Forbidden (9 page)

“Aye. There is that to consider.” His lips
twitched when he speared a succulent morsel. They did not use
trenchers this day, but pewter plates engraved with flowering
thistles around their rims. Most likely it was Aunt Joneta’s doing,
as was the festive flowers decorating the room.

He motioned a server to fetch a platter near
so he could select a plump capon. He spooned extra cherry sauce
over it, for if he remembered rightly, his bride also was fond of
the fruit properly sweetened with honey.

Both picked at their food, and after a small
space opened on the plate they shared, she nodded toward the bowls
of vegetables.

“Peas and carrots, if you please.”

He had not remembered her voice being so
melodic. Nor so soft. Truth to tell, when she was a sprite, he had
thought it shrill and demanding. More oft than not, she was running
around the baileys behind him and Moridac, ordering them about.

He filled the empty space, tore off a chunk
of hot bread and placed a small, warmed pitcher of honey beside the
plate. Unused to such a bountiful array to select from, he chose
salmon and a portion of bread.

Catalin made the motions of eating, but when
he watched closely, he kenned she moved food around on the plate
more than she placed it in her mouth. What portions she did eat
were so scant it would not fill a child.

Her fingers trembled, too. And he noted her
frequent swallows, though no food was in her mouth. She felt his
regard, for she snatched her hands down to her lap. Fearing she was
ill, he started to lean closer to ask but had no chance.

Broccin stood, the movement jarring a belch
so blaring it startled Catalin. His father beamed and patted his
gut.

“I wager wee Catalin will soon be breeding.”
His grating laugh cut through the room. He rolled his eyes and
bobbed his head as he added, “Aye. She will.”

Ranald’s breath halted then quickened with
each word from his sire’s lips.

Broccin wagged a finger at him as if he
admonished him.

“For truth, Ranald’s ballocks should be
weighty as a bull’s.” He turned a sly grin on his son, his voice
boomed. “Have ye not hoarded yer seed there, hidden beneath yer
monk’s skirts, since leaving Raptor Castle?”

Ranald clenched his hands. One held the
chalice. He lowered it back to the table, not daring to lift it,
else he would spray what was left within over his father’s face. He
fought to control his racing heart. He took a deep breath, held it
then eased it out, bit by bit.

Across from his father, a gust of wind
rustled flower petals strewn on the floor. The white linen cloth
covering the long table stirred.

“I expect a grandson ere too long. The bairn
will look much like Moridac.” Broccin stopped to chuckle, a
drunken, gleeful sound.

Ranald closed his eyes. Fought for peace. The
room hushed. Not for long before Broccin continued.

“‘Tis thankful I am Ranald canna pass on his
unsightly scars...”

The breeze picked up, whirled in a circle
rising from the floor before Chief Broccin, bringing the petals
with it. Faster and faster, it grew until it created an eerie
whistle.

The lord’s heaped platter wobbled, lifted and
spun in a wild circle, colliding with the petals. Morsels of capon,
globs of cherry sauce, red carrots thick with honey, flew off and
struck Broccin’s belly. ‘Twas strange. They struck no one else.

Ranald drew in a deep breath. Fought for
quiet control. He groped for the cross that hung around his neck,
forgetting for the moment ‘twas no longer there. He opened his
eyes.

Broccin stared at the table. His gaze fixed
on his goblet, full to the brim. It rocked back and forth in a
crazy way. Wine splashed over the rim, leaving purple splotches on
the white cloth. He gaped as the vessel flew toward him. It struck
his right shoulder. Wine splattered his chest. The goblet crashed
back to the table and rolled to stop against a basket of bread.

Broccin roared. Slapped at the mess on his
best tunic. Startled chatter filled the air.

“Did ye see?”

“What goes here?”

“‘Tis no wind without!”

“It took to the air like a hand tossed
it.”

Catalin’s startled cry brought Ranald’s
thoughts to her. He turned his back to his father and saw her
wide-eyed look.

“Ye have naught to fear, wife.” Ranald
reached to take her hand and found his own was none too steady. He
slowed his heaving chest, kept his eyes on her lovely face and
deliberately studied the pattern across her nose. Since she was a
sprite, he had oft thought the sprinkling of freckles there lent
such mischief to her face.

Raik, on her other side, spoke up so the room
could overhear.

“The wind has been much strange of late.
Little puffs become strong, sometimes near to shaking leaves from
the trees.”

“Aye.” Angus shouted from the farthest corner
of the room. “One of me young stable lads told of a lone breeze
that grew strong as a gale. It pushed water from the horse trough,
it did.”

“‘Twas me son Donald. I thought the lad was
telling an untruth till he pointed out the soaked ground.” Hearing
disbelieving chuckles, the man scowled. “Dinna laugh. I saw it with
me own eyes.”

“Broccin, I ken you need a change of
clothing. Mayhap you had best hie yourself above?” Joneta’s nose
lifted high in a sniff.

“Hmpf! Dinna order me about.”

Though he protested, he held the sticky tunic
out from his body and thought better of keeping it on. To Ranald’s
disgust, his father cared not to leave the table but pulled the
garment over his head and threw it to the floor, baring his hairy,
muscled chest.

Elyne rolled her eyes and pursed her lips.
Letia avoided looking in Broccin’s direction. Catalin made a small
sound, surprising Ranald, for she had sucked her teeth. Aye, ‘twas
in disapproval, though delicately done.

“Ye there,” Broccin stabbed a finger at the
closest squire. “Go above and bring me clean clothing.”

The squire scampered off not chancing a harsh
cuff for lingering.

Joneta’s slight bob of her head signaled
servants to clear the tables. By the time they finished, their lord
was again properly clothed. Cheeses, baked apples nestled in
custard, grapes, plums and pears arrived, as did dishes of baked
tarts, custards, sugared delicacies and wafers.

Jugglers, acrobats and troubadours took turns
filing in to entertain the diners after their heavy meal. Once
everyone was enjoying the sweet offerings and kept occupied
watching the center of the room where a young man strummed a lap
harp and sang of a beautiful maiden, Ranald leaned close to
Catalin.

“Mayhap ye should steal away while all are
occupied?” he whispered. He knew not which smelled the sweeter, her
silky hair or the violets in the garland of flowers around her
forehead.

He caught Joneta’s and Elyne’s eyes and
looked pointedly toward the doorway. Thankfully, they understood.
He hoped his bride could leave afore his father embarrassed her
further.

He hoped for naught. Catalin no more than
stood, than Broccin’s head lifted. His nose wrinkled, as if
scenting game. His eyes gleamed; he rubbed his hands together.
Ranald could near hear the thoughts going through the man’s thick
skull.

He didna like them.

Joneta, Elyne and Letia formed around
Catalin. The ever-faithful Hannah stood waiting in the doorway. The
first drunken man to stand, no doubt thinking to follow the women,
earned her wrathful glare and sat back down.

Ranald didn’t like his father’s leering
regard of Catalin. If he dared to rise, Ranald would not hesitate
to stop him. His tense shoulders relaxed when Raik came to take
Catalin’s vacated space.

“Ye ate no more than a morsel of salmon.” He
tilted his head, his teasing eyes studying Ranald’s face. “Are ye
still hesitant of what faces ye this night?”

Ranald shifted in his seat, remembering his
blood racing each time he caught Catalin’s scent. The mere thought
of it tightened his groin.

“Lucifer is having a good laugh, cousin. Not
even a sennight from Kelso and already I forget.”

“Forget?” Raik, lifted his shoulders, a hand
raised, palm up.

“Aye. On how to turn my mind from lustful
thoughts.”

“Ye are troubled by it?”

“Should I stand, I will shame myself. I
hardened before the words left my mouth for Catalin to go
above.”

Raik’s laughter brought attention to
them.

“‘Tis a good thing, ye know.” He spoke low
for no other ears to hear. “How else can ye consummate this union?
Limp as a wilted carrot willna work, as well ye ken.”

“Hmpf. ‘Tis no fear of that.” He rubbed his
chin. E’en though he had scraped his face smooth hours earlier,
already bristles grew there.

“Well, then, ye worry for naught. Once abed,
all will come natural again.” Raik grinned at him. “I hope the
baker’s daughter still favors me. I plan to spend the hours until
dawn warming her pallet.”

“Dinna fill Raptor Castle with yer bastards,
cousin. It will be my duty to feed and care for them. From the
children I have glimpsed this day, Moridac had oft sown his
seed.”

“Do we not return to my own bedchamber?”
Catalin gulped when Lady Joneta passed by it to push open a door a
good fifteen footsteps down from the one she had used since coming
here.

“Nay, child. We go to Ranald’s room. ‘Tis the
room he shared with his brother since they were young lads.” She
smiled at Hannah, who arrived out of breath to close the door
behind them. The two had become fast friends over the years.

Catalin’s steps faltered on entering Ranald’s
chamber. She felt lost in it. Her heart fluttered seeing her
clothing chest midway along the wall to the right. Though it was
large, it looked small as a child’s in this spacious room.

Hearing the door close, she glanced behind
her and noted what must be a man’s clothing chest, for it was large
and sturdy, on the wall to the right of the door. Propped beside it
was a sword and scabbard. It had not been Moridac’s, for the hilt
held no gold plate, nor was it adorned in any way. This sword was
used by a man not driven by the trappings of wealth.

“I am to share my husband’s room?” Her breath
caught. She would have no privacy, no way to hide if sickness came
early in the morn. Oh, dear saints.

Her toes curled thinking of her sin in
deceiving Ranald.

Heaven help her. What could she have done? If
she carried Moridac’s bairn, she had to protect it. Would Ranald
kill her for it?

Lady Joneta’s voice distracted her as she
eased the circlet of flowers from Catalin’s hair.

“Always have the wives shared their husband’s
bed at Raptor Castle.” Her soft voice was kindness itself.

Noting the bed, Catalin’s stomach flipped.
More than twice the size of a normal one. Mayhap ‘twas a good
thing? Could she not put distance between them when they lay
there?

A maid hustled to remove a green bedcover the
shade of dense leaves as darkness fell, and placed heated stones
between the sheets.

A thought struck. Perchance Ranald would not
wish to claim his husbandly rights? Aye. Might he have a dislike
for bed sport? Perchance ‘twas why he became a monk? She clung to
that hope.

“Hold your hands high, lovey,” Hannah urged.
She and Elyne gripped the hem of the blue kirtle and took care to
lift it free of Catalin’s head.

“Why do ye tremble?” Elyne’s brows drew close
together. “Ranald is a gentle man. Always he has been such. Many a
lass greeted the sun with a smile following a night spent in
his...Ack!”

A sharp pinch from Lady Joneta had halted her
words.

Catalin was undressed except for the thin,
sky blue smock.

“Come sit whilst I brush your hair.” Letia
placed a chair behind her friend. She grinned at Hannah as she
filched the brush from her hands. “You have the chance to play with
her hair every day. Do you know how much I envy your hair,
Catalin?” She patted the shining hair in front of her. “‘Tis a
special color, neither red nor golden like the sun, a mixture of
each at their finest, all soft and glowing.” She picked up a curly
hank and played with it. “The curls spring back when I stretch them
out.”

“For truth you like it? But curls are unruly,
forever falling over my face.”

As if making her point, one elfin curl crept
over her forehead. She pushed out her bottom lip and huffed air
upward, fluttering it from her eyes.

Elyne chuckled and bent to take Catalin’s
shoes from her feet. She grinned up at her.

“Ranald always remarked about yer curls after
ye returned home from a visit.”

“No doubt to call them tangled knots like he
was used to doing.” Catalin wrinkled her nose.

“Nay. Bird’s nests.” Elyne laughed so hard
she lost her balance and plopped down on the floor.

Amongst the laughter and giggles, the door
creaked opened. Ranald stood framed there, the corners of his lips
lifted a bit. Chief Broccin caused the women to scramble, though,
for he shoved Ranald aside and stomped halfway across the room.

Catalin jumped to her feet and edged close to
the bed, prepared to grab a pillow to shield herself did he come
closer.

“‘Tis time for a bedding, not for women’s
senseless cackles.” Chief Broccin glared at Elyne. His hands rested
on his waist, his fingers drummed there, impatient. “Why is she not
nakit?”

“My wife is not for yer eyes, Broccin.”
Ranald’s steely words cut through the room. “There will be no
bedding ceremony.”

“No bedding? How am I to know she has no
flaws? No marks to mar my grandchild?” He stepped forward, a steely
hand reached to grasp the smock from Catalin’s cringing
shoulders.

A strange sound filled the room, a buzz
somewhat like angry words falling over themselves. Before Broccin
could step closer, the chair Catalin had risen from scrapped
forward and fell, blocking his path.