have ye near me patients.”

  “Your—?”

  “Might as well leave it, lass,” MacKimzie advised. “Me sister will nae allow any to keep her from doing healin’ where ’tis needed. Best let her get to it.”

  “Sister?” Isabella blurted.

  “Aye,” MacKimzie replied, looking at her as if she were daft. “Me sister. The Lady Caitrina.”

  The Lady? Then MacKimzie—the MacKimzie, she corrected—was laird here.

  Isabella felt a rush of embarrassment at how she had called him outlaw and insinuated her gentle birth as being beyond his understanding, but brushed it away as her gaze fell on Katherine’s drawn features. She knew no healing lore herself; at least there was warmth and comfort to be had for Kat and William inside the castle.

  Isabella wet her lips. “I would be grateful for your help, Lady.”

  Caitrina gave a short nod. “Ye will have me best.”

  “She would do as much if ye dinna ask,” the MacKimzie put in, as the gray-haired Malcolm lifted Sir William with his son Jamie’s help. “I dinna think the whole English army could stop Caitrina if she saw even a kitten in need.”

  Isabella stood back as the MacKimzie gathered Kat gently into his arms then followed them all into the keep.

  William and Katherine were carried to a large private chamber. A blazing fire was set under Caitrina’s direction. The two patients were comfortably situated on pallets and covered with heavy blankets as the woman herself moved between them and the pots over the fire.

  Isabella watched Caitrina’s efficient, brisk movements, graceful and confident despite her crutch. She held Katherine’s hand as Caitrina fussed, muttering sometimes to herself or raising her voice to issue instructions to others. While Caitrina mixed herbs into wine she warmed over the fire, she managed to direct the small group of Scots tending to the pair and send others to fetch and carry for her.

  “Poppet,” Katherine croaked.

  Isabella resisted tears to see her Kat, usually so strong and cheeky and full of cheer, so drained and weak. Dark shadows marred her delicate skin but her blue eyes were as loving as always.

  Isabella moved to cradle Kat’s hand in both of hers. “Yes, Kat?”

  “Poppet, no mother could have loved you more than I. I hoped to see you well married.”

  “And so you shall,” Isabella replied, forcing conviction into her voice. “Alexander Douglas will await me—and my fortune—till we come.”

  “I pray I make the journey, but if I do not, may heaven grant you a husband who treasures you as much I do.”

  “Oh, Kat!”

  Caitrina shouldered Isabella out of the way. “She must drink this now and rest.”

  Only the Scotswoman’s determination broke Isabella’s hold on Katherine’s hand. She stumbled back at the loss of contact, blinded by her tears.

  The MacKimzie was watching her from the doorway, his mouth set in a grim line, and she ducked her head.

  Caitrina looked at Isabella. “Best leave for a bit, lady, and let me get them settled.” She was already moving onto William, taking another cup from one of the maids to offer him.

  Isabella smoothed a lock of Kat’s hair back. Kat’s eyes had fallen shut and the cast of her skin was waxy.

  A gentle touch on her elbow startled her.

  “Come, lass,” the MacKimzie urged. “Let her rest.”

  “I should be with her.”

  “Aye, ye will be, in a bit. Come an’ eat, warm yer bones and gather yer strength. They’ll be well looked after till ye return.”

  Katherine had already fallen into an exhausted sleep. Isabella hesitated, but MacKimzie’s gentle pressure and Katherine’s easy breathing convinced her to follow him.

  MacKimzie moved through the dimly lit hall with the easy assurance of one who knew the place well enough to navigate it in complete darkness.

  Isabella shivered. In any spot away from a fire this castle would likely be cold even in the full heat of summer. In this weather the hall and stairwell were freezing.

  The stairwell was better lit than the hall, but the wooden steps were so worn with use that Isabella’s foot slipped.

  At her frightened gasp, the MacKimzie’s arm shot out to protect her. Her cheek collided painfully with his shoulder as Isabella caught herself against his back. Under the fabric of his mantle he was solid muscle.

  She struggled to get her balance, her body pressed awkwardly against his.

  “All right there, lass?”

  “Yes.” Embarrassed and shaken, Isabella put her hand against the icy stone of the stairwell to right herself. She eased away, the warmth of his back replaced by a rush of cold air as she straightened.

  “Forgive my clumsiness, my lord.”

  He turned his head to look back at her. “Can ye make the rest?”

  “Of course, I took a bad step is all.”

  He glanced down at the stair then gave a nod. “Take my hand then.”

  “Truly, my lord, there is no need. Lead on.”

  “I canna have ye breakin’ yer neck the first night here. And this castle doesna need another spirit hauntin’ it.”

  “My lord—”

  He cut her off. “It’s nae use, ye ken. Take me hand or I carry ye down.”

  Being carried by him did not bear imagining. Isabella put her hand in his.

  His fingers closed around hers and for an instant Isabella could not breathe. Larger than her own and twice as warm, the strength of his grasp revealed the laird of this castle capable of turning himself to any task he had a mind to.

  The MacKimzie stood looking down at her hand. It was dirty and one of the nails had broken off short. She could not even think when last she had washed her hands

  “My lord?” Isabella asked, mortified.

  He gave a sudden snort, turning his head away. “Meant for jewels an’ to flutter a fan.”

  Isabella was careful to watch her step and use as little of his support as possible on the way down. She pulled her hand from his the instant they reached the bottom of the stairs.

  The MacKimzie looked amused. “Afeared I wouldna’ let ye go?”

  The gray-bearded clansman—Malcolm—rounded the corner, nearly colliding with them.

  “Colyne!” Malcolm bellowed. His ruddy cheeks were even ruddier now and his arms went wide in greeting.

  “We await ye in the hall, lad!” Malcolm clasped the younger man’s arms. “Everyone wants to raise a cup to the laird and our good fortune!”

  “You seem to have raised a few cups already, Uncle,” the MacKimzie returned.

  “Ach, and the bonny English lass here as well!” Malcolm cried.

  The MacKimzie gave a startled oath as Malcolm shoved him aside.

  “Come, lady, I have told them yer the loveliest lass in England!” He wagged a finger in her face. “You must come and show them. I have a gold piece wagered on it!”

  Malcolm seized her wrist. Isabella cried out and tried not to trip over her skirts as he pulled her along into the great hall.

  Many of the clansmen were there, some she recognized from the attack on her group and some from their arrival in the courtyard. There were new faces too, both old and young, the Scotswomen especially turning to look at her with curiosity.

  For a great hall this one was modest indeed. The tables were well used, and the room smelled of smoke, wool, and cooking. The high ceiling was blackened by years of use and the place had the worn feel of an ancient hall. Isabella could well imagine generations of wild, mantled northern men gathering here to drink around the fire.

  “Behold, I’m an honest man,” Malcolm boomed out to those assembled in the hall as he reached the high table. He shoved her forward to face the rough assembly.

  “Here, then, look ye upon the most beautiful lass in England!”

  The Scots stared openly at her, some with smiles pulling at their mouths, some looking her over as if gravely weighing their opinion of her attractiveness.


  Isabella gave a startled yelp as the MacKimzie scooped her up and set her standing on the table.

  “Nay, to be sure,” the MacKimzie called out, taking a cup from the table and raising it to Isabella. “The loveliest lass in England and Scotland!”

  “Aye!” Malcolm agreed, raising a cup as well.

  There were cheers all around; the laird’s dogs barked wildly. Isabella glared as the MacKimzie drank to her, his gray-green eyes crinkled with mirth over the rim of the goblet.

  “And you,” Malcolm called, gesturing to a clansman with his cup, “owe me a coin of gold, cousin!”

  “Nae,” the man objected, cheerfully. “Ye said loveliest in England, nae England and Scotland!”

  Malcolm’s red face got redder.

  “Why, ye—” he began, starting toward his kinsman.

  “God’s bones!” Isabella hissed to the MacKimzie. “Get me down!”

  “Nay, I think that’s where I shall keep ye, sae everyone can admire me prize.”

  Isabella scowled and looked for a chair or bench to climb down on her own.

  “Dinna hurt yerself now,” the MacKimzie warned, laughing. “Yer worth a fortune to me!”

  Then he was catching her around the waist and swinging her down, pressing her tight against him. She clung to his shoulders as the room spun around her.

  For a heartbeat there was no one else in the hall but him.

  He let her go. Off balance, she stumbled forward, her arms outstretched. Her cheeks burned. How ridiculous she must look, reaching for him! But glancing about, it seemed no one gave her any heed—least of all the MacKimzie, who was already making his way to a chair on the other side of the table.

  The clansmen were busy calling out in favor of Malcolm or the other man as the blows began to land and tankards fell to the floor.

  To her surprise the MacKimzie nodded at her to take the place beside him at the high table.

  There was at least some measure of civility here, Isabella thought, as a servant appeared with hot water and a clean cloth to wash her hands.

  “Fetch us supper, Alisoun, and let us all raise a cup to bein’ home safe,” the MacKimzie called out, and passed Isabella a full cup of wine.