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  “Broccin? I am Father or Sire to ye, ye ungrateful half-man.” Broccin’s lips lifted in a snarl.

  “Ungrateful? Aye. I am that. Somehow, I could not learn to greet the day with a song of thanks on my lips for yer rearranging my face. My back. My life.”

  Broccin stood, the veins in his neck bulging as he shouted.

  “Ye have Catalin. Her lands. Her castle. Her filled coffers. All waiting for ye to scoop them up. My son lies moldering in the vault whilst ye swive his betrothed and hide behind yer monkish ways.”

  Blood pounded in Ranald’s ears, blocking all other sound from him. His lips curled, twitched. His fists clenched, stretched, then clenched again, until they tightened and would not release.

  He took one slow step at a time toward Broccin. Ranald’s tight fists drummed on his thighs. His right foot rose to the table’s edge. Shoved. Raik and Domnall jumped aside. The table screeched on the stone floor afore it stopped against the wall.

  For each step Ranald took, it forced his sire back. If Ranald trod with his right foot, Broccin’s left shoulder jerked as if pummeled. He staggered back on his left leg. The same happened when Ranald stepped forward with his left foot. Broccin’s right shoulder jerked; he staggered back again. ‘Twas as if the air between them was solid.

  Ranald did not touch him. Broccin’s eyes blinked with disbelief. Finally, Ranald shook his head, clearing it. His shoulders, arms, hands...all his body relaxed.

  “At Kelso I said ye have no son now. Ever have I known ye believed the old legends that if twin bairns were birthed, one child’s soul was thought to be good, the other evil. Ye would only accept one of us. The first born.”

  His father’s mouth opened to speak, but Ranald raised his hand, flat out, stopping him.

  “Nay. Enough has been said.”

  Domnall slid a chair behind Broccin’s knees. He plopped in it, his face white.

  “Once I have learned the skills of each knight and warrior at Raptor, and ye and Domnall have told me what preparations have already been undertaken, we will make our final plans. That arse Hamon had best cherish his throat. He will soon be parted from it.”

  “Can we not start preparing this night?” Domnall asked.

  “Nay. The morrow’s dawn is soon enough.” Ranald’s left brow quirked. “Did ye not hear? My sire demands a grandson.”

  Ranald spun around. His kilt swirled, baring his thighs.

  He crooked one long, brown finger at his wife.

  “Come.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Catalin gulped and stared at Ranald’s large hands. Such long fingers, broad palms, the skin brown and calloused. Moridac’s flesh had been pale, his hands smooth.

  Not Ranald’s, though. They looked strong enough to wield a broadsword with little effort. No doubt he could snap the life from a man should he grasp him by the head and twist.

  She shuddered, shook her head. How could they have been so gentle, so exciting, only last eve? Would they ever be so again? Or would they be rough and cruel, seeking revenge?

  Impatient now, he crooked his finger again demanding she come to him. She swallowed and squared her shoulders. Her feet lagged. His eyes flashed a warning when he grasped her elbow to urge her forward. She near had to skip to keep up with his long strides.

  “Do ye want all to know things are not as they should be?” He snapped the words at her, and had he been an angry hound, he would have followed them with a feral growl and a nip.

  “Do you think they would not guess when you stared at me all eve with looks near to loathing?” Her tone was every bit as irate as his.

  Ranald’s hand shifted from her elbow to clamp around her upper arm. The way he propelled her through the doorway and up the stairwell, all would think he was impatient indeed to have his wife abed. No doubt, if they glimpsed his face, they wondered if his intent was to ravish or to throttle her.

  Hannah was in his chamber, preparing their bed for the night. Ranald paced the room while she placed warming stones wrapped in wool cloths between the sheets, far down on his side and higher for Catalin’s own.

  Catalin’s face heated when Hannah came to draw her kirtle over her head. Ranald spoke, sounding close behind her.

  “It is a strange outfit.”

  Catalin felt a slight tug and knew he fingered the garment.

  “The gown feels of sturdy cloth, yet yer smock is so light it near has no weight. They dinna seem well matched.”

  She read the disapproval in his voice.

  “They were not meant to be. I needed to mend the yellow kirtle I had donned with it.”

  Ranald dropped his hand, his gaze bored into her own.

  “No doubt when ye made haste to gawk out the window. What happened? Did ye fight over who was to get the best view?” His lip near lifted in a snarl.

  His eyes widened when Hannah giggled like a young lass. “No one shoved harder than I. ‘Twas the most magnificent feast these eyes have had for many a year.”

  A flush started at Ranald’s hairline and spread down his neck. Before he spoke again, he retreated to the far side of the room.

  “All within sight saw Catalin, wife for but a day, staring like a dairy maid well-used to spying nakit men.”

  “Nay, not like a dairy maid. Like a wife who knows little of her husband,” Catalin blurted out.

  Seeing his back stiffen, she clambered up the two steps beside the bed and slipped between the covers. Why couldn’t she keep her unruly mouth shut? Her feet searched for the comfort of the warm stones. She rubbed her toes over them, all the while regretting Hannah had no reason to linger.

  “I placed wine and bread beside the bed, in case ye should hunger during the night.” Though Hannah addressed Ranald, Catalin knew she supplied the bread to settle Catalin’s stomach.

  “I am sure my wife will be glad of it, should this day’s food not set well with her. Ye may seek yer bed now.”

  Though his voice was quiet, sarcasm laced the words, knowing Hannah knew why she had spewed that morn. ‘Twas wise Hannah kept her lips sealed and left the room, for the tension sparking from him felt near enough to set light to a candle.

  Ranald stalked around the room, nipping out each flame. She heard his clothing rustle as he removed and folded them like he had done the night before. Not all men were as careful. Her father had thought naught of leaving his clothing lay where he removed them, and Elyne had warned that Moridac left his clothes strewn from the door to the bed each night.

  She held tight to the bed frame, for Ranald’s weight dipped the feather bedding, making it rock on its ropes when he stretched full out on it. She waited. Held her breath, expecting him to reach for her. He did not.

  In the dim light with his black hair against the pillow and the left side of his face toward her, he looked so like Moridac resting there that she held her breath. His eyes were open. He did not remove his mask. Could that ruined side be so horrible? Last eve, he had not allowed her to touch him. Most likely, it was the same as his back, though worse.

  “Close yer eyes.” Ranald’s words were sharp, weighted with feeling. “Yer stares have probed me enough to last a lifetime.”

  She went totally still. Stopped breathing, even. When she realized it, she eased her breath out slowly so he would not hear. When next she inhaled, it was deep. His scent drifted to her, shooting a hot stab to her stomach. Not of pain. It was more like the heat that spread down to her belly when he kissed her last eve.

  Though her heart had tripped with fear of his anger while climbing the stairwell, now her body yearned for his touch. She had not felt this way after Moridac’s lovemaking. He had been intent on his own release, while Ranald had savored her, taking time to see she had pleasure too.

  She shifted, restless now. The sheet teased nipples that had hardened further with each breath she took. How could a man smell so good when he had bathed with harsh soap at the well? She eased an arm up to her nose. Sniffed. She could barely tell her own soap had left the scent of sweet viol
ets.

  “Lucifer’s pointy horns!”

  Catalin near startled off the bed.

  “Will ye stop sniffing and squirming? Ye’re like a wriggling worm.” Ranald sat up, thumped his pillow, turned his back to her and settled on his right side.

  Catalin stiffened, her limbs at an awkward angle, for she was about to turn over. She did not dare move now. How could she go to sleep? She was not the slightest bit sleepy. Strange. All day, ‘twas all she wanted to do and could not. Huh! Most likely, she would be awake when the sun next decided to rise.

  o0o

  Ranald burned with need. Knowing Catalin lay beside him hardened his tarse and made his ballocks ache. Then, too, there was her heady scent. She must like it herself, for he had heard her sniffs, seen her hold an arm to her nose.

  Mayhap he should not have bellowed at her. Now she was so stiff he could feel her even more. His mind turned back to last eve. She had not been stiff then. No. Her body had yielded wherever he touched. Warm. Hot, even. Her belly had quivered when he caressed her there, had raked his fingers through her springy curls below. And her core? Like liquid fire when he had eased his shaft within, not stopping until he was seated all the way.

  Cruddy Lucifer! He was afire. He gritted his teeth, stared at the ceiling. Catalin’s light puffs of air told him she had found sleep faster than anyone he had ever known. Funny. She had been the one who was restless, while he had been exhausted, needing respite before the morrow. He had many plans to make. A castle to besiege. And all he could think about was his blarsted tarse staring up at him.

  Excited. Pleading.

  How quickly he had lost control of his body. Had he ever ruled it, or had he fooled himself? He sucked his teeth, disgusted. How could he lust after her? After a woman who likely grew his brother’s seed in her belly? It was sick.

  He eased from the bed, padded to the window and pushed the shutters wide. Storm clouds hid the moon and the damp air held a hint of frost.

  He stretched his bare body face down on the floor. His arms spread and legs stretched out as he had on Kelso’s stones. His skin quivered, shrunk from the cold.

  Good. ‘Twas fortunate his tarse minded the cold. Mayhap, now he could keep his thoughts on his prayers.

  o0o

  Catalin awoke curled in a tight ball, feeling much colder than when she had gone to bed. Last eve, Ranald had pulled her close in his sleep, shared his warmth. It drew her now. Perhaps she could ease over to him? If she used caution with each move, he would not awaken.

  She inched her right arm and leg across the cold sheets, then rolled as slowly as a cook turning a spit while roasting a leg of lamb. Hm. She reached out, fluttered her hand under the covers so as not to disturb them, trying to sense his heat. It was a huge bed. Though he did not want to touch her, surely he did not need to sleep so near the edge. She eased over one more turn. Still no enticing warmth. The sheets there were near cold as ice. She felt again. Her head lifted, her neck stretched. She frowned, seeing naught but bed covers.

  No one rested beside her.

  She sat up. Stared around the room. ‘Twas empty. A cloud moved, baring the moon. Something was on the floor. She threw off the tangled covers and crawled closer to peer down.

  Ranald lay sprawled like he had sustained a mortal injury.

  “Saints help me. Ranald! He is dying!” Her screams echoed against the walls.

  She scrambled over the side of the bed, tumbling pillows onto the floor. She drew in a great gasp of air and yelled again.

  Ranald sprang upright, kicking pillows aside as he grasped her shoulders and gave her a shake.

  “Woman, are ye dafty? Stop yer caterwauling, else ye will wake all in the keep.”

  Catalin’s breath left in a heavy whoosh. Her husband stood before her, bathed in moonlight. She grasped her throat and stared. Her toes curled, and she began to hop like she danced on hot coals.

  Ranald cocked his head and peered at her. Two perfect, full globes adorned with rosy tips bobbed and swayed in a most delightful way. Beckoning him. He tore his gaze from her, and dropped his hands like she scalded him. He was near losing the control he had prayed so long and hard for.

  “Why do ye hop so? Do ye have to piss?”

  “The shutters. They are open to the night, and the floor is like ice.”

  “Ranald!” Raik’s voice. His fist pounding on the door.

  “Cruddy Hell. Ye’ve waked the keep.”

  Ranald sucked his teeth and trod over to the door. Without paying heed to his naked flesh, he threw it open and bellowed.

  “What?”

  Whether it was the force of his yell, or the sight of his body, or mayhap both, the crowd gathered there thinned. He heard Elyne’s laugh trailing down the hallway. From the corner of his eye, he saw Muriele’s doe-like eyes peer, in one long, appreciative journey, over him before she ambled away, her hips swaying beneath her robe.

  “I heard Catalin scream that ye were dying, cousin.” Raik’s lips split in a grin, his eyes gleamed with laughter when he glanced in the room. “Were ye fighting her for the pillows? Yer bed is a mess.”

  Ranald looked back over his shoulders. Saw the bed. But that wasn’t where Raik’s eyes dwelled. His wife stood there, her flaming curls spilling over her face, her creamy shoulders, while she held a pillow before her to cover her nakedness. Her bare feet vied with each other to see which one could leave the floor the fastest. He felt his blood heating, knowing what hid behind that pillow.

  “Does she need to piss?” Raik’s brows rose.

  “Nay. Cold.”

  “Dinna waste it.”

  “Waste? Waste what? Ye speak in riddles.” Ranald scowled to let his cousin know he was not pleased to stand there in the doorway for all to see, bare-arsed, while listening to senseless talk.

  Raik’s downward gaze explained his words.

  “Shite!”

  The ardor Ranald had thought to freeze into control had sprung to life again. All his good intentions fled with one quick glance at his nakit wife. He slammed the door in Raik’s face and cursed again on hearing his burst of laughter.

  In less than two full days, his wife caused half the keep to see him unclothed. Twice. His skin heated remembering Muriele’s eyes studying him. She had not turned her gaze away, shy of seeing him. Nay. She had lingered. Had looked her fill.

  Where was Catalin? She was standing close-by but a breath ago. His gaze darted to the bed. The lump in the covers must be her, for he could see the sheets shaking from across the room. His long strides took him to the window. He slammed the shutters together and latched them tight.

  He was used to living in the abbey where men disciplined their bodies and did not seek a fireplace. Mayhap he had been thoughtless to let the fire die out and the night air in.

  Catalin carefully shifted to give Ranald room when she heard him moving close-by. She shook all the harder after leaving the spot she had worked so hard to warm and found icy sheets.

  She turned her back to him and clamped her teeth together, striving to still their chattering. On hearing him put more peat on the banked fire, she sighed with relief. After he worked over it for a while, Catalin finally noted a faint light through the sheet she had pulled over her face.

  A cold blast of air hit her when Ranald lifted the covers to get back into bed. It didn’t last long, for he turned toward her, hooked his arm around her waist, and pulled her close.

  Warmth radiating from his skin was pure bliss.

  “Are ye never still? Wiggle yer arse again, and I’ll give ye a pinch ye’ll long remember.”

  ‘Twas not an idle threat. It was not his way. She stilled. Now, more than ever, she felt his shaft, hard as tempered steel, nestled against her buttocks. It, too, was blessedly warm.

  “I cannot help it. I have always liked a warm bed. Both nights you have banked the fire and thrown open the shutters.”

  “They’re closed now.” He pulled her tighter to him.

  “Husband?”

/>   “What now?” His heavy sigh ruffled the hair on the back of her neck.

  “I will not permit you to destroy Hunter Castle.”

  “What?

  “Hunter Castle. And my villages. You are not to destroy my people’s lives. They have little, and what there is, is precious to them.”

  “I well understood the word destroy. It is not what I asked about.” His body shifted as he rose on his elbow to stare down at her. “Explain this ‘my’, wife.”

  “Hunter Castle is my home, as Raptor is yours.” She twisted her shoulders so she could frown up at him.

  “Nay. Raptor Castle is not mine. Chief Broccin rules here. But did we not wed this past day? Aye or nay, wife?”

  “Aye. You know we did. What has that to do with it?”

  “There is no ‘my’ for a woman. Ye held Hunter Castle only until ye wed. What was yers is now mine. It is my Hunter Castle.”

  “But, you are a Scot. I am of Saxon stock. Your land is in Scotland. My land is in Northumbria.”

  “And?”

  “What is in Scotland should be yours; what is in Northumbria should be mine.” Catalin scowled up at him. Mayhap she should have thought twice about this before she spoke. She was not sure of the expression in his midnight eyes. Perchance it was surprise that she would assert her rights over her lands.

  “Hm. I see yer point. But what was yers in Northumbria is now claimed by Hamon of Cartington. He holds it, not ye.” Ranald rubbed his hand over the soft hair filling in his tonsure. “Since ye believe it rightfully belongs to ye and not me, I feel no need to wrest it from him.”

  He moved his arm and plopped his head back on the pillow making the ropes creak. He gave a great yawn.

  “Since I have no need to plan for battle, I look forward to sleeping the morrow away.” He stretched, yawned again. “Good eve, wife.”

  “What?” Catalin bolted upright.

  “Good eve, wife. ‘Tis sorry I am that I mumbled.”

  Ranald turned away, adjusted his mask so it would not slide, slid his arm under the pillow and thumped it around his head.

  Catalin jiggled his shoulder and leaned over him. Her breasts tingled when brushed by the crisp hair of his arm. She jerked back, embarrassed.