Once Upon a Plaid Read online

  He’d do anything for her. She knew that. The only trouble was there was nothing he could do about her barrenness. She sighed and held him tighter. He was the love of her life, but it wasn’t enough. It was selfish of her to cling to him. It was time she made a fresh break....

  But he was so strong and alive and wonderful. How many more times would she be able to hold him like this?

  Just when she was beginning to wish they could keep riding forever, moving as one, nothing to stop them, nothing to separate them, William reined in the horse. It danced in circles, still wanting to run.

  “Settle then, ye wicked beast,” he growled to the gelding. Greyfellow stopped fidgeting and stood still. “I’ll give ye your head when we turn back to the castle and ye can gallop your silly hooves off then.”

  Will threw one leg over the horse’s head and slid to the ground. He helped Katherine down, his hands lingering on her waist. After he hobbled the gelding, he took Kat’s hand and led her to the rocky promontory overlooking the loch.

  A biting wind lifted the bottom of Katherine’s cloak. She shivered but didn’t complain. The view was too lovely to spoil by quibbling over chattering teeth. The loch stretched below them, long but fairly narrow in either direction, its choppy surface cradled between ragged peaks. In the distance, the grey sky and water seemed to join as the clouds lowered.

  “More snow this night, I’ll be bound,” William said. When he turned his head so she could see his profile, Katherine caught a glimpse of the son she should have given him. He’d have been strong and sturdy, with laughing eyes and a firm chin, a smaller version of his father. A dull ache throbbed in her chest, and she forced herself to look away to the rough water of the loch.

  She had to find new thoughts. The ones rolling around in her head now were likely to make her heart stop beating.

  “I wonder how the waterhorse will manage if the loch freezes solid,” she said.

  “Waterhorse?”

  “Aye, did ye never hear tell of the waterhorse of Loch Ness?”

  Will chuckled. “O’ course I have. Since St. Columba saw the monster ages ago, there have been stories. I just never expected ye to believe in it.”

  “I grew up here, remember. The loch’s full of secrets.” She shrugged and pulled her cloak tighter. When the dark water of the loch rippled and swirled on a still day for no reason, it was hard not to imagine something large and otherworldly moving silently beneath the surface. “Nab saw it once, ye ken.”

  “Did he?”

  “Aye, so they say. It happened when he was but a young lad. Afterward, his mother found him standing like a pillar of salt by the edge of the loch, staring down into the dark water. He could scarcely move. She led him home, but he didna speak for a week. Then he finally said ‘Weel, that was a hell of a sight.’”

  William moved closer, positioning his body to shield her from the wind. “That doesna sound like Nab.”

  “No, it doesna. His father beat him for swearing, though I’ve no doubt he learned the word at his father’s knee, but his mother claims Nab never would have sworn unless he’d seen the waterhorse.”

  “I guess that would do it.”

  “Some folk say that’s what turned Nab so queer, but my father says he was born thus.”

  “I expect your father’s right. We are as God made us.”

  She looked at him sharply then. He was staring into the distance with a hard set to his jaw.

  “So ye’re saying I am as God made me.”

  He smiled at her then, but it seemed hollow, like the one she forced herself to wear sometimes. A cat’s smile. A smile that held unspeakable secrets. “I should remember to thank Him because He made ye specially for me to love.”

  “No, that’s not what ye were thinking. Ye were thinking if ye canna lay the blame on your wife, ’tis God’s fault we have no child.”

  “’Tis no one’s fault.”

  “Good. Ye shouldna blame the Almighty,” she said primly. “I fear for your soul if ye do.”

  “He hasna struck me down yet, and trust me, I’ve had plenty of blasphemous thoughts.”

  “Will, dinna say that. ’Tis my fault and we both know it.”

  “Kat, for once in your life, will ye please stop? I didna bring ye here to talk. In truth, I’m weary to death of words. There’ve been too many between us already, and more will only make things worse.” He moved to stand behind her, put his arms around her, and pulled her close to his chest. “I just want to be alone with the girl I love.”

  “Oh, Will.” She ought to pull away from him. If she didn’t, it would only make things harder on both of them, but she couldn’t seem to help herself. She sank back into his embrace, soaking up his warmth and the strength of his body.

  “That’s more like it.” He kissed her neck just the way she liked for him to. A little pleasure-sprite danced over her skin. “Besides, I’ve a present for ye.”

  “A present?” She really ought not to accept it. Not when in her mind, she was still composing a letter to His Holiness, Clement VII, asking for an annulment. “I’ve not been good enough to deserve a gift.”

  “Probably not, haring off as ye did and making me and Greyfellow tramp through a blizzard after ye, but I’m prepared to overlook that.” He nuzzled her neck again, the stubble of his beard tickling her in a very good way indeed. “Besides, ’tis Christmas, and we all deserve a bit of leeway at this time of year. In any case, I want ye to have it. Ye’ve need of it.”

  He trudged back through the snow to Greyfellow and pulled something out of his saddlebag. “’Tis a wee pretty I picked up for ye in Edinburgh last time I was there. They say all the ladies at court have one for winter.”

  William handed her a rectangle of rabbit fur.

  A puzzled frown knitting her brows, Katherine ran her palm over the softness. “I thank ye, Will, for the . . . er . . . what is it?”

  “They call it a muff. There are openings on either side and ye stick your hands into it. Here. Let me show ye.”

  Standing behind her, he guided her hands into the dense fur and stayed there, his arms around her, his chin resting on the crown of her head.

  “Och, ’tis so soft.”

  “And if ye give it a moment, your hands will warm the space and your fingers will be toasty even without gloves.”

  “’Tis lovely, Will. And verra fine. But I have nothing for ye.”

  He turned her in his arms and drew her close. Then he leaned down to touch his forehead to hers. “Let’s away to your chamber and I’m sure if we try hard enough we’ll discover something ye might give me.”

  Without thinking about it, she slipped her muff-covered hands over his head, resting the fur against the back of his neck. His scent enveloped her—all leather and warm horse and undeniably male. His dark eyes searched her face, asking for—no, demanding—a response. Katherine tipped her chin up a wee bit.

  He brushed her lips with his, a soft, glancing caress. This man had a way of kissing her that made each time feel as if it were the first. As if no one had ever kissed before and he and Katherine were making it up as they went. This time it was as if he were trying to divine her secrets by teasing them from her mouth.

  Then, deep and demanding and true, William covered her lips in a hungry bruising. He claimed her, and even though the kiss was rougher than usual, Kat roused to him.

  Desire flared to life and she felt herself go soft and liquid in her inward parts. Everything in her responded to his dark summons. Katherine was falling a bit on the inside, tumbling into that place where nothing and everything made perfect sense, and when she did, she knew William would be there to catch her.

  She’d do anything for this man.

  It would be so easy to rush back to the keep and lie with him. So easy to give him release and take some for herself. So easy to worship him with her body. She’d often thought she needed to esteem either William less or God more, lest she be guilty of idolatry. It was so easy to adore her husband.

&nb
sp; But could she do the hardest thing and show she truly loved him?

  Love would free him to find another woman who could give him a dozen sons.

  With effort, she pulled away. “No, Will, I canna.”

  “If ye’re still—”

  “Nay, ’tis not that. My courses are ended.” She edged away from him. “And so is our marriage. The sooner ye accept that, the better ’twill be for us both.”

  Hurt flicked over his features, but it was so quickly replaced by anger, Katherine couldn’t be sure she hadn’t imagined it. She’d seen Will’s wrath aimed at the marauding Campbells who stole cattle whenever they could and at crofters who were too lazy to work the land he’d assigned them, but it had never been turned in her direction before. She stepped back another pace under the blistering heat of his scowl.

  “As ye will, milady,” he said, his voice taut with fury. Then, without another word, he picked her up and deposited her on Greyfellow’s back as if she were a sack of meal. But this time, she wasn’t on the pillion. He’d placed her squarely on the saddle.

  He unhobbled the gelding. Katherine barely had time to throw a leg over to slip both feet into the stirrups before William gave the horse a whack on the backside. Greyfellow took off at a mile-eating canter back to the warmth and light and oats waiting for him in the castle stable.

  As Katherine streaked under the portcullis, she realized in her effort to hang on to Greyfellow’s reins, she’d lost her new muff, her Christmas gift from William, somewhere along the path.

  It was just as well. She didn’t deserve it.

  Sire, the night is darker now

  and the wind blows stronger.

  Fails my heart, I know not how I can go no longer.

  —From “Good King Wenceslas”

  “If a body’s that weary, why does he not lie down and sleep? And they call me a fool!”

  —An observation from Nab,

  fool to the Earl of Glengarry

  Chapter Five

  William trudged through the snow trying to stay in the trampled path left by Greyfellow’s hooves. At one point, he found Katherine’s muff tossed carelessly aside into a snow-covered gorse bush.

  She’d thrown away his gift just as she was throwing away their marriage. Damned if he’d let her do it. He pricked his fingers on the sharp thorns several times, but finally managed to extricate the muff from the shrubbery. He stuffed it into the folds of his plaid and pressed on.

  He was chilled to the bone by the time he made it back to Glengarry Castle. Night fell early in the Highlands in December. He stomped his frozen feet to coax some feeling into them while the watchmen challenged him. After several impertinent questions, which he felt were entirely unnecessary—he was wed to the daughter of the house, after all—William was finally allowed back in.

  “Ought to have let her walk home,” he grumbled as he headed for the great hall. At the time, his only thought had been to get Katherine out of his sight before he said or did something he’d later regret.

  Now he wondered why he had bothered since she didn’t seem to regret anything. She wounded him afresh with each rejection and didn’t care a flying fig.

  He wouldn’t have named her heartless before.

  When he entered the great hall, supper was still in progress, despite the fact that Lord Glengarry’s place on the dais was empty. Will wasn’t surprised. The laird was getting older, and since he’d had that apoplectic fit last winter, he tired more easily.

  The whole castle had been in an uproar of panic when their laird was stricken. For weeks, one side of the old man’s face sagged and his speech was slurred. William and Katherine had been summoned to Glengarry and even Donald abandoned court to rush to his father’s bedside.

  The earl was made of stern stuff. He had rallied and regained his speech. But now the constant merrymaking of Christmastide probably wearied him more than usual. Will figured his father-in-law had likely taken a bowl of parritch in his chamber.

  The fire blazing in the gigantic hearth called to him.

  “God be praised,” William murmured under his breath as he worked his way through the throng to stand before the flames. The smell of steaming wool warned him he was a bit too close. It felt so good to let his muscles thaw and unbunch before the fire, he decided it was worth the risk of singeing his plaid.

  He didn’t even look around to see if Katherine was there until the blood came screaming back into his fingers and toes once more.

  As it happened, she wasn’t in the hall, but he was determined not to go in search of her.

  For the first time, the idea that she might be right crept into his brain. Perhaps no true marriage had been made between them if she was willing to set it aside so easily.

  But just because his head entertained this thought, it didn’t mean his heart agreed. His chest ached as if someone had opened his ribs and hollowed him out.

  William plopped down at one of the tables and snagged a bannock from the basket filled with them. Then a serving girl brought him a trencher laden with a generous slice of humble pie.

  “Fitting.” He wondered if his wife had ordered it especially for him.

  But the crusty pastry was light and flaky. When he cut it open, the rich mixture of deer heart, liver, and brains smelled savory enough to make his mouth water. There was even a healthy portion of spicy frumenty on the side.

  “Thank ye,” he said to the serving girl before he tucked in. “Ye’re Dorcas, are ye not?”

  “Aye, milord.” The girl dropped a curtsey. With eyes as pale as rainwater, she was still comely in a freckle-nosed, round-cheeked sort of way. “I’m ever so honored ye remember me.”

  He narrowed his gaze at her, trying to recall exactly where he’d run across her in the keep. It seemed that Katherine had been gushing about the girl’s skills once and wondering if they might coax her away from Glengarry Castle. “Ye dinna usually serve in the hall.”

  “Nay, I tend Lady Margaret and her children mostly.”

  That explained it. When Katherine was bearing the first time, she had wanted to send for Dorcas to come serve in their nursery. William convinced her to wait till the child was born before bringing on a nursemaid. Then in the end, there was no need. He shoved away the memory of that small coffin.

  Reliving the past never changed it.

  “But they wanted extra hands in the hall this night, and to be honest, I’m that grateful to be spending Christmas with those who can cut their own meat for a change,” Dorcas nattered on. “Shall I pull an ale for ye or would ye prefer a wee dram?”

  Before William could answer, Ranulf MacNaught climbed atop a table and shouted for quiet.

  “As ye all know, we’ve crowned our Laird of Misrule. As befits Christmastide royalty, he’s been given a scepter by Lord Badenoch.” Ranulf cast a grudging nod in Will’s direction. “But far be it from a MacNaught to be outdone by a Douglas, so me and the lads have fashioned a throne for our Abbot of Unreason. Bring it in!”

  Four of MacNaught’s boon companions plodded into the great room from the solar, chanting a bastardized hymn in praise of Laird Nab as they came. The men held a chair fashioned from stag antlers and draped with purple velvet hoisted high above their heads. Laughing and stumbling, the mock procession wobbled toward the dais. They positioned the new throne with overblown ceremony next to the real Laird of Glengarry’s heavy chair.

  Kat’s father would have laughed if anyone had called his seat a throne. It was simply a sturdy place from which he meted out justice and issued orders.

  “Come out, come out, wherever you are, Laird Nab, and take your rightful place,” Ranulf singsonged.

  Nab peeped from one of the shallow alcoves that notched the hall. The fool seemed uncomfortable in large crowds at the best of times. Now, from clear across the room, William saw that there was a sheen of sweat on his brow.

  After a chorus of encouragement from the assembled revelers, Nab shuffled up to stand next to MacNaught and squinted at the antler-t
hrone. “It doesna look verra comfortable, Ranulf, what with the points and all.”

  “A position of power isna intended to be comfortable, your wee lordship. But the velvet will cushion your backside well enough if that’s what troubles ye. Go on. Take your throne, Nab.”

  “Laird Nab,” the fool corrected. “I’m Laird Nab. Ye all said so.”

  “So be it. Laird Nab. Aye, an’ it please ye, your lordship,” Ranulf said with a sarcastic bow, “move your arse.”

  He gave Nab a shove and the fool stumbled up the rush-strewn steps leading to the dais. When his left foot reached the top step, a snare pulled taut around his ankle. Suddenly Nab was jerked to the ground, dragged along the steps by a rope that had been hidden beneath the rushes, and finally yanked into the air. Suspended by a loop of hemp, he bounced helplessly, dangling from a hook bolted to the ceiling. Nab tried to free his foot, but kept getting tangled up in his kilt, which was flapping around his armpits.

  He might have been able to free himself, if he hadn’t clung so tenaciously to the scepter. Instead, he swung upside down as the rope recoiled, first dropping him about six feet, then jerking him back up. Since his clothing draped downward, he was bare-assed to the world and from its nest of carrot-red hair, the fool’s sex waggled free. Through it all, Nab could only make incomprehensible bleating sounds of disbelief at his mistreatment.

  “The bastards,” Will growled under his breath. He pushed away from the table and stood. Rage had been simmering in him all the way back to Glengarry Castle. He couldn’t aim it at Katherine, though she was the cause. It had threatened to overflow and surge out in all directions, but now he had a suitable target upon which to unleash it.

  “Weel, would ye look at that? The fool’s been hiding his light under a bushel,” MacNaught said with a barking laugh. “The wee shite is hung like a stallion. Guess he’ll not have trouble finding a Lady of Misrule after this.”

  William plowed toward Ranulf. “And what do ye think your chances of finding a lady will be once ye have no teeth, MacNaught?”