Chapter 30
CHAPTER THIRTY
The castle kitchens were nearly dark but for the red glow of the fire still burning low in the massive hearth. Shadows flickered across long wooden tables and hanging copper pots as, wrapped in a warm woolen robe, Catriona slipped quietly inside.
She was in search of something hot and soothing enough to calm her restless thoughts. Deprived of Malcolm’s warmth in her bed, she was resigned to making do with milk, or cider, or even ale. Anything, so long as it would help her sleep.
But the moment she entered the kitchens, she stopped short, a burst of warmth exploding in her chest. She was not expecting to see the man who haunted her every waking moment standing beside the hearth, still fully dressed. He looked distinctly out of place.
With the wary expression of a man facing armed combat, he was watching a pot of milk hanging on a chain over the hot coals, which Catriona could see was dangerously close to boiling over.
As the foam threatened to spill over the sides, she darted forward and grabbed a cloth from a nearby hook. Malcolm visibly started as she pushed in front of him and carefully removed the pot from the fire, setting it down on the cooler stones.
“Och, thank ye,” Malcolm muttered, quickly getting over his shock. “I was out of me depth there.”
She laughed as she straightened up and looked at him. “Aye, I think ye were moments from burnin’ the kitchens down.”
He snorted softly, turning towards her, an amused smile playing about his lips.
Dinnae look at his lips too long...
“That’s harsh. Surely, I would have been likely tae put the fire out.”
“And the cooks would be very pleased about cleanin’ that mess up in the mornin’, with the whole place stinkin’ of burnt milk, ugh!”
“I reckon I can command fifty warships easier than that damned pot of milk,” he grumbled ruefully.
“Fetch some cups,” she instructed, nodding at the vast cupboards stacked with pots and pan and utensils of all kinds that occupied one entire wall. While Malcolm was occupied, she lifted the pot onto the nearest table and rummaged in the drawer beneath for a spoon and gave the milk a good stir.
Malcolm set the cups before her, then leaned against the table, watching her while she poured the milk into the mugs and stirred a spoonful of honey into each.
He took the cup she handed him. “Thank ye.” Then he added quietly, “I couldnae sleep.”
Tenderness blossomed in Catriona’s chest for the fearsome, battle-hardened warrior standing before her.
“Me neither,” she admitted. “But I’m surprised by yer choice of beverage. I would have thought ye’d prefer a couple of stiff drams tae help ye sleep.”
Malcolm shook his head. “Nay, with things as they are, I need me wits about me.” He rubbed a hand along the back of his neck almost sheepishly. “I ken ye ask fer warm milk when ye cannae sleep,” he confessed. “Thought it might help.”
She gazed up at him in amazement. “Ye noticed that?”
“Aye.” He raised the cup to his lips and blew across the surface of the steaming milk, his dark eyes resting on her as he took a cautious sip.
His brows lifted slightly. “Nae terrible.”
She laughed and sipped her own milk, her heart aching with love for him. They stood close together like that while silence fell over them, enclosing them in their own little world.
Malcolm’s expression suddenly sobered. “Tomorrow,” he said quietly, “I’ll speak tae Duncan.”
Catriona’s pulse fluttered nervously despite herself, but she only nodded.
“I cannae keep hidin’ from it. ’Tis drivin’ me mad. I’m like a cat on hot coals.”
“I’m glad. I’ll be even gladder when ’tis done,” she said gently, admiring his resolution. He was such a good, honorable man. And she was desperate for things to be settled.
For one suspended moment they simply looked at each other.
Then Malcolm suddenly bent and kissed her lips, a hungry kiss, though all too brief. It was enough to send heat spiraling through her entire body. When he pulled away, she made a soft sound of protest.
“Careful, lass, dinnae tempt me,” he murmured gruffly, the red glow of the coals dancing in his eyes. “Or I’ll forget where we are.”
She smiled, her lips tingling from the pressure of his kiss, from the honey-sweet taste of him. “Perhaps I want ye tae forget.”
The smoldering look he gave her made her knees turn to jelly. With visible effort, he drained his cup, placed it on the table, and stepped away from her towards the door.
“Finish yer milk. I’ll walk ye upstairs.”
She did as he bade her, put her cup next to his, and then went out through the door he held open for her.
The hallways lay silent and dimly lit as they climbed together toward the upper chambers. Catriona felt strangely peaceful beside him despite everything looming ahead.
They were talking quietly as they reached her chamber when Duncan’s door suddenly opened and he stepped out into the hallway.
All three of them froze.
Duncan blinked at the sight before him—his sister and Malcolm together in the corridor long after midnight.
“Well,” he said slowly. “I thought I heard talkin’, but this is unexpected.”
Catriona’s heart began pounding. Beside her, Malcolm went rigid.
“We couldnae sleep,” he said with remarkable calm considering the circumstances. “I was just walkin’ Cat back from the kitchens.”
Duncan’s gaze shifted between them thoughtfully. It was not accusing exactly, but she could clearly see the glimmer of suspicion there and felt afraid for Malcolm.
Duncan’s eyes settled on her. “Is that so?” It was not a question.
“Aye, I wanted some warm milk,” Catriona supplied quickly, her breath stalling.
A pause followed that was probably shorter than it felt. Then, Duncan rubbed tiredly at his eyes. “Ach, I cannae stand the stuff. ’Tis fit only fer babes.”
She breathed out slowly, seeing relief flicker briefly across Malcolm’s face as well.
“Goodnight, Duncan,” Catriona said sweetly.
“Hmm.” Rubbing his head, he disappeared back into his chamber, though not before casting Malcolm one final, deeply assessing look.
The moment the door shut, Malcolm groaned softly under his breath. Catriona put her hand to her chest, trying not to laugh hysterically from relief.
Malcolm dragged a hand down his face. “Christ, Cat.” He leaned over and opened her door for her, pushing her gently over the threshold.
“A cat on hot coals, I think that was what ye said,” she murmured, smiling as she turned to face him, loathe to say goodbye.
“Goodnight, Malcolm. Sweet dreams.”
He gave her a heart stopping, lopsided smile of his own. “Aye, lass, and the same tae ye,” he said, pulling the door shut between them.
Inside her chamber, Cat leaned against the door for a moment, fighting the urge to run after him. Tenderness suffused her body, warming her through. It was some solace for the loss of him.
Tomorrow then, it’ll all be settled at last, and Malcolm can stop worryin’.
The thought was so exciting, it was a wonder that she actually fell asleep soon after getting into bed.
The next afternoon, without any conscious thought on her part, Catriona’s feet carried her along their habitual path, out of the keep and into the bailey courtyard, then towards the castle gardens.
Having completed her stint in the infirmary that morning, she was now free for the afternoon. This proved to be more of a curse than a blessing, because the work had kept her hands and mind busy. With both now unoccupied, the uncertainty of her situation soon became almost overwhelming.
So, she had wrapped up warmly and ventured out into the damp, cold autumn air, hoping that a walk would help to calm the unease burgeoning inside her chest. Between Sinclair drawing nearer and the military preparations going on all around her, Duncan’s growing suspicions, and Malcolm’s mounting tension over speaking to her brother, her nerves felt stretched taut as bowstrings.
Consumed as she was by her worries, when she turned a corner near the stairwell of the western tower, she collided hard with someone solid and almost lost her balance.
A strong pair of hands caught her waist instantly.
“Bloody hell! Cat?”
“Malcolm?”
She looked up into dark brown eyes already fixed on her with startled intensity. He looked just as distracted as she felt, his chin shadowed by stubble, dark curls disordered as though he had been raking frustrated fingers through them.
“I’m sorry, I wasnae lookin’ where I was goin’,” she breathed, her hands resting on his forearms as he steadied her.
“Nay, ’twas me fault. I was lost in me thoughts,” he admitted, making no move to release her. Nor did she try to move away, but only tilted her neck to look up into his eyes.
The warmth of his hands burned through the fabric at her waist, and suddenly she was achingly aware of the size and strength of him standing so close. His familiar masculine scent of fresh air, musk, and sandalwood surrounded her instantly, awakening that dangerous heat low in her body.
They continued to stare at each other, unmoving, until they started at the sound of men’s voices nearby.
“’Tis Duncan and Ewan,” she whispered, a spiral of panic rising inside her as the familiar voices drew closer, for Malcolm’s sake more than her own.
He reacted instantly. In what felt like a reenactment of their journey through the priory tunnels, his hand tightened around hers as he pulled her backwards into the stairway, then into a narrow, recessed alcove hidden from sight.
The breath left her lungs as he pressed her body against the stone wall, pinning her gently but firmly in place with his own hard, warm length. The now familiar heat of desire spiraled through her so quickly she trembled.
Malcolm braced one arm beside her head, his head cocked, listening intently to the approaching footsteps and increasingly loud voices. Their eyes locked on each other, saying more than any words could. They held their breath as the voices grew louder.