Another Man's Bride Page 6

“No, my cousin, the queen, left her for me.”

  “Oh, aye? What did Douglas leave for ye?”

  Isabella frowned. “I do not think my Lord Douglas left me any gifts.”

  “None? No love letters? No sweetmeats? No jewels?”

  Her mouth tightened. “No, I am quite sure my Lord Douglas did not leave me any such.”

  Of course Douglas would not leave love notes! And she should not hold them to be of much value if he had. The coming marriage was arranged by her cousin the queen and approved by her grandmother, Margret Beaufort, the dowager Countess. Her family had directed her to marry him as surely he had been told he would marry her. Whatever her hopes for an amicable match, leaving her love tokens would be insincere at best. Lord Douglas would marry her for her wealth and she would wed him because her family ordered it so. And then they would make the best of it.

  She knew these things, even if she did not want them spoken aloud.

  Isabella’s gaze fell on another bright-haired girl—older, possessed of a lush figure, and well aware of her own allure.

  Alisoun.

  The woman looked at her levelly, then glanced at the MacKimzie and smirked. “Do ye ride again so soon, my laird?”

  He gave a short laugh. “Aye, like all men I am bound to do as the women bid me.”

  “And so at their pleasure ye ride night and day?” she asked, with her warm, lusty smile. She looked him over. “I’faith, my laird, the saddle suits ye so well that methinks ye were born for it alone.”

  With a toss of her flaxen hair she walked away, her hips swinging as if she knew the eyes of every man were fixed on her.

  She was right.

  Isabella jabbed the palfrey with her heels, harder than she had intended, urging the pretty horse to quicken her pace.

  Alisoun was nothing a cottier’s daughter! A pretty thing to warm a man’s bed unless…he married her. She glanced at the MacKimzie, who was still looking back. Isabella would wager the red cloak around her shoulders that Alisoun aimed higher than just being his whore.

  The weather was cold, but clear. Newly fallen snow transformed the land and it was beautiful indeed.

  Malcolm was in bawdy good cheer as always, carrying on a lively debate with his cousin about which of the two were the mightier with bow, sword, and dirk.

  “And what makes ye think yer better with the sword, cousin?” Angus demanded.

  “Practice, cousin, practice!” Malcolm roared back.

  “What, in France?”

  “Aye, in France, and Edinburgh, and half the villages in Scotland!”

  “With yer sword?” asked Angus in disbelief.

  “Aye, cousin! But some of the lasses surely like yer dirk just as well!”

  Colyne gave a hearty laugh. Accustomed to salacious talk at court but taken by surprise by the older man’s wit, Isabella laughed too, but Caitrina scowled.

  “Uncle!” Caitrina admonished. “Such talk is not for the ears of two maidens!”

  “Or be it three?” Malcolm asked, raising an eyebrow at Angus.

  “There be three bairns dark like me that will settle that matter!” Angus shot back.

  “Aye, and they’re fine handsome boys,” Malcolm agreed. “Thank the saints they favor their mother and not their father…whoever he may be!”

  “Ye know those boys are mine, Malcolm!”

  “Aye, they are, cousin. Fine boys and three in two years! Colyne should show as much initiative as ye!”

  “Uncle!” Caitrina scolded.

  “And ye, Niece?” Malcolm rejoined. “Will ye be a maiden forever? Come now! Find yerself a goodly husband, like this English lass has, and let’s wager a gold coin as to which of ye has the first bairn!”

  “Hold yer fool tongue, Uncle!”

  The tone was so raw and filled with unhealed pain that Isabella looked in surprise at the girl’s reddened, angry face.

  Caitrina met her gaze, her stormy gray-green eyes so like her brother’s, before she turned resolutely away, urging her horse into a canter and passing them all.

  The turns and twists were clearly well known to Caitrina, but she took them at a far faster pace than was likely wise. Isabella had difficulty keeping up. Her little palfrey was meant to offer a lady a smooth ride, not tear through the countryside like a warhorse.

  “Think you we might ride a bit more sedately?” Isabella called to the MacKimzie in exasperation. “Neither I, nor my horse, were bred for practicalities.”

  Isabella’s breath caught at his smile.

  “I would say that is true of yer horse.”

  “Even so,” Isabella returned. “I am not half the horsewoman your sister is.”

  “Mayhap half,” he said, his voice teasing. “Still, I will slow for ye.”

  He reined in and Isabella’s shoulders relaxed as they slowed to a walk.

  “I hear your raid went well last night,” she commented.

  He laughed. “Aye, there’s nae better meat than MacLaulach beef!”

  “I wonder, do you think the MacLaulachs say that about MacKimzie beef?”

  “Aye, I wager they do.” He leaned toward her conspiratorially, his eyes twinkling. “I will have one roasted for ye, Lady, and ye’ll know how it is to savor what ye should nae have.”

  His tone was so mock theatrical that Isabella smiled back. It took a moment for her to notice the others had stopped ahead. Isabella’s cheeks warmed when she realized the group was watching them.

  Caitrina nodded ahead. “The well is there,” she said. Caitrina urged her mount forward, waving to Isabella to follow.

  Isabella urged Cobweb forward. The men stopped at a respectful distance, seeming to anticipate that Caitrina expected privacy in this sacred place. After a few moments, Caitrina stopped and Isabella dismounted, tying off the reins of her horse on a low branch. A glance back revealed the trees here shielded them from view. Isabella could hear the sounds of the horses, but she could not see the men.

  She saw the Scotswoman pull free her crutch from her saddle. She wondered if she should offer assistance or call to one of the men but Caitrina was off the horse in a heartbeat with nimble, practiced movements.

  She followed Caitrina into the clearing. It was a lovely place, a pond of clear, clean water encircled with stones so ancient they had been worn smooth. It felt serene here and somehow warmer despite the snowy landscape, possessed of a quiet deeper than any Isabella had ever experienced.

  It was a place that demanded reverence. Caitrina moved quietly and Isabella, full of questions, was reluctant to speak them as she followed the girl.

  Caitrina led her to a whitethorn tree, its branches fluttering with little strips of cloth; some new, some so old they were faded and tattered.

  “Each is a clootie,” Caitrina murmured, indicating a strip of cloth fluttering on the tree. “Each a prayer offered.”

  “I did not bring one,” Isabella replied softly. “I did not know to.”

  Caitrina smiled faintly and produced three strips of cloth. “One touched to yer Katherine’s forehead, one to Sir William’s, and one for yerself.”

  “Thank you.” Isabella swallowed past the lump in her throat as she took them. “What do I do?”

  “Dip each cloth in the sacred well, offer yer prayer to the spirit of the well, and tie the cloth to the tree. Then do the next.”

  Isabella followed Caitrina, imitating her actions, offering her prayers wholeheartedly for William and Katherine’s recovery, but she hesitated when it came to her own.

  Caitrina finished her own silent prayer. Her face was luminous and tears flowed freely down her cheeks. Her eyes were still bare with emotion as she met Isabella’s gaze.

  “Truly, I did not mean to intrude,” Isabella began, stammering.

  Caitrina looked back at the tree, her eyes not focused on the fluttering cloths before her.

  “’Tis nae matter.”

  Awkward now, Isabella asked, “For your parents?”

  “Nay,” Caitrina said, as she looke
d into the distance. “A sweet lad with hair and eyes black as a raven’s wing and a smile like the sun. Long lost to me now, but my heart is his, forever. Ihone has that, if nae else of me.”

  “I am sorry.”

  It was inadequate at best and Isabella regretted she could offer no better.

  Caitrina looked back at her, her smile forced, tears shining in her eyes.

  “Ach, ye’ll have me weepin’ for him all the way home! Say yer prayer now, and dinna be sayin’ one for me!”

  With that, Caitrina made her way out of the clearing, her crutch crunching in the snow.

  She might have been alone in the world, Isabella thought, as the silence deepened around her. She could neither see nor hear the others from her place by the well. There was no sound but the faint stirring of the cloths as they moved in the breeze, and Isabella stood for a long time, watching them.

  Offer a prayer for herself? What could she pray for? A swift end to her imprisonment? That she find her betrothed pleasing, and he, her? She had all the wealth she could wish for. Provided her husband did not squander it or deny her pin money, she should never fear hunger or cold.

  Nothing she could think of seemed right somehow.

  An end to her visions?

  The visions had retreated to haunt her nightmares but she knew they would return. She might have escaped her enemies at Bella Court by fleeing to this frozen country but the visions would follow her to the ends of the world.

  She dipped the cloth in the water, surprisingly warm despite the frigid weather.

  Isabella thought of the French girl she had seen in Rouen, the girl they called La Purcell, twisting and screaming in the flames.

  Her hands were shaking as she tied the cloth to the tree.

  “Please,” she whispered.

  Isabella looked at her tied cloth, hanging on the branch in this sacred place. She bent her head and heard a sound behind her. Seeing who it was, she quickly fanned her hair to hide her face.

  “What is it, lass?” Colyne asked softly.

  She kept her head turned away, and her hand covered her mouth.

  “Are ye longin’ for home, then?”

  She did not reply and he continued, his voice rough, “Ye’re nae afeared of me, are ye? I’d never hurt ye.”

  Her eyes closed when she felt him touch her hair, sliding his fingers through the strands. Just that simple touch was enough to break through her fragile self-control, and very gently he gathered her in his embrace as she sobbed. His body was warm, a refuge in a world of loneliness, and she clung to him. He rocked her, murmuring soothing words softened with a Scottish burr.

  Isabella lifted her face as he pressed a kiss to her temple. His eyes searched her face for an instant, and then he caught her chin gently, tilting his head to bring his mouth to hers.

  She clung to him as he explored, reaching up to his powerful shoulders, catching the silky strands of his brilliant hair between her fingers. His hands were under her cape now. This kiss was gentler yet hungrier than the last.

  He broke away suddenly, breathing hard, his forehead against hers.

  Had she done something wrong? Timidly she tilted her head to bring her mouth to his again but he would not let her. He squeezed his eyes shut, and with his hands firmly at her waist, pushed her away.

  Shocked by the chill, Isabella scrambled to pull her cloak closed against the cold. He was looking down at her, his mouth tight and drawn now.

  “Ye’re not for me.”

  Of course, Isabella thought. Alisoun.

  And Douglas.

  “No,” she agreed hoarsely.

  “Dinna fear.” He took a step back, his mouth tight. “I’ll nae lay a hand on ye again, lady.”

  With that he was gone, leaving her alone and bereft in the cold, a thousand heartfelt prayers fluttering in the tree beside her.

  The sun was setting as they came in sight of the castle. When Isabella returned to her mount Colyne ignored her completely and she was grateful that Angus offered to help her back onto her horse.

  It was growing dark now, conversation was minimal, and all were weary, eager for a warm fire and a good meal. Isabella had not rested well in days and was nigh to drooping in the saddle as they rode through the village.

  Tired as she was, Isabella was barely across the bridge when it filtered through her fatigue that Mary was in the courtyard. The girl should have been with Kat but she was standing almost on tiptoe, her dark, mournful eyes looking anxiously at Isabella.

  Isabella was off her horse in an instant. “Why are you not with Mistress Katherine?”

  “Oh, lady,” the girl cried. “’Tis ever sae glad I am that ye’re back!”

  “What is it?” Colyne demanded. “Is the lady worse?”

  “Mistress Katherine is in such a temper, my lady! I told her ye were not in the castle, that the laird was not here either, and she called the chieftain—”

  Mary broke off, blushing under Colyne’s glower.

  Isabella’s heart leapt. “Kat is awake? Her fever is broken?”

  “Aye, but come now, will ye, lady?”

  Isabella reached out to touch Colyne’s arm without thinking.

  “Oh, that is wondrous news! I must go to her! Oh, thank you!” She smiled around at them all and, casting off all ladylike deportment, lifted her skirts to run across the courtyard.

  She was out of breath when she reached the sickroom; a lump came to her throat at the sight of her beloved Kat propped up on pillows. She was wan but well enough to fuss at the poor unfortunate maid left to tend to her.

  “Poppet!” Katherine cried when she saw Isabella. She opened her arms wide and Isabella threw herself into Katherine’s embrace.

  Katherine stroked her back. “That ninny told me you were not in the castle! I bent her ear I can tell you! Foolish chit!”

  Isabella sat back, shaking her head. “She told you true but the fault was mine, I went to a holy well to pray. I kept us there overlong. I am so sorry I was not here when you awoke!”

  “Ah, sweet child! I have not seen a holy well since I was a girl! I should like to. Tell me of this place! Oh, hold! What is this?” Katherine asked fondly, stroking Isabella’s hair. “I should take you for a Scottish girl like this!”

  They were alone, save for William still sleeping, but Isabella lowered her voice and switched to French.

  “My lady’s maid is just in from tending cattle and my hair looked it.”

  Katherine’s laughter was heartening. “So, I have been replaced, have I? ’Twas bound to happen that I should pass out of fashion. Am I now to tend to the cattle, then?”

  Suddenly Kat tilted her head, searching her face.

  “You look different, poppet. What has happened?”

  Isabella ducked her head. “Nothing has happened. Mayhap only seeing you are better.”

  “Hmm,” Katherine murmured, stoking her hair again. “So tell me, did you tie a cloth to the tree? We did that when I was a girl.”

  “Yes, I prayed for you and William and—” Isabella dropped her voice even more. “To be free of the sight.”

  Katherine blinked. “But why?”

  “Why?” she cried then whispered, “Do you not remember Rouen?”

  “I remember good men doing wrong, and knowing it so.” Katherine sighed. “If all together say a thing is right, that does not make it so, Isabella. You must follow your heart and trust it is all for a reason.”

  “As long as the secret is kept,” she said bitterly.

  Katherine raised an eyebrow. “Everyone has secrets, pet. Do not feel shame for yours.”

  Isabella glanced at Sir William and leaned down to Katherine’s ear.

  “I have seen something, Kat. Something terrible. The walls and floors of a great house cracking, breaking, and we are screaming, and a man with royal blood on his hands.” Isabella’s fingers twisted in her skirts. “I know him.”

  “Who is it?”

  Isabella shook her head sharply. “I cannot see his f
ace. I will know him.” She wet her lips, her voice breaking. “I think—I think he will kill me.”

  Immediately Kat was upright, her mouth taut and her nostrils flared. “We are together?”

  “Yes, but not here. I see Queen Joan. I dream of it.”

  “Royal blood…the queen and king both?”

  Isabella shook her head. “I do not know. I am afraid, Kat.”

  A soft sound alerted Isabella and she composed herself as Caitrina came into the room.

  Katherine squeezed her hand in reassurance. “You have naught to fear as long as I am with you, poppet.”

  Without bothering to ask permission, Caitrina touched Kat’s head and felt her throat.

  “Are you quite finished?” Kat snapped as she was poked and prodded.

  “Nae quite,” Caitrina replied tartly. “So ye best keep still.”

  Katherine shot Caitrina an annoyed glance and the Scotswoman met her look for look.

  “If naught else,” Katherine grumbled, submitting to the Scotswoman’s ministrations with ill grace, “we know we will not suffer this place forever.”

  Caitrina’s face was flushed and angry. “And I say she needs rest!”

  Caitrina stood over her with arms akimbo and Isabella narrowed her eyes. She wagered the clansmen who dared argue with this Scotswoman could be counted on one hand. Mary, who likely wished herself anywhere but here, cowered in the corner of the solar.

  “She needs company to cheer her!” Isabella argued back. Did the Scotswoman not realize the days of dullness in this sickroom wore on Kat’s spirits?

  “She forgoes her rest to keep you company!”

  “How absurd!”

  Caitrina’s nostrils flared and Isabella squared her shoulders.

  “Poppet,” said Katherine.

  “I will not leave you, Kat,” Isabella replied stoutly.

  She was startled by Katherine’s gentle touch on her arm.

  “Perhaps you should go about the castle a bit, poppet. I do promise to rest,” Katherine said, weakly.

  Isabella drew her breath to argue again, but stopped herself at Katherine’s drawn face.

  By gossiping about ladies they had known in England and France and chatting about fashions she might bring to the Scottish court, she thought she offered Kat some comfort and distraction. Fearing the loneliness of this place, and to stop herself thinking about him, she had worn Kat out.