Chapter 10
Chapter 10
It had taken all Carenza’s willpower not to rush up to Hamish this morn and rest her cheek against his shaggy head. She hadn’t realized how much she would miss him. But she was grateful he was at least safe. And alive.
She still couldn’t believe how the Rivenloch warrior had explained his way out of an impossible situation. He’d not only emerged the hero of the story, but he’d silenced the smug Boyles as well. He definitely had a gift for deception.
Of course, if he wished to join the monastic order, he’d have to curb his deceitful ways.
She took another bite of salmon and leeks. It was her favorite meal, and there was always an abundance of salmon in the nearby river. Why the clan couldn’t do without roasts made of her four-legged friends when fish was freely available, she didn’t understand.
Her father suddenly narrowed critical eyes at her. He used the corner of his table linen to wipe a spot of sauce from her chin.
“Can’t have ye dribblin’ like a bairn at supper on the morrow, aye?” he chided. “Not with a warrior o’ Rivenloch at the table.”
She managed to give him a gracious smile, despite his lighthearted ribbing. He smiled back, unaware of how his penchant for perfectionism affected her.
It didn’t matter anyway. The Rivenloch warrior didn’t intend to court her. She could spill frumenty down her leine, dip her braids in her pottage, and lick her fingers, and, as a monk, he’d be obliged to overlook her sins.
“’Twas generous o’ the man to buy our coo,” her father said.
“Aye.”
“Though if he’d waited, I might have given it to him as a dowry,” he added.
“Da!” she scolded.
He chuckled.
She shook her head. “I’m afraid ye’re in for a disappointment. He’s not interested in me.”
Her father laughed so hard at that, he choked on a leek and had to take a sip of ale. “Och, darlin’, the day a man isn’t interested in ye will be the day the sun rises in the west.”
She sighed. Her father truly did believe she was flawless. “He plans to take his vows, Da. That’s why he’s at the monastery.”
Her father narrowed thoughtful eyes at her. “We’ll see.”
His confidence gave her pause, because the laird was usually right, at least when it came to human nature. He always knew which way the royal winds blew. He could sense when clan conflict was brewing. He could tell when a man was lying to him.
Indeed, his only blind spot was where Carenza was concerned. He never suspected his sweet, obedient daughter was in truth a perverse and headstrong wench who’d resort to reiving cattle to save her beloved pets. It would break his heart to know who she really was.
But what if he was right?
What if the Rivenloch warrior did take an interest in her?
The idea gave her a strange feeling.
She’d always known she’d marry someone of her father’s choosing. It was naive to think otherwise. After all, she was the daughter of a laird.
But somehow she’d imagined her husband would be a stable, quiet, boring man. A man who would satisfy her father’s requirements for protecting her. A man who would keep her well supplied with servants, gowns, trinkets, and bairns. A man who would busy himself with manly pursuits—hunting, hawking, sparring, riding, fishing—and leave her to her own pastimes.
The idea of being wed to a man like the Rivenloch warrior made her breath quicken and her heart pound. He seemed dangerous. Unpredictable. Far too exciting. Too interested in her affairs. Too willing to insert himself into her life. Faith, she would have no life of her own, anchored to such a man.
Still, she would never have to doubt his loyalty or his dedication to her. He’d already proved he was a man of his word.
And to wake up to him each morn?
She blushed the color of her salmon as she recalled his handsome face.
She hadn’t seen his features well on the night they met, just an impression of a chiseled jaw, deep-set eyes, and long blond hair.
But this morn at the monastery, she’d beheld the stern furrow between his brows. The grim set of his mouth. The flinty gray of his eyes, sparking with fire as he charged across the cloister, axe in hand.
He had been magnificent, like a fearless Viking come to conquer.
Then, after the conflict was over—after his jaw relaxed and his lips softened—he’d turned to her, and the tender affection in his misty eyes had left her breathless.
What would it be like to be wed to such a man?
What would it be like to bed such a man?
“…don’t ye think, Carenza?” her father said.
Startled, she dropped her knife onto the table. “I’m sorry. What?”
“I said, don’t ye think ’twas generous o’ Sir Hew to keep the monastery in beef this year?”
“What?” Her head was still spinning. “Beef?”
“’Tis about time someone fattened up those monks.”
Her heart plunged. She felt sick. Was that true? Had the warrior changed his mind? Had he broken his oath to her? Did he mean to butcher Hamish to feed the monastery? Or was that only an assumption on her father’s part?
She managed to give him a feeble smile in return.
Then she looked down at her supper. The normally tempting fare now turned her stomach. She wiped her mouth and asked to be excused.
“Do ye feel well?” her father asked. “Ye look a bit pale.”
“I’m fine,” she lied. “But I’d like to retire early this eve. There’s much to do for Samhain supper on the morrow.”
“O’ course.”
Surreptitiously tearing off a small crumb of her trencher, she left the table.
She managed to make it to her chamber without losing her supper. But she still felt sick inside.
When she opened the door, Twinkle was waiting for his crumb. She gave him a fond greeting, but as she fed the sweet little rat his morsel of bread, her eyes filled with tears. Tears of pain and despair, anger and frustration.
She’d been a fool.
Of course he meant to butcher Hamish. It was probably how he was paying for his stay at Kildunan.
To imagine a fierce warrior like Hew of Rivenloch would care a whit about her beloved coo was ridiculous. Men like him slew other men without a second thought. How much less could he care for a coo?
Twinkle finished his meal, then washed his face and scampered off to his home in the crack of the wall.
Carenza palmed away her tears. Then she began to pace, winding one braid around her finger.
She couldn’t allow Hamish to be slaughtered.
What could she do?
It was too late for another midnight raid to rescue the animal. She couldn’t fortify the guard’s ale again. Her costume was in tatters. Besides, the monastery would be locked up tight.
As she undressed and climbed into bed, she vowed she would muster her courage on the morrow. She’d stand up to the Rivenloch warrior. She’d remind him of his promise in no uncertain terms. And refresh his memory about his debt to Hamish.
She’d have to confront him when he first arrived. Alone. Where her father couldn’t see the venomous fire in his gentle daughter’s eyes. Or hear the sharp edge in her sweet voice.
At least it wasn’t raining, Hew thought as he traveled along the rutted road to Dunlop the next morn. He’d bathed at dawn and dressed in the finest clothing he’d brought—a fresh white leine with dark gray trews and a gray and black plaid over it all.
It was appropriate attire, he thought, for a Samhain supper.
It was not so suitable for leading a shaggy coo down the road.
But he didn’t intend to let Lady Carenza fret another day over her animal. He knew she likely suffered every moment she was away from him.
“I suppose I look like a simpleton, eh, Hamish, dressed in my best to deliver a coo?”
Hamish had no reply.
“Well, it might surprise you to know, it wouldn’t be the first time I made a fool of myself for love.”
That stopped him abruptly in his tracks.
Love?
What the devil was he saying?
This wasn’t love. He’d sworn off love.
Hamish mooed, then plodded forward again, pulling him along.
“Oh aye, I know your mistress is a beauty. She’s also kind. Gentle. Sweet. Bright. Sensitive. Generous. The kind of woman any man would be proud to have by his side. But I don’t need to tell you that, do I, Hamish?”
He gave the beast a fond pat.
“Nay, ’tis only that I’m through with women. Oh, they seem innocent enough, luring a man in with their honeyed words and their soft bodies. But they ultimately only break a man’s heart.”
Hamish seemed disinterested.
Hew murmured, “I told your mistress I mean to take my vows at the monastery. ’Tisn’t true. But I do mean to keep my vow of chastity.”
He shuddered. When he said it aloud like that, it sounded so stark. So severe. So final.
Carenza had nearly paced a rut in the wall walk, watching for the warrior’s arrival.
Her father was in the northern field, supervising the lads stacking wood for the great bonfires to be lit tonight. Cainnech was driving the cattle down from the hill into the close. Servants crisscrossed the courtyard, carrying baskets of barley, cabbages, leeks, and neeps, offerings that would be left at the castle doorways to appease the spirits.
The scents of roasting boar, baking oatcakes, stewing apples, and brewing ale wafted through the keep. Tonight the tables would creak under the weight of the year’s final harvest. On the morrow, the culling of the cattle would begin.
Carenza didn’t want to think about it. She narrowed her eyes at the spot where the road emerged from the woods. Was that movement? A figure approaching?
She straightened.
Then her heart plunged to the bottom of her stomach.
Hamish.
The warrior had brought Hamish here.
There was only one reason to bring an animal to a Samhain celebration.
Her father was wrong. The man didn’t mean to kill Hamish to feed the monastery.
He meant to offer him as a Samhain sacrifice.
Horror filled her veins.
She began shaking.
Gathering her skirts, she flew down the steps. She dodged through the milling clan folk in the courtyard and burst out through the gates.
She had to stop the warrior. She had to force him to keep his promise. She had to convince him to turn around and return Hamish to Kildunan. No matter what it took. Shame. Guilt. Begging. Insults. Threats.
And she had to do it before her father caught sight of him.
For one lovely, lingering moment as he approached Dunlop, Hew imagined the beautiful enchantress in blue was rushing toward him out of eagerness. She’d seen him bringing Hamish, and gratitude had overwhelmed her.
His heart leaped. His breath caught. A familiar, warm tingling started in his belly. The sensation of being loved.
In that moment, he forgot about all his past broken hearts. His swearing off women. His vow of chastity.
He smiled.
Carenza’s skirts rippled behind her like the caparison of a galloping warhorse. Her breast heaved as she narrowed the distance between them. Breathless from exertion, she had the pink-flushed cheeks and open mouth of a lass freshly swived.
In that lovely, lingering moment, he believed she was going to leap into his arms. Declare her undying love for him. Gratefully cover his face with kisses.
Then the moment vanished.
Instead, she skidded to a stop before him.
Her smooth brow was crossed with lines of worry. Her mouth was tense. Her wide eyes reflected an emotion he couldn’t discern. Dread? Confusion? Disappointment?
But all she could gasp out was, “Don’t do this. I beg ye. For the love o’ God, go away. Go back to Kildunan, and don’t come back.”
He blinked. The warmth that had been tingling inside him congealed into a cold, hard lump. Like his ballocks when he dove into the icy loch.
Before he could respond, she continued in a hiss. “Have ye no honor, ye bloody traitor? Did your word mean naught? Is this how the craven knights o’ Rivenloch keep their vows?”
Now she’d pricked his temper. There was no need to call his good name into question. “Now wait a—”
“To think I came back for ye, ye churl, that I let Hamish save your worthless life.” She shook her head, adding in a murmur, “I should have let ye fall.”
That felt like a punch in the gut.
Suddenly, from across the field, the laird of Dunlop sang out, “Welcome, Sir Hew!”
Hew dragged his gaze to the laird and managed to give him a weak wave in return.
“Shite,” Carenza muttered under her breath.
Hew’s brows popped up. He assumed the delicate flower was incapable of cursing.
“What’s this?” the laird asked as he loped up, nodding at the coo. “A sacrifice for Samhain?”
Hew froze. A sacrifice? Of course. Why else would a guest bring an animal to a harvest celebration? No wonder Carenza had been reduced to nasty expletives and trying to shoo him away.
“Oh. Nay. Nay.” He glanced at Carenza, who waited for his explanation with her lip caught under her teeth. “’Tis…a gift.”
“A gift?” the laird echoed.
“Aye.” Hew licked his lips, preparing to make up yet another sketchy story for which he’d owe penance. “’Tis a Rivenloch tradition. At Samhain, a visiting guest is expected to bring the gift of a single coo to the lady of the household,” he explained, adding quickly, “a coo that must be kept and ne’er slaughtered—to appease the gods and bring good luck in the coming year.”
Carenza was staring at him as if he’d grown an extra head. She clearly didn’t believe him.
But her father did. And that was all that mattered.
“Is that so?” the laird remarked.
“Aye.”
“How interestin’.”
“Aye, ’tis been so for as long as I can remember.” He wondered how hard his clan would laugh when he told them about this ancient Rivenloch tradition.
“Well then, it appears this is a lucky coo indeed,” the laird said, grinning at Carenza, “and we are equally lucky to be blessed by your presence today, Sir Hew. Aren’t we, Carenza?”
Carenza hardly knew what to say. How her father could believe such a blatant fable she didn’t know. But he’d swallowed the warrior’s lie as readily as a puffin gulping down herring.
As for Sir Hew, his talent for prevarication was remarkable and more than a little unsettling. He would have to spend years in confession if he had any hope of becoming a man of the cloth.
More than anything, however, she was grateful to him for saving her beloved Hamish. He had kept his word, after all. And now that the matter was settled, she could smooth her ruffled feathers and be the polite hostess her father wished her to be.
“We are blessed and honored to have ye with us, Sir Hew,” she said, placing a humble hand on her bosom. “And I cannot thank ye enough for the gift. I will treasure it forever.”
Her father nodded in approval.
But the Rivenloch knave winked at her.
Her cheeks grew hot. She averted her eyes, training them on the road ahead, hoping her father wouldn’t notice how flushed she’d become.
He didn’t notice. Instead, he initiated a boring subject. “So, Sir Hew, tell us about the Lowlands. Are ye constantly battlin’ with the English?”
Sir Hew replied, but Carenza wasn’t much interested in the conversation, so she was left to her thoughts.
The warrior really was devilishly daring. It was one thing to sneak around in the middle of the night in a disguise, reiving coos. It was quite another to tell an outrageous, barefaced falsehood to a laird. And he’d done it without even blinking.
But it wasn’t only his boldness that left her blushing. It was also the glimmer of mischief in his eyes when he winked at her. His sly, one-sided, conspiratorial smile. The breathy growl of his voice. The way his freshly washed tawny hair curled around his ears. How his leine cleaved to every impressive muscle. Even the spicy scent of cinnamon that lingered on his skin.
It truly was a shame the man didn’t mean to wed.
Not for her sake, of course. He was far too wild and impetuous for her.
But another lass would certainly appreciate his boldness. His unpredictability. His intensity.
And what woman wouldn’t be thrilled by his warrior’s body? His wide shoulders. His massive hands. His chiseled jaw. His lush mane. His smoky eyes. His broad back and the way it narrowed down to his firm and muscled…
“Carenza?” her father said.
She started. “Aye?”
“I said, tell Sir Hew about your education.”
“Education?” Shite. All she could think about were the warrior’s taut buttocks. “What would ye like to know, Sir Hew?”
But her father couldn’t wait. “She can read and write,” he boasted, “and she knows her numbers. No one will pull the wool o’er Carenza’s eyes when it comes to matters o’ the household.”
Carenza had to bite her tongue. Her father was being painfully transparent, extolling her virtues to the man he hoped to snag as a bridegroom for his daughter.
“’Tis commendable,” Hew said. “What’s your favorite subject?”
She blinked. No one had ever asked her that. Most men were intimidated by her knowledge. Especially warriors, who rarely wasted time on books and study.
She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again. She longed to tell him all about her interest in the natural world. How she studied butterflies and frogs and sparrows. How sometimes, when everyone thought she was stitching embroidery, she was actually working on her own bestiary. But that kind of conversation would trouble her father.
So she said, “I’m fond o’ readin’, I suppose.”
“Me too,” he replied, to her surprise.
“A warrior who reads,” her father marveled.
“Most o’ the Rivenloch clan reads,” Hew told him. “’Tis useful for negotiations along the border.”
Carenza couldn’t help herself. She had to know. “The lasses as well?”
“Aye. Some of our lasses grow up to be lairds.”
Her father frowned. “Sir Hew’s own aunt is the laird o’ Rivenloch.”
She could tell by her father’s tone that she should have known that. But her studies were learning letters and numbers. Not memorizing who was laird of every clan in Scotland.
Thankfully, Sir Hew saved her from the embarrassment of silence by filling in his family history.
“The Rivenloch clan is ancient, born of two cultures that gave equal power to men and women,” he explained. “It began with the marriage of a Viking warrior and a Pictish princess.”
“Och aye,” her father said. “Many Vikin’s took Picts as wives when they invaded.”
“In this instance, ’twas a rare love match,” Hew said. “The Viking was shipwrecked and heartsick, and the Pictish princess was exiled and alone. She took him captive for barter, but as fate would have it, they fell in love. Thus was born the Rivenloch motto.”
Her father replied, “Amor vincit omnia.”
Love conquers all, she silently translated.
“Aye,” Hew said. “It remains to this day, and our tradition of equal power has remained as well.”
“Interestin’,” her father said, which was always what he said when he wasn’t sure he approved.
Carenza was too astonished to comment.
Equal power. How freeing would that be? If she had equal power, she’d keep pets openly in her chamber. And decree that beef was off the menu. And formally announce that she intended to choose her own husband when she was ready.
“And what do you think of that, my lady?” Sir Hew asked.
She knew better than to voice her actual thoughts in front of her father.
“Interestin’,” she said, giving him a noncommittal smile.
Then he gave her another knowing wink, and she glanced away before her blush could betray her.
Meanwhile, her thoughts churned like a raging river.
Equal power. The idea was intoxicating. If she married into the Rivenloch clan, would she be endowed with such power? Would she be free to make her own decisions?
Sir Hew had made it clear. He was destined for the church. But could he have an unmarried kinsman? One who was more ordinary, even-tempered, and predictable than the axe-wielding warrior monk? Perhaps a brother? Or even better, a twin who shared Sir Hew’s good looks, captivating gaze, muscular body, broad shoulders, powerful hands, firm buttocks…
She must find out.
If there was another eligible Rivenloch bachelor, she could direct her father toward him. If they suited and eventually married…
She might be able to follow her dreams.
Keep a menagerie of animals.
Finish her bestiary.
Steer her own fate.