To Dream of a Highlander(50)
The strength and determination she’d felt earlier was slipping away.
Her hands grew shaky and it took all her concentration to keep her food on her eating knife. If she married Gillean, he would be no better than the Norseman.
Catriona ate little and only relaxed once the servants began clearing away the plates and scraps. She managed to attract Lorna’s attention as she stood and they met near the empty fire pit.
The fair haired woman looked her up and down, a furrow between her brows. “Katelyn, is all well?”
“Aye, well enough.” She’d barely spoken to Lorna since she’d revealed Finn’s past to her. The lady had grown quiet of late. Something plagued her. Catriona longed to ask more but what advice could she offer? “Lorna, would ye be able to send a messenger to Bute? Or the villages on the coast? He might be seeking sanctuary there if Bute was overrun.”
“Aye, that should be possible. I am surprised we’ve not had word from there yet but I assumed yer father has likely had his hands full with the invasion.”
“I would be pleased to hear how things are and to let him know that I may be wed by the time I see him next.”
“Indeed, ye may well be.” Lorna smiled tightly. “Write a missive and I shall send my fastest rider.”
“I thank ye, Lorna. Ye have been so very kind to me, as have yer men.”
She waved a hand. “I am just doing my duty, Katelyn.”
“Aye, but ye have done it with kindness.”
“Would that I could do more…” she murmured.
Catriona scowled but before she could ask what she meant, Logan approached and bowed.
“Forgive the interruption, my ladies. I must speak with ye Lady Lorna.”
Lorna skipped her gaze from Catriona to Logan, and nodded slowly. Logan’s sudden formality made Catriona deepen her scowl.
“As ye will. Pray excuse me. Have that missive to me by midday and I shall send my fastest rider,” Lorna told her.
“Aye, thank ye.”
Logan and Lorna left the hall and as Catriona turned, a chest blocked her way. She lifted her gaze to those stone cold eyes and grim lips.
“My lady,” Gillean said softly.
“Aye?”
“Ye look very fine in that gown. The red compliments yer skin to perfection. I look forward to the day I can dress ye in only the best gowns…”
“My laird?”
“But yer lacing is a little bit loose. I shouldnae like my wife to be so… on display.”
Gulping, her pulse beat heavily as he bore down on her. His hands came to her shoulders and he rotated her so her back was to him. She flinched when fingers brushed aside her hair but her limbs would not move nor would words of protest reach her lips. Laird Gillean dissolved her courage. Tears of frustration burned.
His fingers were cold and bony. Not like Finn’s. She stiffened, hiding the shudder that racked her. This man might be her husband soon. If she couldn’t stand his touch now, how would she survive the marriage bed?
Catriona closed her eyes as servants bustled around them, folding away the tables and sweeping the floor—oblivious to her distress. Gillean tugged the laces, pulling the breath from her and taking an eternity to finish. She opened her eyes when she felt him tying the final bow and her gaze landed on Finn, silhouetted in the doorway. He seemed to occupy all of it. Pain radiated from him. Brow creased, he stared at her for too long—made her breaths grow short. Then, with a marginal shake of his head, he swivelled away and stormed into the bailey. She imagined his heavy footsteps kicking up dirt as he stomped away.
She hardly noticed when Gillean turned her around, a smug smile stretching the confines of his beard. “There. Perfect.” His gaze crawled over her.
A tremble threatened to break free but she held herself stiff and thanked him distractedly. Why did Finn look so tortured? Did his heart ache like hers? Sometimes she thought she had him figured out and other days… was it more than lust? The full, painful sensation in her heart told her it was. At least for her.
***
Once again, wine beckoned him but he managed to stave off the hunger. He smirked as he stomped across the curtain wall, the night air ruffling his shirt, filling his lungs. Katelyn’s scolding lingered in his mind. Ye’ve been drinking. He recalled her pretty nose, wrinkled in distaste. Instead he worked off energy stalking along the walls and around the bailey looking—nay, hoping—for some trouble. Anything to distract him from the memory of Gillean’s hands upon Katelyn. The possessive look, the way he whispered in her ear. The longing in Katelyn’s gaze. For him? He could only hope.
Could he? Her scent remained with him, even after he’d washed, marking him. Like a brand. Even the knowledge of her impending marriage did nothing to cool his need for her. He shouldn’t be yearning for her. Shouldn’t be hoping she wanted more. If he were a better man, he’d wish her well and pray for her happiness, but he was not. Selfishly, he wanted her. More than mead or wine, he wanted to take her and brand her as she had him. Stamp himself on her soul.