Taming The Lion

Catlyn shivered and chafed the gooseflesh from her arms. It was a dream, nothing more. She would never leave Kennecraig. That she had vowed on her father’s soul.

She threw a light cape over her arm, for the cellars were cold, even in summer, and hurried into the dim corridor. Habit slowed her steps outside her mother’s door. Hoping her mother had slept better than she had, Catlyn headed for the great hall.

“Lady Catlyn!” The deep voice of the man she had hoped to avoid echoed down the corridor from behind her.

Run, urged her instinct for survival. Pride stayed her steps. She stopped, braced herself and looked over her shoulder.

He advanced toward her through the gloom, his movements quick and lithe, his smile a white slash in his tanned face.

“Were you lying in wait for me?” she asked sharply. Eoin had taken to doing that till Adair threatened to turn him out.

“Nay.” He halted close to her, so close the tips of his boots nudged the hem of her skirt.

Catlyn fought the urge to run. “I thought you were, er—”

“Confined to my room, or rather, your solar?” He grinned, something he did often. “Adair said we might be about the keep.”

“Oh.” She fumbled for words. “Why are you are up so early?”

“It is my custom, but today I was up before the sun, anxious to check on my wounded men.”

“Ah. How fare they?”

“Well enough. One of the men-at-arms took an arrow to the arm, but is already up and about. My squire...” He sighed.

“The lad? He is worse?”

“A little fevered and restless. I feared he’d tear out the stitches your Freda set in his shoulder, so I came up to fetch this.” He held out a dark object. “I should have asked before borrowing it, but I did not realize you would be awake.”

Catlyn squinted. “A book?”

“Yours, or at least it and two others were in the solar. The Green Knight. I thought the tale might entertain Callum.”

“It is in French.”

“You already pointed out that I speak it.”

“And read it?”

“Not as well as Father Simon would have liked.” His smile turned rueful. “As a lad, I was more interested in swordplay and the like, but Mama and Papa insisted we all learn.”

“My brother felt the same way about studies,” she said.

“You have a brother?”

Into her mind flashed the image of Thom, lying cold and still in a pool of blood. Guilt rose in her throat.

Catlyn shook her head and shoved the memory away. “He died when he was ten and five.”

“I feel for you,” he said gently.

And Catlyn believed he did. As she stared into his eyes, she fancied she saw her own pain reflected there. “Thank you.”

“I have two younger brothers and a sister. Much as they did plague me when we were growing up, I do love them dearly.”

“You are fortunate to have a large family.”

“Aye.” Something shifted in his eyes, a shadow of remorse or a trick of the light? “I did not fully appreciate how much they meant to me until just lately.”

“I, too, took my family for granted,” her heart contracted, “not realizing how precious they are till they are gone.”

“Or threatened.” His voice went hard and flat. “When your family is in danger, you will do anything to protect them.”

Catlyn nodded, understanding that grim determination. Sharing it. “My father died a month ago while taking a shipment of whiskey to Doune. I know Hakon had a hand in it, though I cannot prove it. As I stood over Papa’s grave, I vowed on his soul that Hakon would not get Kennecraig, too.”

“That is a large undertaking.”

“For a woman?”

“For anyone. From what I saw, he is ruthless and canny.”

“We will survive.”

His eyes locked on hers, and his expression changed. What looked like respect flickered in their azure depths, along with something else. Something strong and earthy.

Catlyn’s pulse quickened, and her skin prickled. She could not move, could only stare into those compelling eyes, acutely aware of him on some new level. She inhaled sharply, her senses filled with the unique scent of soap and man. This man. Never before had she felt so small, fragile and wholly female.

“Catlyn,” he whispered.

Never had her name sounded so beautiful and lush. “Aye,” she murmured, her body warming, melting.

“I...” He lifted a hand, grazing her cheek with the backs of his fingers. “I am sorry, I—” He started, dropping his hand as though he’d been burned, shattering the moment.

Catlyn blinked. “What?”

“I am sorry,” he said again, eyes flat and shuttered.

For touching her? Confused, Catlyn turned away from him, tripped over her hem and would have fallen had he not grabbed hold of her elbow. Even that slight contact sent a jolt up her arm. She looked at him again and saw her dazed features reflected in his eyes. Or was he as confused as she? “What is it? What is happening?” she whispered.

For a long moment, he did not reply, just studied her, as though seeing her for the first time. When he spoke, his voice was low and harsh. “You are a most unusual lass.”

Catlyn tried not to be hurt. “Thank you, I think.” She dredged up a smile and freed her arm. “If you will excuse me, I have much to do today.” It astonished her that she had wasted so much time talking to him. It frightened her that she had felt at ease doing it. Turning away, she started down the hall.

He kept pace beside her. “I wonder if I could beg a favor?”

Glancing sidelong at him, she saw the easy smile was back. “I doubt you have ever begged anything from a woman.”

He laughed, the sound, deep and infectious. How could a large man manage to look like a lad caught in a falsehood?