Starcatcher, page 29
Without looking up, Elizabeth spoke shyly. “I am so glad you are here.”
“So am I,” Marsali said, reaching to take the girl’s hand. “Though you are not to say that to anyone. I am supposed to be a prisoner, you know.”
Elizabeth rolled her eyes. Then she spoke with sudden and uncharacteristic boldness. “I hope Patrick marries you.”
Marsali had to bite her tongue. Of course, she wasn’t completely lying by not responding—they were really only handfasted. If they did not deny their handfast in a year’s time, then the union would become official.
“When do you think he will return?”
Elizabeth’s question brought a frown to Marsali’s forehead. “By dusk,” she replied. If he returns at all.
“I am sorry,” Elizabeth said softly. “I didna intend to make you worry any more than I know you already are.”
A little surprised at the girl’s perception, Marsali gave her a rueful smile. “You know, you remind me of Cecilia,” she said. “She always knows what I am thinking.” And, with a sigh, she added, “I miss her.”
“I like Cecilia,” Elizabeth said. “I have missed her, too, since … since our families no longer visit.”
Marsali’s lips thinned, recalling all the times the Gunns and Sutherlands had spent together. Visits with her aunt, feasts at winter solstice. Being betrothed, she had stayed with the women, but she knew her sister had become friends with Patrick’s sister during those happy occasions. Those times were gone, though, and as she looked at the shy, lonely girl sitting beside her, she counted yet another casualty of the senseless feud that had divided their families.
“Cecilia likes you, too,” she told Elizabeth honestly. “I know she was looking forward to having you as a real sister, once Patrick and I were married.”
“Truly?”
“Truly.” Marsali smiled, picturing her sister as she had seen her last—dressed in lad’s clothing, sitting behind Rufus atop his big bay, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “And now she has gone off on an adventure of her own,” she murmured without thinking.
“Tell me about it.”
Her gaze snapped to Elizabeth, realizing she never should have said anything so obviously destined to pique the girl’s curiosity. But Marsali hesitated over the decision only a moment. She knew Elizabeth was trustworthy. And so she told her the story, about her and Cecilia being kidnapped on her wedding day by Hiram and Rufus, and about Cecilia going with Rufus to his home in the Lowlands.
Elizabeth’s eyes grew wider and wider as the story progressed, and by the end, her mouth was actually hanging open. When Marsali finished, she sighed. “I would never have been so brave,” she breathed.
Marsali did not try to dissuade her, though she disagreed. Elizabeth would have to find her own worth. No one else could convince her of it.
Picking up the book, Marsali asked, “Would you like to have your first reading lesson now?”
Elizabeth’s face lit up, and Marsali thought again how pretty she was when she smiled. She would have to make sure Patrick found the right husband for his sister. And mayhap he would have to look no further than—Gavin. Her brother needed a wife, and although he seemed in no hurry to find one, she could not think of a sweeter mate than Elizabeth.
Catching Elizabeth’s curious glance, she tamed the smile tugging at her lips, moved Isolde off her lap, and rose to find some parchment and a quill.
Patrick saw the walls of Brinaire, and his heartbeat quickened. He loved the mountains and rolling hills that surrounded the keep, but he had never truly considered Brinaire his home—until now. At that very moment, when he saw the majestic towers looming against the backdrop of the mountains, and he knew Marsali was there, waiting for him, Brinaire became home. Just the sound of her name, whispered in his mind, eased the tension in his gut.
It was dusk, and a translucent moon hung waiting in the sky even before the sun had painted its final brushstroke across the horizon. Brinaire’s gates were open, and he rode through them with Hiram at his side. Impatient now, he dismounted and threw the reins to a stable lad, then strode across the courtyard and into the great hall, his gaze searching for his blue-eyed lass. When he did not see her, he did not bother to ask any of the clansmen present if they knew her whereabouts but, instead, took the stone stairs directly to her room. Reaching her door, he knocked once, threw it open, and entered without waiting for an invitation.
He stopped at the sight of Marsali and his sister sitting on the bed, their heads bent together over a book, a ferret in each of their laps. The picture they made warmed his heart and filled him with a love so strong he could not have imagined an adequate way to express it.
Marsali and Elizabeth raised their heads and saw him at the same moment, their faces both lighting with pleasure. With a small cry, Marsali leaped from the bed and ran to him. He caught her in his good arm, feeling her own arms encircle his waist. He buried his face in her hair, hugging her tightly against him, and for a long moment, neither of them spoke or moved.
When she finally lifted her face to meet his gaze, the relief and love he saw in her eyes made his heart lurch. He could no more have resisted the pull of her soft, parted lips than he could have resisted breathing. Without a thought in his head but how much he adored her, he brought his lips to hers and kissed her. He felt her tremble, felt her body press closer to his, felt her melt against him as the kiss deepened into something fierce and full of need.
Only the awareness of movement in the room reminded him that they were not alone. Opening one eye, he caught sight of Elizabeth, who was tucking the ferrets into their basket. Closing the lid, she tiptoed across the floor, attempting to slide past them and make a quiet exit.
Reluctantly, Patrick raised his head. “Elizabeth, wait.” His voice sounded hoarse as he fought to control his breathing as well as the outrageous conduct of his body—which should have been too weak to react as precipitously as it was.
“I … I … was just leaving,” his sister stuttered.
Keeping Marsali tucked at his side, he half turned to see Elizabeth making an effort not to stare at them—and failing.
He glanced at Marsali, who met his gaze only long enough for him to see her embarrassment.
Patrick’s jaw clenched. This had to end. Now. He would not have Elizabeth believe her brother to be a blackguard who would seduce a hostage. Nor would he have Marsali feeling guilty for expressing her love. Bloody hell, this house had known little enough of love, and he was determined to do whatever he could to encourage its growth—including kissing his wife whenever he chose to do so.
Giving Marsali a quick, reassuring smile, he spoke to his sister. “Marsali and I handfasted a week ago.”
He heard Marsali’s tiny gasp and felt her body grow tense in the circle of his arm.
His sister’s eyes were as round as saucers. “Truly?” she asked.
“Aye,” he said.
A smile spread slowly across her face as she looked from him to Marsali, then back again. “Then Marsali is truly my sister. But, Patrick—” The smile disappeared abruptly, and she whispered, “Does Father know?”
He shook his head. “Nay, he doesna—else you would have heard the roars clear to the sea.”
“And Alex?”
“Not yet.” Hesitating only a moment, he said, “We had three witnesses, though. Gavin, Hiram, and a man you donna know.”
Elizabeth sighed, her hands clasped together in front of her. “Oh, I am so glad.” Then, with a blush creeping into her cheeks, she added, “But I must go now. Thank you for telling me. I promise, I willna tell anyone else.” And before he could stop her, she fled the room, leaving the door sitting open.
“Alone at last,” Patrick growled, striding across the room to kick the door closed with his foot. When he turned, he found Marsali watching him, her expression nearly as astonished as Elizabeth’s had been. He smiled, walking slowly toward her.
“I didna think you would tell her,” she said as he approached. “I am glad you did. I know we can trust her.”
Stopping in front of her, he tugged her into his full embrace, ignoring the pain in his shoulder to put his left arm, as well as his right, around her. “I want to tell everyone,” he murmured, his lips brushing hers. “I want to tell the world that you are mine.”
Then his mouth covered hers, and any need for speech ceased to exist. They sought each other frantically—mouths locked, bodies clinging, desperate to get closer. He warned himself to be cautious, but the warning went unheeded. And soon he was lost. Completely, ecstatically lost.
Marsali snuggled in the crook of Patrick’s right arm, reveling in the feel of her bare skin against his. She ran her hand over his chest and downward, over his hard stomach.
“I should let you rest,” she said.
“I am resting,” he murmured.
She sighed again. He was resting but only after very strenuous activity. She had tried to make it easy for him, allowing him to guide her on top of him. She had felt a bit shy at first, and she had been uncertain what to do. But when he had begun moving, her body had responded instinctively. The recent memory of the way it had been, with her riding him, sent tiny spasms of pleasure through her. Such a glorious ride.
He had slept for a time afterward, and she had watched, content to have him beside her. She would have let him sleep all night, but some scattered noise drifting through the window from the courtyard below had awakened him a few minutes ago. Marsali was wondering whether she could persuade him to go back to sleep when a soft knock at the door decided the question.
“Oh!” She sat bolt upright, suddenly realizing that it would not do—nay, it would not do at all—to have someone find Patrick naked in her bed. “Quickly!” she whispered, hopping up to search frantically for something to put on.
Snatching her nightdress from the end of the bed, she yanked it into some semblance of order around her nude form. A glance at Patrick increased her panic, for he seemed completely unconcerned as he casually got out of bed and went about looking for his clothing.
The knock came again, insistent, and Marsali hurried toward the door, afraid whoever it was would grow tired of waiting and just walk in, for the door had no lock. With her hands on the latch, she cast a glance over her shoulder at Patrick, which made her groan. He had pulled his shirt over his head, but he could only manage to get his right arm through the sleeve; he might as well not have bothered.
Hoping he would stay out of sight, Marsali opened the door a crack and peeked out. Relief flooded her when she saw Jeanie standing in the corridor, with Hiram lurking behind her.
“The marquis is looking fer his son,” Jeanie said quietly.
Marsali felt Patrick close to her, and she turned to see him standing at her shoulder. His barefooted approach had been utterly silent.
He wrapped his fingers around the edge of the door and opened it wider. She watched Jeanie’s gaze take in his tousled hair and the plaid he had draped haphazardly over his shoulder. It hung nearly to his knees, covering the essentials, but its condition made it obvious what they had been doing.
Jeanie did not seem in the least bothered. “Yer father wants ye in the great hall fer supper tonight,” she said to Patrick, her eyes twinkling.
“You can tell the marquis,” he said, “that the earl and his lady would be pleased to join him for supper. No, wait. I will tell him myself.”
Marsali saw Hiram’s eyebrow lift and heard Jeanie’s quick intake of breath.
Her own heart was in her throat as she looked at him. “Are you sure?” she asked.
“Aye,” Patrick said. “Half the castle must know where I am. ’Tis time to tell my father and everyone else where I stand. I have no heart for sneaking and skulking.” He held her stunned gaze. “Are you ready?”
She was not. The marquis frightened her. She was not so frightened of what he might do to her, as of what he might do to Patrick. She did not want to be the cause of Patrick’s being disowned.
“Are you really certain you wish to do this?” she whispered.
“Aye,” he smiled. “I am really certain.”
“But—”
He silenced her with a swift kiss, then said, “I want you protected if anything happens to me. I believe Father will protect my wife, even if she is a Gunn. He wouldna do the same for my mistress, no matter who she was.”
He sounded so confident that she had to wonder what he knew that she did not.
He gave her no time to consider. “I will return in an hour’s time for you,” he said. “Jeanie can help you dress.” He leaned down and kissed her nose, tickling her as he did so and extracting a smile.
“Are you going to walk to your room like that?” she asked, smiling as her gaze raked over him.
“Nay,” he grumbled. “Help me with the shirt, then wrap this bloody plaid.”
She did as requested, while Jeanie bustled into the room and began straightening things. Hiram stood in the doorway, looking disgruntled as he watched her dress his friend. Doubtless, he thought he should be helping Patrick, but Marsali did not agree. It was a wife’s right and privilege to help her husband. And she felt like a wife. A true wife. And soon everyone would know.
Including her father. If the handfasting was made public at Brinaire, ’twould not be long before word reached Abernie. A shudder ran through her at the thought.
Hiding her distress, she finished buckling the wide belt around Patrick’s waist, then gave him a tremulous smile.
“I will be all right, love,” he said.
She should have known she could not hide her feelings from him.
“I love you,” she whispered.
“Aye, I know,” he replied softly. “I am counting on it.”
And then he was gone.
Patrick walked down the hall toward the stairs. Hiram followed, muttering to himself.
“Now what are you complaining about?” Patrick tossed the question over his shoulder.
“Women,” Hiram grunted. “Best to stay away from them. I would ha’ fixed the plaid fer ye.”
Patrick chuckled. “Forgive me for preferring a gentler touch.”
Hiram mumbled something else, but Patrick heard enough to understand the gist of it.
Stopping at the top of the stairs, he waited until Hiram caught up. “Jeanie?” he said.
“Stubborn woman,” Hiram muttered, plodding down the stairs with such force that Patrick was thankful they were made of solid stone.
“How is she stubborn?” he asked.
“Says she is no’ interested in a husband.” Hiram looked at him plaintively. “Wha’ kind of woman is no’ interested in a husband?”
“Have you someone particular in mind?” Patrick queried.
Hiram mumbled again.
“I didna hear you,” Patrick said.
“Nay,” Hiram said finally. Reaching the last step, he started down the corridor, waving a hand as he spoke. “I just think a bonny woman like her … Well, she shouldna be alone.”
Patrick fell into step beside him. “Did you ask to court her?” he asked.
Hiram drew himself up to his full height and looked at him indignantly. “Nay.”
“I am afraid to ask how the subject of marriage arose.”
“I simply said she needed a mon, a fine braw mon like me.” He threw his arms wide. “’Twas a simple observation.”
Patrick groaned. “And what did she say?”
“She chased me from the kitchen with a broom,” Hiram replied despondently.
Stopping before his father’s chamber door, Patrick asked, “Then how did you come to be at Marsali’s door together?”
“I couldna find ye, and didna think I should come to the lady’s room alone.”
“So you asked Jeanie to help you?”
“Aye,” Hiram said, a smile spreading over the battered face.
Patrick’s lips curved in a slow, sly smile. Mayhap his big, awkward friend was not as inept in the ways of courtship as he had feared.
“I might try some flowers, were I you,” he suggested.
“Flowers?” Hiram sounded horrified.
“Flowers.”
Patrick’s good humor faded as he turned to his father’s door.
“Do ye wish me to wait?” Hiram asked.
“Nay.” Patrick gave a soft snort. “I donna think he will shoot me. Yet.”
Hiram looked dubious, but he turned and walked back down the hall. Mayhap on his way to find some flowers. The thought made Patrick smile again as he raised his hand and knocked.
“Whoever the hell ye be, go away,” his father roared.
Ignoring the order, Patrick straightened his back, opened the door, and entered the chamber. His father was sitting in a chair by the cold hearth, a goblet in his hands. A pitcher sat on a table next to him. Wine. Evidence of it showed in his father’s red-rimmed eyes.
“Hiram said you wanted me.”
“At supper, lad. At supper. ’Tis time you sat with me at the high table. You are always gone,” he complained in a voice that, to Patrick’s surprise, seemed to tremble.
Patrick nodded. “I will be leaving in the morning. A raid.”
“On the Gunns?” the marquis asked with drunken satisfaction.
“On the border,” Patrick replied. His father could believe what he wished—for now.
“I wish I could go with you,” Gregor said.
Patrick blinked. Was that a tear in his father’s eye?
Abruptly, Gregor tried to stand, his hand waving Patrick away. But he could not do it. With a cry of pain, he fell back, and Patrick stepped forward to catch him with his good arm and lower him into the chair. His father’s gnarled hands battered at him to leave him alone. Suddenly Patrick realized that his father was embarrassed—water did glimmer in his eyes, and he did not want anyone, not even his son, to know.
Stunned, Patrick stared at his father, remembering the fierce, proud man he had respected in his youth. Bloody hell, he had loved him, no matter how little love his father had shown him. Ironically, looking at the shadow of a man whose own pride had destroyed him, he realized that he had never loved his father more than he did at that moment.
