Virginia Henley (18 page)

After dinner both she and Maggie had a bath, then she laid out her clothes for morning. She washed some stockings and kept herself busy until bedtime, but once the lights were out, Cat lay with eyes wide-open, feeling homesick, lonely and vulnerable to the lurking fear of the unknown. She listened in the darkness but heard no sounds from the next room.
The dissolute devil is out carousing, no doubt!

The dissolute devil, however, was lying quietly in bed trying to read
Julius Caesar.
His thoughts kept conjuring the image of the young female in the adjoining room, so he closed his eyes for a few minutes to concentrate on merging his mind with hers. He could feel her loneliness and her vulnerability. He searched for what was causing it and discerned that she was afraid of tomorrow. Patrick breathed deeply, focused his concentration and allowed his spirit to slip from his physical body. He was aware of the danger involved in this practice, for sometimes the spirit had difficulty rejoining the body. Lying immobile in bed lessened the risk.

Patrick took her small hand in his and murmured soothingly, “Don’t be afraid, Catherine; don’t be afraid. Your courage will shine through. Be brave, little Hellcat.” His spirit surrounded her, reassuring her until at last she let go of her fear and slept. Then he returned to his bed and picked up his book.

Julius Caesar
was Patrick’s favorite work of Shakespeare, and he’d read it many times.
“I am constant as the northern star.”
He enjoyed its fire and passion and fury. The qualities of the characters were so real: the nobility of Caesar, the poisonous envy of Casca and Cassius, the cunning of Marc Antony. When Patrick read of the prophetic dreams, he knew such things existed, and he totally identified with the Soothsayer and his predictions.
“Beware the ides of March.”

As he read, Elizabeth Tudor intruded into his thoughts. He concentrated on the words to banish her, but as well as visualizing her funeral procession, he could hear the music of a death march. The volume of the march steadily increased. He could hear the plodding hooves of the black horses that pulled her bier and the slow footsteps of her mourners as they marched behind her coffin.
“Beware the ides of March ... March ... March. The ides of March are come!”

Suddenly, Patrick knew that his uncanny sixth sense was foretelling Elizabeth’s death. He was gripped with certainty that the life of England’s queen would end in the month of March! He set the book aside and quickly counted—nine months to the beginning of March, ten months to the end. From what he had seen of her with his own eyes, the time rang true.
How can I be sure?
he asked himself.
I cannot, but I have learned to trust my instincts. They are constant as the northern star!

 

Lady Catherine sat in the carriage dressed in her gray velvet cloak with its furred hood pulled up over her hair. Beneath it she was wearing the gown that Patrick Hepburn had suggested. She clasped her hands tightly and tried not to think about Seton.

Maggie gazed avidly out the carriage window, exclaiming every few minutes about the various landmarks that she recognized. Every once in a while, Cat too glanced out the window, but she did not see the sheep-covered hills or the gushing streams. All she saw was Patrick Hepburn astride his big black mount, Valiant. Earlier when she’d asked about the dogs, he’d laughed and told her his steward had taken them to Crichton. “I don’t want Satan and Sabbath bringing down one of your grandfather’s prized longhorns!”

Catherine thought of her father. Cattle had been his whole existence. The females in his family got little enough attention, and she had no doubt it would be the same with her grandfather.

All too quickly Maggie announced, “We’re on Seton land, my lamb.” Cat gazed from the carriage and saw that there were miles and miles of it. Soon she began to see grazing herds of cattle and realized they were exactly like the animals at Spencer Park in Hertford. It reassured her a tiny bit. If the cattle were the same, could the people be so very different?

The carriage attracted attention, and soon dozens of men on horseback were riding toward it. Hepburn greeted them but did not slow his pace as he led the way toward Winton Castle. The coach driver pulled his team to a halt in the flagged courtyard, where Hepburn dismounted and handed Valiant’s reins to a stableman.

Patrick opened the carriage door and lifted down Maggie. “Plant your feet on your home turf, lass.”

Geordie Seton rode into the courtyard at full gallop, reined in and dismounted. “Who the hell ha’ ye dragged to Seton, Hepburn?”

Cat’s serving woman curtsied with respect. “Lord Winton.”

Geordie’s bristly brows drew together. “Maggie? Is it ye?”

Patrick did not offer to lift Cat; he held out his hand instead and looked into her eyes.
If you ever need me, just whisper my name.
She heard the words as clearly as if he had spoken them aloud. Then he did speak, “Courage, Hellcat.”

She lifted her chin, placed her hand in his and daintily stepped down into the courtyard.

“Lord Winton, may I present Lady Catherine Seton Spencer.”

Catherine stared at the wiry male, desperately trying to mask her dismay.
This is the Earl of Winton, my grandfather? This scraggly man lives in a castle?
Nervous hands pushed back her fur hood to reveal her black curls threaded with seed pearls.

Geordie Seton stared back as if he were seeing an apparition. “Catherine? Yer never Isobel’s child?”

Cat nodded apprehensively.

“Christ Almighty, yer never tellin’ me a carthorse like Isobel produced an exquisite thoroughbred like this?” he asked Maggie.

“Aye, yer lordship. Miracles never cease!”

“My wee sweet bonnie lass, mayhap I wasna’ cursed after all!”

He lifted Catherine’s small hand and kissed it. “I won’t smother ye wi’ a hug. Are ye afraid of a rough old bugger like me?”

Suddenly Cat smiled. “I am afraid of neither man nor beast!”

“Wheest, lass, yer the spittin’ image of yer old granddad!”

Cat began to laugh at the absurd idea that she was his spitting image. “Yes, Maggie told me the resemblance was uncanny!”

Geordie signaled to one of the mounted men who sat gaping at the scene in the courtyard. “Go and fetch Janet and Jessie. My sisters won’t believe their eyes.” He looked at Patrick. “Hepburn, I’m in yer debt. Come on inside fer a drink. This calls fer a celebration!” He swept them all into the castle, shouting his orders as soon as he was through the door. “Fetch all the servants to the hall,” he told the steward.

As Cat’s gaze swept about the Great Hall’s vaulted, beamed ceiling hung with Winton banners displaying its winged dragon, she felt pride in her Scottish ancestry for the first time.

When all the servants, from the potboys to the scullery maids, were assembled, Geordie Seton climbed up on a hall bench. “This is a day to celebrate! I want ye all to take a good look at Lady Catherine, my beautiful granddaughter and my heir. This castle and everyone in it will be at her disposal fer as long as she graces us wi’ her presence. There’s bin none this lovely enter Winton Castle since I brought my bride home forty years ago.” He signaled Hepburn. “Patrick, lad, lift her up onto this table, so they can take a gander at what an elegant lady looks like!”

Hepburn’s hands removed her gray cloak, then closed about Cat’s waist as he hoisted her onto the table. His lips touched her ear. “Geordie already thinks the sun shines out yer arse, and I know how you relish being the center of attention, Hellcat.”

As she stood with every eye upon her, adorned in her pink velvet gown embroidered with snowdrops, she could almost kiss the dark, dominant devil for suggesting that she wear it.

“Good! Here’s the rest of the family come to greet ye.” Seton pointed to his sisters. “Jessie, Janet, this is my wee granddaughter, Catherine, come to visit. I think ye’ll agree she makes up fer my no’ havin’ sons to brag about.”

As the two women, who looked to be in their fifties, gazed in amazement at the delicate doll-like female displayed on the castle table, Cat thought,
My mother looks just like her aunts.
Two men, far too young to be their husbands, accompanied the women.
They must be their sons!

One young man shouldered the other aside and boldly stepped forward. He raised proprietary hands and lifted Catherine to the floor. “I’m Malcolm. Welcome to Seton, Catherine.”

She smiled up at him. “You must be my second cousin. I am delighted to meet you, Malcolm.” She looked over at the other male. “And you are another cousin, I presume?”

Her aunt Janet brought the young man forward. “This is my son, Andrew. I must say, you look nothing like Isobel.”

“Fer which we are eternally grateful, amen,” Geordie said with irreverence as he jumped down from the bench.

Andrew grinned at Cat and she knew she liked him immediately.

“Whisky fer everybody,” Seton ordered his steward.

Everyone, including the servants, received a dram of whisky. When the steward began to pour one for Catherine, she asked tentatively, “Do you have any wine, please?”

“O’ course we ha’ wine and anythin’ else yer heart desires.” While it was being brought, Geordie raised his glass. “To Lady Catherine, my granddaughter. The most beautiful lass in Scotland!” His eyes searched the gathered servants. “Where’s Cook? There ye are, Peg. Haggis tonight; this is a celebration!”

Cat could not resist glancing at Hepburn. She knew the devil wouldn’t be able to hide his amusement. When he came forward to say good-bye, her granddad invited him to stay for dinner.

“Tempting as it sounds, my lord, I’m off to Crichton. In the last five months I’ve spent only three nights under my own roof.”

Catherine’s eyes followed the tall figure as he left the hall. She experienced a small pang of anxiety at the separation, but it melted away as her new family clustered about her.

She and Maggie were given adjoining rooms in one of the turrets, and Cat knew she was going to enjoy living in a Scottish castle. It had a parapet walk and its own dungeons, now used for storing casks of whisky and wine, and tomorrow she intended to explore Winton Castle from top to bottom. At dinner there were so many people, she had difficulty learning everyone’s name. Though her aunts Jessie and Janet had passed their looks on to her mother, their personalities were not nearly so austere. As well as sons, they had daughters, all married, and Cat was relieved that none of the females seemed to resent her. They generously complimented both her looks and her clothes and seemed ready to be her friend. She especially loved the fact that both her grandfather and the rest of them took it for granted that Maggie would eat with them.

“Well, what do ye think o’ the haggis?” Geordie demanded.

Gingerly, Catherine took a mouthful and decided it wasn’t going to make her stomach heave. “It’s better than I expected.”

Geordie laughed. “There’s a brave lass. We let the English think it’s all ears and arseholes just to keep the recipe secret.”

Cat laughed merrily. Salty language appealed to her and she was willing to bet her granddad wouldn’t reprimand her use of it.

She was aware that both Malcolm and Andrew never took their eyes from her during dinner. Though it was easy to see their personalities differed, she hoped they were friends and not rivals. She was surprised to learn that none of them lived in the castle. The Earl of Winton lived alone, and his two nephews each had their own home on the vast Seton acres. Since neither was married, their mothers kept house for them. Cat accepted invitations to dine in their homes and looked forward to meeting her aunts’ grandchildren. When they all departed, Cat sighed. She felt blessed the day had gone so much better than she had anticipated.

Cat retired to her turret chamber with its huge feather bed, and as she replayed the day’s events in her mind, she drifted into a dream. As usual it was about Hepburn, and her lips curved.
If you ever need me, whisper my name.

 

His dominant words turned her knees to water and she grasped the stone sill for support. The feel of the rough stone awakened her and for a moment she wondered what she was doing out of bed. Then she remembered. “I was dreaming about Patrick Hepburn,” she said aloud. She had never sleepwalked before, had she? “Was I going to meet him?” Somewhere in the shadowy recesses of dreams half-forgotten she suspected it wasn’t the first time.

“That is preposterous! I despise the dominant devil. I dislike everything about him.”

Cat admitted that she lied upon occasion, especially when it was expedient, but she seldom lied to herself. As the truth slowly began to dawn upon her, she became horrified. In spite of the fact that she disliked Hepburn and he irritated her beyond reason, was it possible that he appealed to her on a physical level? No, no, that was impossible!

“Tell the truth and shame the devil. It’s more than mere physical appeal. It is far darker. It is sexual attraction.” The moment she said the words, she knew they were true, and she felt guilty revulsion with herself.