Forbidden (8 page)

“Are ye all right, Catalin?” Ranald held her
shoulders, supported her as he moved back.

She peered up at the face leaning toward her.
Her breath hitched like she had cried for a lengthy time. ‘Twas
strange to view the eyes of a man behind a mask, though it did not
hinder seeing that eye it surrounded. Compassion looked back at
her.

She blinked then nodded, too surprised to
speak more.

“Come.” Ranald took her elbow and led her to
stand before Father Martin. “‘Twould be best to start the ceremony
now, Father.”

Fearing his frightened bride needed bracing,
Ranald kept a firm hand on her elbow, aiding her as they knelt
before the priest. He couldna blame Catalin’s reaction. She had met
a monk only to learn he was the man she was to marry. A man she
believed dead for many years. A disfigured man, at that. Even a
woman past her prime would be frightened, much less a lass of ten
and eight.

From the corner of his eye, he watched her
pale face, the freckles sprinkled across the bridge of her nose
prominent. He noted her small, white teeth biting her lower lip
till he feared she would injure herself. She clasped her trembling
hands so tight her knuckles gleamed white. He brought his hand to
cover hers, his fingers patting her hand, as a mother would comfort
a small babe’s back.

Bit by bit, her trembling eased. He darted a
glance and was glad to see color returning to her face. He squeezed
her hands one last time, before helping her to rise as they
repeated their vows. Her voice was so soft, Broccin objected.

“Speak up, girl. We must hear if we are to
bear witness yer vows were said.”

Catalin huffed, her brows creased, her jaw
firmed. He would venture a guess she was getting the measure of his
father and didn’t like what she learned. She had shown spirit as a
child. Mayhap it wouldn’t be too long before she stood up to
Broccin.

He took his mother’s wedding ring off the
little finger of his right hand, grateful Aunt Joneta had searched
him out after his bath to place it in his palm. “Your mother gave
it into my keeping when she was ill with the fever. She asked that
I keep it safe for the day one of her sons would pass it to his
bride,” she had said.

As he held it before each of Catalin’s
fingers and said the proper words, he watched her face.

He held the ring at her index finger. “With
this ring, I wed thee.” He moved the ring to touch the tip of her
middle finger. “With my heart, I honor thee.” As he slid it to rest
firmly on her third finger, he intoned, “With this body, I worship
thee.”

Her face grew ashen. She watched his hands on
hers with fascinated horror, as if they were some unknown form of
life that she must closely observe to see they meant no harm.

Did Catalin fear how they would touch her
this night? Had no one told her what passed between a man and woman
in the marriage bed? Or, mayhap they had?

After they repeated the vows, Father Martin
kept the mass brief. No doubt at Broccin’s orders. His sire had
never entered the small church unless it was of such import that he
must do so, preferring short visits to the chapel within the
tower.

“Well now, man, are ye not going to kiss yer
bride so we may have a turn?”

Raik’s chuckle behind him was a reminder he
had not yet given his bride the expected kiss. His lips had not
caressed a woman’s for so long a time. Did he remember how? He
grasped her shoulders. He hesitated. Would she pull away? Turn her
face from him?

He worried for naught. He glanced down to see
Catalin, her chin lifted high, eyes tightly shut and lovely lips
pursed, awaiting him. Mayhap he was too hesitant, for one eyelid
fluttered open enough for a curious eye to peer through gold-tipped
lashes at him.

He couldn’t stifle a chuckle as he lowered
his head. As his lips met hers, a long-held burst of air passed
through her lips into his mouth. Nay, he had not forgotten how to
kiss. But he had forgotten how soft, how sweet a woman’s lips were.
His loins stirred in the way that had plagued his memory, his
dreams, that had caused him to seek penance more times than he
could count.

“Hmpf! Devour the girl later. ‘Tis hot in
here.”

Feeling Catalin startle, Ranald raised his
head to glare at his father.

Raik felt static air coming from Ranald, and
knew he fought to keep his temper leashed. He shouldered Broccin
aside to step between them.

“We are kissin’ cousins now, Catalin.” With a
smile for Ranald, he bent to place a loud, smacking kiss on her
pale cheeks. She blinked. A small smile tilted her lips.

Ranald stood back as men took this one
opportunity to place a kiss on the bride’s face. Most were content
to kiss her forehead, her cheek, but one brazen young knight stole
a quick kiss on her lips. He pulled a long face and hurried away
when Ranald glared at him.

Feeling eyes boring into him, the hair on
Raik’s neck prickled. He moved back a pace and surveyed those
standing nearby. Ah. It was the man who had walked with Catalin.
Their eyes met. His eyes were the same blue as Raik’s own. He
frowned. Why did this man watch him so closely? What had Catalin
called him? Warin?

Was the woman beside him his daughter? Hm, a
beauty. She had felt his thoughts, for she pressed against this
Warin. Not a daughter then, but a wife half his age? Now he
remembered!

It was Warin de Burgh of Seton Castle. They
had met when Raik crossed the border to retrieve cows taken from
Douglas lands and ran into a patrol. He had given de Burgh that
scar on his jaw. Aye. And the baron had returned the favor when he
rode to take them back. The wound on his thigh had putrefied, had
been the reason his men had taken him to Ranald for healing. He
should thank him for it else he never would have known his cousin
lived.

He nodded at de Burgh then bowed to the man’s
wife. While at Castle Raven, they would act as strangers. No doubt,
they would meet again in the dead of night.

“Enough kissin’ the bride,” Broccin ordered.
“Cook has prepared a feast. ‘Tis well past time for the evening
meal.” He gave a pointed look to Catalin, blaming her for the delay
that day.

Catalin stuck her chin out and refused the
guilt her father-by-law tried to force on her. The man was hateful.
She had seen the looks he cast at Ranald. Like he resented him.
Hated him, even. Did he wish Ranald was the son lying in the tomb
beneath the castle?

The sun shone bright, bathing her in warmth
as they walked toward the keep. She glanced up at Ranald, at his
beautiful profile. Such a strong, masculine jaw, bronzed like he
was often out of doors. Did monks spend so much time in the open?
She peeked again and near stopped in her tracks. She had not noted
it before, but when he looked to the right, the top of his black
shirt moved and revealed a ridged, white scar, a scar that had not
healed easily. Saints! Were there more? She hesitated for a
heartbeat.

“What is it, Catalin? Did ye see someone ye
wished to have words with?” Ranald’s voice was soft, polite, his
eyes questioning her.

Catalin swallowed. “Oh, aye. Hannah. She is
quite aged. I feared she would be left behind.”

He patted her hand. “She has not changed
overmuch. I spied her in the crowd outside the church door. She is
likely within the keep by now.”

Catalin nodded. She tried to smile at all the
well-wishers lining the path, throwing flower petals. How she
wished the day was done. She caught her breath. Empty-headed fool!
What was she thinking? Were it nightfall, she would be in Ranald’s
bed. Within his arms.

Of a sudden, she was cold. Chill bumps formed
on her arms. Yet her hands sweated. It was fear, plain and simple.
What a coward she was. She who thought herself so strong. Why, she
had bossed Moridac and Ranald around as if they were her servants
when she was but a child. And all they had done was tease her about
it. Huh! Oh, to be that sprite again.

The great hall teemed with people, though
there were fewer than when she was to wed Moridac. But today, they
sounded more boisterous, everyone asking questions. She heard them.
So did Ranald, by the feel of the rigid muscles in his arm.

“At Kelso?” A sultry-eyed woman panting so
fast her bosoms heaved, poked her friend as they passed. “A monk?
And such a lusty lad he was. What a waste.”

“Aye. Me daughter said he ne’er tired. She be
giddy he is back.”

‘Twas a sharp-nosed woman Catalin had seen
working in the weaver’s hut. Never tired? Was that possible? That
night with her, Moridac had panted as if he had run up a steep
hill. She jumped when another spoke. No doubt, the woman was hard
of hearing, by the volume of her voice.

“Psst, Maud! Did ye see that great bulge?”
‘Twas one of the serving women whose back was to them. Her head was
down, and she did not see her friend flapping her hands at her.
“His rod be eager to poke...” Her words cut off when she looked up
and saw her friend. She squeaked and left in such a hurry that she
disturbed the air.

Thankfully, they reached the high table.
Ranald stood behind her chair until she sat.

“Ranald!” Elyne shoved people aside and
jumped up at her brother, depending on him to catch her. “Why did
ye not let us know ye lived? Now that’s stupid, is it not? ‘Tis our
adoring
sire that hid ye away.” She rained kisses over his
left cheek, drew back and frowned at the black leather. “I have
missed ye. I oft thought ye would be the only one who wouldna laugh
at my mistakes.”

Ranald’s arms folded around his sister.
“Still the imp, eh? Are ye not yet wed?”

“Huh! Ye wouldna ask if ye saw the pitiful
suitors father parades through here. All scrawny lads. Not a true
man amongst them. Put me down. Ye’re squashing me.”

Ranald laughed. Such a rich sound. He lowered
Elyne till her feet touched the floor. “Well, now, mayhap he doesna
want ye to wed as yet?”

Elyne smoothed her skirts. “More likely he
canna find a man with enough wealth to make it worth his while, is
more like it.”

“Sit!” Broccin’s voice cut through the big
room.

People chattered and scrambled for their
seats like chickens avoiding a raging rooster.

Pairs of servants carrying empty basins,
drying cloths and pitchers of warm, scented water afloat with rose
petals, streamed in to approach the high table. They washed and
dried the newly wedded couple’s hands before anyone else.

Ranald’s father barely allowed them to
cleanse his hands before he waved off the drying cloth. He grasped
a goblet of wine and drank it down without taking a breath. His
hand flapped at the page behind his chair until the lad replenished
his wine then brought it to his lips again.

The Chief stood and banged his empty vessel
on the table. He waited, scowling, until the page again filled
it.

“We drink to my son, who has long been in
hiding beneath a monk’s skirts! He fulfilled his duty as a man
today by wedding the beautiful Catalin.” He leered and waved his
goblet in the air at her. “I am hopeful he isna so saintly he
forgot how to swive!”

Catalin ground her teeth. Did Chief Broccin
have to be so crude? Nervous laughter rustled among the guests.

One man stood and shouted, “A man’s brain may
fergit but his rod remembers!”

“Aye! Aye!” echoed above the din of stamping
feet.

The ribald humor assailed Catalin’s ears.
Neither she nor Ranald took a sip of wine or acknowledged the toast
in any way. Tension prickled the air around her new husband. The
hair on her arms felt much like when lightning struck close-by.

Baron de Burgh cleared his throat and stood.
One had only to look upon his lordly face to sense his dignity. The
room quieted.

“I speak for Catalin’s father, my dear friend
Lord Harold, God rest his soul. Catalin has been most fortunate.
She has pledged her life to a man who will deal with her tenderly,
will protect and cherish her.” He smiled at Ranald. “May you both
be blessed.”

Ranald nodded, and without hesitation offered
the silver wedding chalice to Catalin before sipping from it
himself. She watched his long, slender thumb rub over the eagles
etched into the tall cup made large enough for two. Moridac had
told her of it, how it had served at his parent’s wedding feast,
his grandparents, even beyond them so many years no one remembered
when first it came into use.

Soon, there had been toasts aplenty. How
could her father-by-law quaff such a great quantity of wine without
slipping to the floor to snore the day away? Huh. Mayhap fighting
in the early crusades had so hardened his body that the wine’s
effects could not make its way to his brain. Her tension eased on
seeing servants laden with platters and bowls of steaming food
approach.

The mouth-watering aroma stirred Catalin’s
appetite. Platters of roasted pork covered with crushed wild
garlic, capons bedecked with a wild cherry sauce, venison, beef,
salmon and trout, all arrived at the table. Not as many vegetable
choices followed, but she welcomed the peas with chunks of onions
mixed in, beans with mushrooms floating amidst them, baked onions
and small purplish red carrots sweetened with honey.

Ranald, his left brow quirked, waited for her
preference.

“Husband, might I have a sliver of pork? ‘Tis
my favorite.” Applying that title to the man beside her sent a
shiver creeping down her back.

Ranald blinked. Stirred. ‘Twas strange
hearing the term husband coming from her lips. He leaned toward
her.

“Ye prefer pork?” He tilted his head and
studied her. “Ye who were forever chasing and grabbing piglets to
hide them in the woods?”

Catalin’s cheeks turned a delightful
pink.

“‘Tis a shame when grown they taste so good.”
She raised guilty eyes to him. “But, would it not also be a shame
if their great sacrifice was for naught?”