Taming The Lion

Catlyn couldn’t help but smile. “What do you want?”

“Hmm.” He arched one black brow, teasing. “You should not ask a man that, lass. Gives him all sorts of ideas.”

“I am not the sort of woman men get ideas about,” she said crisply, braced for a flood of false compliments.

“Then you’ve not met the right sort of man.”

“Mmm.”

“But as to the boon,” he said as they reached the stairwell. “Would you read to Callum? I speak French well enough, but I read so slowly the story would suffer.”

“I am far too busy,” Catlyn said quickly. Too quickly.

“Are you?”

Catlyn sighed and stopped. Because they’d spoken openly about losing family, she felt she owed him the truth. “I cannot be near the wounded.” She looked down at her knotted fingers. “It’s the blood.” No matter how she fought it, the sight of blood turned her stomach. Even saying the word made her shudder.

“Why? What happened?”

“I cannot speak of it.” She gritted her teeth, trying not to remember the horrible way she’d found her brother.

“Callum’s wound is completely bandaged.”

“It would not matter. I...I would know.” She shivered.

“Easy. I am sorry to upset you.”

Catlyn nodded. “And I am sorry I cannot do as you ask. It is my mother’s book in any case. I have no time for romances.”

“Indeed?” He cocked his head. “You should find time.”

Catlyn shrugged, uncomfortable with the subject. “You must be fond of your squire to worry so.”

“It is my fault. Had he not placed himself between me and a Fergusson ax, he’d not have been wounded.”

Catlyn gasped. “You were nearly killed?”

“Nay, my armor would have blunted the worst of the blow, but it cut right through—” He cleared his throat. “Suffice to say, he was hurt in my place.”

“I see,” Catlyn mumbled, shaken to learn he could have been hurt. Last night it would not have mattered so, but something had changed while they stood talking this morning. She had begun to see him not as a shallow rogue, but as a compassionate man who cared for his family, his men and even for her losses. She could not afford to care about him. “I will pray for Callum’s swift recovery.” And your swift departure from my life. Picking up her skirts, she scampered down the stairs.

Catlyn half feared, half hoped he would follow her. That spark of anticipation worried her. She must find Old Freda and ask when the wounded would be able to ride.

Ross stared after Catlyn till she turned the corner and disappeared from sight. Tempted as he was to go after her, he knew better than to press the slender advantage he’d gained.

It had been worth the hour spent lurking outside her door for the chance to waylay her. And the book had worked as well as he had hoped, giving them a common interest, a base from which to launch his assault on her defenses. They had not crumbled, but there were chinks in them.

The victory left a sour taste in his mouth.

You cannot afford to admire her, Mathew had said last night.

Ross doubted his cousin would be pleased to hear that he not only respected her but lusted after her as well.

There was no other word for the flash of heat that had passed between them as they gazed into each other’s eyes. The unexpected quickening sensation had rocked him, mocked him. It was surely the greatest perversity that he should desire the woman he had come to betray.

For one mad moment, Ross considered following Catlyn, telling her why he was really here and...

And what? Throwing himself on her mercy? She had no reason to help him, not when it would mean betraying her clan.

Growling a curse, he slapped the flat of his hand against the stone wall of the stairwell.

He had no choice but to go ahead.

Ross walked quickly to the sickroom on the ground floor, his soul in turmoil. The room was unadorned but clean and comfortable. It touched him that the Boyds had given his injured squire this bit of quiet space. “Sorry I was so long, lad, but I’ve brought back the book I mentioned.”

Callum smiled wanly, his face paler than usual beneath a shock of thick red hair.

“Is something wrong?” Ross hurried to the bed.

“Nay, only...” Callum’s eyes strayed to the book. “I’d rather be fighting than hearing about it.”

“Ah.”

“I thought it was just a ruse to speak with the lady.”

“In part it was.”

Callum levered himself up on the pillows, wincing slightly. “Did it work? Did you get what we came for?”

“Not yet, but I think she trusts me a bit more.” It struck Ross ill that he’d involved this innocent lad in his sordid business. He had considered leaving him at Stirling, but had foolishly thought Callum would be safer with him than fending for himself. “About the battle we fought with the Fergussons...”

“Freda said I would have a scar.” Callum beamed. “Not as big a one as you’ve got on your leg, but proof I was in battle.”

Ross grunted and strolled over to the bed, shaken by how close he’d come to losing the boy. “I know you reacted out of instinct, but next time you see a man coming from my blind side, call out to me instead of stepping up to take the blow.” The gentleness of his tone belied the horror he’d felt when he’d heard Callum scream.

“Mathew says a squire’s first duty is to guard his lord’s back,” Callum replied defensively.

“But not with your body.” Ross laid a hand on Callum’s unhurt shoulder. “I mean to see you knighted.”

“’Tis my fondest dream, too, my lord.”

“Then see you are alive to do so.”

“Aye.” Callum looked down, but his meekness lasted only a moment. His head came up, his brown eyes dancing again. “A maid brought me broth while you were gone. I had to let her feed me, but I asked her questions.”

“Oh, Callum.”

“I was clever about it.”