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.