Starcatcher, page 8
The last of the riders dismounted and headed toward the great hall for food and drink. Patrick prayed they would sleep well tonight. He kept his head down as several servants came out and distributed food to those in the courtyard. One man nudged him with a foot, and he fought not to react. Another voice interceded.
“Let ’im sleep. I saw ’im come in. ’E could barely walk.”
Patrick heard the sound of retreating boots on solidly packed earth.
Hours passed. The night deepened. Voices finally quieted, replaced by snoring. He glanced at the sky. The moon was only half full but very bright. He judged the time to be well past midnight. Fires had flickered out; only a few embers glowed against the gloom of the courtyard.
Patrick stumbled to his feet, leaning on his cane. Two men in Gunn plaid stood by the door that led to the interior of the castle. Patrick grunted as he reached them, removing the flagon of undrugged wine from his bag and taking a deep swallow.
The two guards looked at him thirstily.
“And what do ye be wanting inside?” one asked.
Patrick handed him the flagon, keeping his eyes on the door. “A bit of food,” he said hopefully. “I heard I would find some ’ere.”
“They were giving out food earlier,” one of the guards said, taking a hefty draught from the flagon and passing it to his partner.
Patrick ran a hand over his forehead. “I must ha’ been asleep. I came a great distance and was told I would be welcome here for a night.”
“Aye,” one man said, “Abernie has always been known for hospitality. But there be trouble now.”
The other man regarded Patrick dubiously, then looked at the flagon. “’Tis good wine.”
“Ye can have it,” Patrick said. “I ha’ only hunger in my belly.”
“Let him go in,” the first guard said. “Ye know Jeanie’s generous heart, and he looks to be a MacDougal.”
“Are ye?” asked the other guard.
“Aye.” Patrick handed him the wine.
“Do ye know Jeanie MacDougal?”
“Nay,” he said. “But I ha’ heard of her.”
The guards looked at each other, then one said, “There should be some bread in the kitchen. Go through the hall, down the corridor tae the back. The kitchen is tae the left. There should be someone there.”
Patrick bowed slightly. “Och, but my stomach thanks ye.” He shuffled forward, tapping his cane on the uneven stone floor.
The corridor was quiet, the double doors to the great hall closed. The place rang with memories. He had been happy here. Happier than he had been anywhere else in his life.
But this was no time for reminiscing. Patrick started for the stairs, careful to keep to the shadows. When he reached the second floor, he heard footsteps and voices from above. He moved swiftly along the dark corridor and pressed himself against the wall, wishing he could melt into the stone.
“Surely, Father, you canna continue to keep her locked up.” It was Gavin. “She worked all afternoon and evening on the wounded. They need her.”
“Jeanie and the other women can assume her duties.” The laird’s voice was harsh and unforgiving. “We need that marriage now more than ever. She must get over these romantic notions of hers and see reason.”
“She doesna trust Edward Sinclair, and I canna say that I do, either,” Gavin said. “The Sinclairs have never been our friends. Never been anyone’s friends but their own.”
“She made no complaints about the first marriage I planned for her,” the laird said plaintively.
“She thought Patrick was a good man,” Gavin said. “She never liked Sinclair and made no secret of it. And you know Marsali can be very stubborn.”
“God’s blood, but she will destroy me. D’ye think, lad, she dreams still about that devil’s spawn? Ach! By God, she will do what I wish if I have to take everything away from her, including those cursed ferrets.”
In the brief silence that followed, Patrick heard the sound of a candle sputtering very close by. He pressed his body harder against the wall.
Finally, the laird spoke again, from the landing only a few feet away. “I thought you approved of the alliance with Sinclair.”
“I did not realize how strongly she felt,” Gavin said. “I didna know you had told her you would marry Cecilia to Sinclair if she didna marry him.” Anger deepened his voice. “Cecilia is still a child!”
“Many lasses are married at her age,” his father retorted. “And Marsali openly defied me in spiriting her sister away. Ach! Even now, I canna believe she did such a thing!”
“Aye, she did it,” Gavin said, “but she thought she had reason.”
The older man grunted. “You want her to marry the Sutherland whelp? A man who would attack peaceful farmers?”
Patrick missed Gavin’s response as father and son continued descending the stairs and their voices faded. How much time did he have before they returned to their chambers? He could only hope Duncan had already retired.
Moving silently down the corridor, he found the door he sought, standing outside it for a moment to listen for any movement within. Hearing none, he gently pushed the door open and slid inside, closing it swiftly and silently behind him so that no light from the corridor would enter and give him away. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he took the dirk from his belt. He would do what he needed to do to find Marsali.
His gaze came to rest on the large form lying on the bed. Duncan. With luck, he had drunk his fill of wine tonight—and Patrick could get in and out of the room without rousing him. Wishing there were more than a sliver of moonlight coming through the window, he scanned the room until he made out the outline of a table with an irregular object on its surface. He moved to it quickly and in seconds his fingers had closed around a ring of keys. He wrapped his hand around them tightly to keep them from jingling, and stepped carefully toward the door.
A soft snort came from the bed. Patrick held perfectly still, not even breathing, until the sleeping man settled once more into deep slumber. Thanking God, hoping that He was receptive to this bit of thievery, Patrick opened the door a crack and checked the corridor. No one in sight. Stepping out of the room, Patrick closed the door as gently as he had opened it and stood in the hallway.
He hung on to the thought that, in another hour, two at most, he and Marsali would be gone from here—together. If only she would hear him out.
After listening for several moments, he steadied himself and moved stealthily up to the third floor. Reaching the top of the stairs, he hesitated, then turned down the corridor toward Marsali’s room—and let it be, he prayed, that she still occupied the same chamber as when she was a child.
Candles flickered from several sconces set high on the walls. He looked down at the keys. There were five, two especially heavy. These would most likely open the armory door and the other the huge iron door leading to the interior of the keep. The key to interior rooms would be one of the other three. He tried one, wincing at the loud grating noise it made, cursing under his breath when it did not turn. The second key, however, slid easily into the lock and turned.
She was standing at the window, her slim form outlined by moonlight. It did not seem that she had heard him, but she turned then, and he knew the instant she saw him. She came to a sudden stop, and her sharp intake of breath was audible from across the room. Before she could utter another sound, he had crossed to her and placed a finger on her lips.
“Shhhh,” he whispered. Then, bending her head, he silenced her with a kiss.
Chapter 7
Marsali knew instantly whose lips covered hers. She could never mistake the taste of him, the feel of his mouth against hers. Even the unfamiliar beard, an oddly pleasant sensation brushing against her skin, could not make her doubt what her heart knew was true.
Her first impulse was to melt in his arms, to forget the day, forget the dead and wounded and Wee Harry’s tears—but the impulse was short-lived.
“Patrick.” Her lips slid away from his and she whispered against his neck. “Oh, Patrick, what are you doing here? How did you get inside?”
With her hands on his biceps, she pushed away to look up at him. Her eyes, accustomed to the dark, took in his appearance. God above, it was well he had kissed her, for if she had but seen him, she would not have recognized him.
Cautioning her with a finger to his lips, he held up an object for her to see. A key.
Her eyes widened.
“I took it from Duncan Gunn’s room,” he whispered.
She stiffened. “Duncan?”
“He was sleeping. He is still sleeping.”
“You didna hurt him?”
“Nay, lass. I didna touch him,” he said, his fingers skimming her face reverently.
“And if you had been discovered?”
“Even then, I would not have hurt him,” he assured her. “Do you not know that I would never hurt anyone who is dear to you?”
She wanted, to the depths of her soul, to believe him. But the Gunn crofters had been so absolutely certain, and she had spent the evening bandaging wounds that had come from somewhere. And he looked so unlike himself, this man standing boldly in her room—in his enemy’s keep.
She did not truly know him, the voice of doubt reminded her. The man before her was a warrior, tested time and again on the battlefield. For the past twelve years, he had lived and breathed violence. Could it be that violence had become such a part of him that he could not forsake it? And would she know if he was lying to her? Or, because she had loved him and waited so long for him, would she be gulled into believing what her heart wanted to hear?
Reading her hesitation, he said, “I heard about the raid. You must know I had no part in it.”
“Your father?”
“No,” he said. “He could not have ordered it without my knowing. I am certain of it.”
She caught her lower lip between her teeth, backing away from his arms, arms she wanted so badly to hold her. “You have to go,” she said. “This is dangerous.”
He moved toward her, and she took another step backward.
“Hiram told me you were being kept a prisoner,” he said. “Jeanie told him that you were not eating.”
“Jeanie never believes I eat enough,” Marsali replied. “And now that you see I am perfectly well, you must go.”
He ignored her request. “Did she tell you that your sister is safe? And content?”
“Aye,” she said. “And I thank you for that. But now …”
Her words trailed off when he came to a halt mere inches away from her. With the back of her knees against the window seat, she could not move. She felt his gaze boring into her. Its heat stopped her words, stopped her very breathing. His hand went to her face, his fingers following the planes of her cheek with featherlike strokes.
“Marsali,” he finally murmured. “You must have heard that my name was mentioned during that raid.”
She nodded, unable to speak.
His finger tucked a wayward curl behind her ear. The touch was like the caress of the wind.
“Marsali …” he whispered.
That was all he said, but the way he said it, the way he spoke her name, his deep voice filling the single word with hope and longing, found its way straight to her heart. She could not help herself, could not prevent her hand from going to his face or her fingers from touching him as he had touched her.
“Ah, God,” he breathed.
Then she was in his arms and his lips were on hers again. This time she did not push away. Rather, she let herself be swallowed in a moment so wondrous that she did not care whether it was real or magic. She only wanted it to go on and on.
A new sensation settled deep in her belly, a sweet craving that made her tremble inside. His kiss deepened, and when he opened his mouth over hers, inviting her, leading her, she followed. His tongue entered her mouth, stirring her need into a tempest.
Of its own accord, her body pressed closer to his, relishing his lean strength and his heat, fitting so naturally against him that she could no longer deny the truth. She belonged here, in his arms. This was real. This was Patrick, and she loved him. She’d always loved him. As their mouths blended and their bodies strained toward each other, the woman she had become realized that the reality of this love was a far greater, far more compelling thing than she had ever dreamed. It made her heart sing and her senses reel. It made her lose all caution, all fear.… It made her want more.…
His arms encircled her, and she clung to his neck. Her legs were suddenly weak and her heart pounded. She wanted to touch every part of him. She wanted to believe there was no one and nothing but the two of them.
She gasped for breath when he dragged his mouth away from hers, dragged it across her cheek to bury his face in her hair.
“Tell me that you believe I had nothing to do with the raid,” he said, his voice ragged with both desire and anguish. “I need to hear you say it, lass.”
“Nay,” she breathed. “I know you did not.”
She could feel some of the tension go out of him, heard it leave in his heavy sigh. He kept his face buried in her hair for a moment, then lifted his head to look down at her.
“I know you were not among the raiders,” she told him. “But most think you were.”
“Gavin?”
“Aye,” she said.
In the moonlight, she saw his lips thin. “Marsali, I swear to you, I didna even know about it, nor do I believe that any Sutherlands did.”
She was silent a moment. “They were wearing your plaids.”
He nodded. “It is clear that whoever did it wanted your father to think it was Sutherlands. If the plaids were ours, then someone went to considerable lengths to put on the ruse. The dyes are not so easy to make.”
“I know,” she said. “But it wouldna be impossible. Sutherland women make them, after all.” Then she paused before continuing thoughtfully, “The Sinclairs?”
“Hmm. ’Tis a reasonable assumption,” he replied.
“My father is not reasonable about your family.”
His strong hands came up to grip her shoulders. “That is why I am here. Marsali, I want you to leave with me.”
She stared at him in astonishment. “Leave with you?” She uttered a brief, shocked laugh. “I am still wondering how you got in.”
He drew back a little, and his voice was colored by mock indignation. “Have you not noticed my appearance? Canna you see that I am a master of disguise?”
“I can barely see you at all,” she chided gently.
“Ah, but you can smell. ’Tis sorry I am about that.”
“It doesna matter. Oh, Patrick”—her voice broke a little—“I have missed you so.”
“Marsali …”
His head lowered, his lips grazing her cheek, her eyelids, his voice whispering in her ear words that turned her insides into liquid fire. When his mouth slanted across hers, his tongue swept inside in intimate possession. The embers still smoldering between them flared instantly to a full blaze.
They clung together in desperate need, and Marsali found it odd but right that, in his arms, she felt both helpless and steady. Somehow, he made her believe, for the briefest moment, that all would be right.
“Marsali,” he groaned, his voice full of a desire that she knew burned as deeply in him as it did in her.
Caution fled. Their heartbeats quickened, pounding against one another’s. She felt his muscles flexing in response to each of her soft caresses. Oh, how much she wanted him, how much she wanted to live with him and be his wife, to wake up with him and go to bed with him, to sing with him and even cry with him. She wanted to give him everything.
She greedily tasted the aching sweetness of his mouth. Nothing had prepared her for this—the sweet explosions, the overwhelming hunger, the excruciating tingling that reached to her toes.
By the time he drew away from her, the kiss had rendered her all but senseless. She was trembling all over, and her breathing sounded like whimpering panting to her ears.
“This is madness,” he said hoarsely. “Will anyone be coming back here to check on you?”
She shook her head. “I—I donna think so. They were here … earlier.”
“They still want you to marry Sinclair?”
“My father does, but I willna. Not now that Cecilia is safe—” She broke off. The thought of her sister was like a strong wind, blowing all other thoughts from her mind. She gripped his hand. “Patrick, tell me truly, you are sure she is safe?”
“Aye,” he said gently, reaching into his sporran and extracting something that he held out to her. “She sent you this. She said you would know what it meant.”
A white rose. Marsali took it in her hands. Cecilia loved white roses, and before she had left with Rufus she had whispered that she would send one to signal that she was safe. A red rose would have meant she was in danger.
Smiling, Marsali felt the worry that had plagued her drain away. “Thank you,” she said.
Patrick returned her smile. “Hiram said your sister became a member of the family immediately. Rufus, I fear, is besotted. He decided to stay several additional days to make sure she was ‘comfortable.’”
“She is so young,” Marsali said.
“Aye, she is. And Rufus will not take advantage, nor would his family allow it. I would not send her there otherwise.”
“I will never be able to tell you how grateful I am.”
“Ah, lass, it was little enough.” He brushed her forehead with his lips. “I wish I could slay you a dragon, but instead I can only carry you off.”
“No,” she replied softly. “I canna go. It would only make things worse.”
“It canna get worse,” he said. “But if I take you as hostage, your father willna ride against us. It will give me time to find the real raiders—and the man behind them.”
“Hostage?” Marsali felt the warmth draining from her. She was hardly aware of moving stiffly out of his embrace.
He caught her arm. “Marsali, I would not use you against your father. But I canna see you imprisoned by him, either. I will not leave you here.”
