Taming The Lion

“Nay, they are my mother’s work.”

He heard the pain in her voice and dropped his own tone to a sympathetic murmur. “Is she gone?”

“Nay.”

Ross groaned. What would it take to break through that shell of hers?

“My lady?” A young serving maid stood beside their table, a flagon and cups in hand. “Adair thought ye might like a dram of whiskey to warm yer bones.”

“None for me,” Ross said quickly.

Lady Catlyn raised her head. “You do not care for whiskey?”

“Nay.”

“We distill this ourselves.” A vengeful light danced in her eyes. “It would please me if you tasted it.”

Witch. “How could I refuse?” Ross forced himself to take the cup the maid held out. But as he raised the cup to his lips, the sharp, smoky fumes filled his senses. Damn, he knew that smell. His head thumped. His belly rolled, threatening to rebel if he took even one sip.

It was the very same liquor that had done him in. Ross knew in a heartbeat that the whiskey Hakon had served him that fateful eve had come from this stock.

What dreadful irony.

What a test of his internal fortitude.

Could he get it down without losing his supper?

Conscious of Lady Catlyn’s gaze, Ross took a tiny sip. He swallowed it three times before his belly grudgingly kept it.

“You do not like the Finglas?” Catlyn asked incredulously.

“Strong.” Ross wheezed, keeping his teeth closed just in case his stomach rose again.

“Whiskey is supposed to be strong. Most men like it.” Her eyes measured him and obviously found him lacking.

“I am sure.” He had liked this whiskey too much. And that unaccustomed lapse now threatened everything he held dear. Ross swallowed again, determined to brazen this out. “Is there a difference?” he asked. It was too much to hope she’d just spill the information he had come to steal. But then, women, even one as canny as this one, were flighty.

“Of course there is. Anyone with a nose can tell that.” She looked down her nose at him. “If you like, tomorrow I can arrange for you to taste a few cups from different years.”

Cups? Dod, he’d never keep down even one cup. “I doubt I’d notice the difference, but I would like to see how it is made.”

Her gaze turned frosty. “I am afraid that is not possible.”

“Why?” Did she suspect something?

“This is a busy time of year. You would be underfoot.”

“I am quick on my feet and good at staying out of the way.”

“The better to avoid those you cuckold?”

“What?” Ross exclaimed, though her meaning and her contempt could not have been plainer. “My lady, I assure you that I never dally with married women.” Not knowingly, at any rate.

“It is of no interest to me.” She turned away and spoke to an old man at the next table. “Roland, what say we make an early start on the morrow to make up for the time lost today?”

“Aye.” Roland’s tone was curt. His dark eyes glowered at her from either side of his hooked red nose. “In fact, I’ve a mind to get at it tonight.”

“Nay. ’Tis late, and we’ve had a busy day. We’ll be all the fresher for a good night’s sleep.”

“We’ll start at dawn, then.” Roland heaved his bulk off the bench. “Come along, lads. We’d best turn in.”

The Boyds, with the exception of those sitting with Ross’s men, rose from their seats and drifted toward the door in an orderly procession. Those who passed close by wished Catlyn good sleep. The warmth of her smiles as she bid them sleep well were a revelation to Ross. If she was not cold and caustic by nature, why had she taken such a dislike to him? It was lowering. It was infuriating. Worst of all, it endangered his mission.

By force of will, Ross kept a bland mask in place. “If we could help with your work, we’d be happy to.”

Catlyn glared at him. “There is no need.”

“Oh, but I disagree.” Ross gave her his most winning smile, his temper fraying further when it made no dent in her scowl. “You saved our lives, and we’d like to repay you.”

“We neither require your help nor want it.” Her chin was high, her tone that of a queen to a lowly knave.

Never in his life had he been treated so by a woman. “My lady, there must be something I can do to express my thanks.”

“Aye, there is. You can leave on the morrow.”

Leave? Without the whiskey recipe? Impossible. “Do you not think you owe my wounded men a few days in which to heal?”

Her expression softened. “I suppose.” Very grudgingly. “I will consult with Freda tomorrow and see how long she thinks you need stay.” With that, she turned away.

Ross caught her wrist. The flesh was warm and surprisingly firm. The beat of her pulse against his palm sent a ripple through his lower belly. “My thanks for your hospitality, Lady Catlyn.” He said the words through his teeth, barely holding on to civility. “On the morrow, when you are rested—and mayhap more congenial—let us see if we cannot find some way in which I might repay you.” He gave her a slow, burning smile, the one that never failed to melt opposition.

Beneath his hand, her pulse skittered, but her skin remained cool. “I will be busy—” she loosened his grip, one finger at a time “—for the foreseeable future. I wish you good journey to Inverness.”

“But...” Ross moved to block her retreat.

A yellow-haired man pushed in between them. He was large, muscular and handsome, despite angry brown eyes and a pugnacious expression. “Do not touch her,” this newcomer growled at Ross.

“I can take care of myself, Eoin.” The lady looked even more displeased with her champion than she was with Ross.

“He is bothering you,” Eoin grumbled.

Lady Catlyn sighed. “You are both annoying me.”

“Let me escort you to your room.” Eoin reached for her arm.

Catlyn avoided his grasp. “Stay and keep Sir Ross company.”

“But Catlyn,” Eoin whined. “I should go with you.”