Chapter 5
After the terrible dream, Catrìona’s life settled into a routine of early morning prayer followed by very busy days. Margaret undertook many acts of charity in which she enlisted her ladies’ help. Catrìona willingly participated, for the work was to her liking and diverted her mind from the past.
Not every day was she able to steal away to fly Kessog. But when she did, she enjoyed the thrill of the falcon’s hunt and the boy’s company, savoring the days left before Kessog began his molt and she would not fly him.
On one of their excursions, Giric had taken her and Niall to the village.
It was larger than she had expected, the thatched stone cottages scattered on either side of a wide dirt path.
A blacksmith was kept occupied, Giric told her, mending mail and making swords and knives.
Two taverns served the people and visitors.
Some of the king’s men were married and had cottages in the village.
She was surprised when the boy led her to a small cottage where several pallets were laid out on the dirt floor.
“ ’Tis where I sleep,” he said, pointing to a pallet in the corner. Her heart went out to the boy, living in such conditions.
“And the other pallets?” she asked. “Who sleeps on them?”
“The other orphans.”
Catrìona shot a glance to where her brother stood examining the broken shutter over the window. “And besides breaking your fast in the hall, who feeds you?” he asked.
“Some of the village women.”
“Mayhap we can make this a better place. It must be cold in the winter.”
“Aye, ’tis,” was the boy’s only reply. It tore at her heart to see the orphans living in such poverty. She was certain Margaret did not know of it. Catrìona could feel her resolve to help building within her and vowed to take a hand in the village.
“I will ask the queen to allow me time and servants to make some needed changes here.”
Niall turned from the window. “I will help, too.”
Margaret had been pleased when Catrìona later asked her for supplies and servants to clean and repair the cottage.
The queen had offered to provide clothing and assure the women who fed the children had sufficient stores of food.
Catrìona set about seeing the children had new clothes, enlisting her fellow ladies to make the girls pretty tunics, embroidered with flowers.
And, because she had suggested the work, Catrìona could hardly fail to participate in the needlework, but the constant company of the chattering women and her frustration at her dismal ability with a needle often left her bored and restless.
A few afternoons later, she had thought the piece she was embroidering was finished until she turned it over.
She let out an exasperated sigh when she saw the tangle of knotted thread.
It would have to be ripped out and done again.
How she wanted to escape the task and the small talk of the queen’s chamber to walk alone in the woods.
Her eyes flitted about the small chamber and, not seeing Margaret, remembered she had left to be with her young son. Angus would be busy in the practice yard with the king’s men and Niall would be with the archers. A perfect time for what she had in mind.
Leaving the other ladies engaged in their sewing, she left the chamber and, once outside the tower, took the path through the woods, following the burn.
It was a glorious day, the sun streaming through the leaves to fall on the yellow flowers growing by the path.
Birds sang above her, drawing the chitter of red squirrels.
Giving in to a sudden urge, she slipped off her shoes and stripped her feet of the linen hose, wriggling her freed toes in the grass growing to one side of the path.
She relished the way the tender green shoots tickled her feet.
Undoing her plaits, she let her hair fall free down her back.
Stuffing her hose into her shoes, she clutched them in one arm and began to walk.
And then she ran.
Exhilarated by the breeze on her face and the wind in her hair, she ran and ran until, out of breath, she slowed to a walk.
Her heart raced as she deeply inhaled the scent of the pine forest, feeling very alive.
Nothing had felt so good in a very long time.
It reminded her of those times as a girl she had loved to run barefoot in the vale.
If only those days had not ended so abruptly.
To her right the burn rippled over rocks, making a burbling sound.
She looked for a place to cross it. A short way ahead she spotted a tree fallen across the stream.
Its trunk appeared wide enough for a person’s feet.
Determined to cross, she held her skirts away with her free hand and stepped carefully onto the log.
With each step she gained confidence. Halfway across, her foot slipped.
Hands flailing, she tumbled into the swiftly moving stream with a great splash, her hose and shoes floating away on the current.
“Argh!” Her bottom resting uncomfortably on the rocks beneath the water, she grabbed for the garments slipping away, relieved when she recovered them.
For a moment she just sat there, frustrated and chilled. The burn was not deep, but she was most thoroughly soaked.
A chuckle sounded from the woods.
* * *
On his way back to the tower from his sword practice, Steinar spotted what looked like a tree nymph darting past him.
Running on the path with the abandon of a wild thing, she had not seen him hidden among the trees.
But he recognized the slim figure in the leaf-colored gown, her auburn hair, like a crimson banner, flying out behind her catching the sunlight filtering through the trees.
A free spirit alone in the woods to tempt him.
He could not help wondering if, like his sister, Catrìona had been indulged by a loving father who allowed her pursuits that were more properly those of a son than a daughter. Women like Serena were rare and Catrìona, so like his sister, called to some part of him long dormant.
Intrigued, he decided to follow her.
When she started to cross the stream, he remembered the moss he had seen growing on the fallen tree. Mayhap she had not recognized the danger, how slippery the growth would be under her feet.
He opened his mouth to warn her just as she gave out a shriek and fell into the water with a loud splash. It had to be cold. But he could not resist a chuckle for her dazed expression as she sat blinking in the shallow water.
“Does your father allow you to run barefoot in the forest and dance across logs?”
She whipped her head around and narrowed her eyes. Her long hair fell around her shoulders like a dark crimson shawl, dripping water onto her gown. And still she was beautiful.
“That is none of your concern, Scribe.” With a muffled curse, she struggled to rise. He reached out to help her just as she added somberly, “My father is dead.”
The way she had said it, the look of anguish in her eyes, told him she still mourned her father’s loss. Mayhap his death had been recent.
“Here,” he said reaching toward her, “take my hand and allow me to help you out.”
There was fire in her eyes but she took his hand while holding on to her shoes, soaked with water.
He pulled her from the stream, sodden and shivering.
It was the first time they had touched and even dripping wet, the feel of her skin caused a surge of desire to course through him.
The wet gown clung to her body, revealing her nipples hardened to small buds and her curves in vivid detail.
Wet, she was even more alluring than before.
He wanted to pull her close, to feel her softness, but instead, he merely steadied her with his hands.
“Did you not see the moss that grows on the log? ’Tis quite apparent. ”
Her brow furrowed. “You might have warned me.”
“You fell before I could.”
Wiping water from her face, she looked up at him. Her eyes were the green of the forest around them. Light filtering through the trees added a soft glow to her pale, damp skin. His gaze dropped to her lips, the color of wild roses. He ached to kiss them.
Bending his head, he moved his lips closer to hers.
Water suddenly dripped from her hair onto her nose, causing her to sniff and step back.
Still holding her shoes in one hand, she shivered. “I… I must look a mess.”
“Indeed not, but you are pale.” Recognizing her predicament, he said, “I wear no cloak to offer you, but I can give you the heat of my body.” Taking the shoes she carried and dropping them to the ground, he pulled her into his arms and held her against his chest, ignoring the water soaking into his tunic.
Her breasts pressed into his chest, warming him as his body responded to the nearness of the woman he could not dismiss from his thoughts.
She might be innocent but she possessed a natural seductiveness that promised passion to the man who would claim her.
And he wanted to be that man. Every warrior in the king’s hall had noticed the girl.
Of all the queen’s ladies, she was the most talked about.
They had taken to calling her the Rose of Dunfermline, a coveted prize for the one who would gain her hand.
He stared into her eyes as he lowered his mouth to hers, waiting for a sign he should stop.
She may have been too dazed or too wet to remember the rules.
Or mayhap she did not want to. Her breath came out on a soft sigh, telling him she, too, was affected by their closeness.
He allowed himself the briefest touch of her lips.
They were cool and soft. Drawing her more tightly into his embrace, he kissed her.
She responded tentatively, not with practiced movements but with an enchanting innocence.
He tasted of her, inhaling her scent, not unlike the clean, fresh scent of the woods around them. When the kiss ended, he raised his head. “Can it be the kiss of the king’s scribe does not offend the mormaer’s niece?”