Taming The Lion

“How can you tell that?”

“Little things. One man was cut down while guarding Sir Ross’s back. The knight delayed his retreat, put himself in danger, to rescue the fallen man. Carried him in over his saddlebow, he did. And, too, each of the Sutherlands saw to the comfort of his mount before settling in himself. They washed their weapons and themselves ere they accepted our invite to dine. They’ve demanded nothing and expressed gratitude for what we have given them.”

Catlyn nodded, recalling the arrangements Adair had made. Sir Ross and Sir Mathew were lodged in her solar, it being the only suitable chamber. The others were sleeping in the barracks. Old Freda had seen to their wounds. The smithy would mend the dents in their weapons and shields.

Catlyn was astute enough to realize that these “little things” spoke volumes about a man’s character. “I suppose you think me foolish for being wary of them.”

“Not at all.” Adair patted her hand with his callused paw. “You are unused to such warlike men.” He sighed. “But we could use such a troop of experienced swordsmen just now.”

“Surely you are not suggesting we hire them.” Saints above, if a few moments in Sir Ross’s company tied her belly in knots, how would she survive having him around for days? Weeks?

Instead of a quick denial, Adair heaved another sigh. “Even if we had the coin to pay them, I’d be remiss in my duties if I suggested we take on men whose mettle we do not know.”

Relief coursed through her veins. “My thoughts exactly.” The sooner Sir Ross left, the better.

“The Sutherlands are come,” someone called above the chatter in the crowded room. Instantly a cheer went up.

Catlyn whipped her head around, eyes narrowing against the thin pall of smoke hanging on the damp air.

Ross Sutherland stood on the threshold, his head high, inky hair blending with the stark tunic he wore over close-fitting black hose. He inclined his head in acknowledgment of her clansmen’s gratitude, like a prince accepting his due.

The fine hair on Catlyn’s nape prickled. She did not like him. He was too assured, too haughty by half.

“I’ll say one thing, this knight has the look of a man who lets nothing stand in the way of what he wants,” Adair muttered.

“Aye,” Catlyn said weakly. He was a force to be reckoned with. At that moment, Sir Ross’s eyes pounced on her. There was no other way to describe the manner in which his gaze latched onto hers. The rest of the room faded into nothingness. She wanted to look away but couldn’t, held prisoner by the searing focus of his attention. Such power. Such intensity.

“Catlyn.” Adair poked her in the ribs.

She jerked her head around. “What?”

“You should stand and bid them welcome.”

She wanted to run. Years of adherence to duty propelled her to her feet. “Come, join us in a simple meal, good sirs.” She was grateful her words did not knock together like her knees.

“Thank you, my lady.” Ross Sutherland’s deep voice echoed like thunder off the ancient stone walls. His gaze still full on her face, he entered the hall. His big body moved with fluid grace as he strode between the rows of tables. Behind him trailed his men, their faces freshly scrubbed, their chain mail replaced by dark hose and tunics.

“Sir Ross seems keen to reach you,” Adair murmured.

“I am sure you are mistaken.” But a thrill raced down Catlyn’s spine as he drew nearer. His eyes shone with determination, glinting like silver in the torchlight. For some reason, her blood heated.

“See what you can find out about him,” Adair whispered.

“Wh-what?” Then his meaning sank in. “I cannot.”

“The more we know of him, the better we’ll both feel.”

“But...but I have no skill at talking with men.”

“You talk with men all the day.”

Not men like this. “That is work, this is...” Impossible. She could not even look at him without having her tongue knot.

“I’ll seat his men elsewhere. So as you can be alone.”

“Nay, I—”

“Just ask him a few questions. Men are ever eager to boast of their exploits.”

“Wait!” she cried softly, but already Adair had left her and was moving to intercept the line of men. With sinking heart, she watched her friend, the man sworn to protect her, divert the Sutherlands to other nearby tables and leave her in danger.

“My lady.” Ross Sutherland stopped a few paces away and inclined his head. “I apologize for our lateness. It took us some time to get settled and make ourselves presentable.”

Presentable? He was that and more. Tall, perfectly proportioned and so fair of face it was sinful. The finely woven tunic and hose he wore, so different from the loose saffron sherts and plaids worn by her clansman, showed -off his broad chest and muscular legs. Every woman in the hall, even those who were happily married, watched him with ill-disguised hunger. The only flaw Catlyn could find was the smugness in his gaze. He knew what a fine specimen he was and doubtless used his looks to ensnare hapless females.

Just like Eoin.

The comparison struck Catlyn hard, wrenching the blinders from her eyes. This knight was no larger-than-life being, but a conceited oaf who thought to charm his way into her bed. Disgust flooded her. She welcomed it as an antidote to her earlier fascination with him. “Do not trouble yourself over it, sir,” she said coolly. “We do not stand on ceremony here, and the meal is a simple one. We were not expecting, er, guests.”

“Nor were we expecting such a rowdy welcome.” His grin hinted at a wry sense of humor. Worse, it made him look as guileless as a lad. “Again, my thanks for taking us in.”

“And ours to you for foiling the Fergusson’s plans to attack Kennecraig.”

“Hmm.” He winced slightly and shifted his weight.

“Oh, how thoughtless of me to keep you standing here.” Catlyn plopped down onto her bench and motioned for him to take the one across from her. Better than to have him sit beside her, she reasoned, signaling the maids to serve them.

“Allow me, my lady.” Sir Ross courteously spooned stew into her bowl, then presented it with a flourish so grand it might have been fillet of beef he was offering.

“Thank you.” Catlyn brought a spoonful of stew to her lips and found it as hot as her temper. His every charming word, his every seductive glance infuriated her.

“May I say how lovely you look this evening?”

Catlyn groaned. Next he would be composing verses that compared her hair to honey and her eyes to autumn leaves. “Thank you, sir,” she mumbled through clenched teeth.

Shy, Ross thought as he stared at the top of Lady Catlyn’s head. If she bent any closer to her bowl, she’d have her nose in the mutton stew. He found her shyness as endearing as the pains she had taken with her appearance. Gone was the ethereal maiden from the courtyard. In her place sat a lovely woman, as regal in bearing as any he’d met at court. And yet, he’d seen the vulnerability in her eyes and her awareness of him as a man. He must play on both, God help him, if he was to redeem the note he had signed last week.

Dieu, was it only a week ago he’d been sitting in the Running Fox, enjoying a victory celebration with his men? And then, the man calling himself Robert Dunbar had slithered into his life like the serpent into the Garden of Eden, offering whiskey whose smoothness hid its deadly effect.

“The smoothest in the Highlands,” Hakon had boasted.

Oh, it had gone down smooth, all right. And exploded like fire in his head. Ross, unused to strong liquor for he liked to keep his wits clear, had only the vaguest recollection of his men drifting off to bed. The pack of cards Robert had produced was an even dimmer memory. Next morning, through a haze of misery and stale whiskey fumes, Ross had recognized his signature on the note pledging Stratheas Keep in exchange for his debts.

One night—one damned night—it had taken Ross to gamble away the keep that had been in his mother’s family for generations. And the only way he could get it back was to steal from these people who had rescued him from ambush.

Why had Hakon lied about his name? How had he known that the Boyds would offer sanctuary to the Sutherlands?

Ross sighed and studied the folk he’d come to rob. He’d expected living conditions as wild and desolate as these stark mountains, yet found order and civility. The ancient walls had been brightened by a coat of whitewash. Woven tapestries lent color and warmth to the long, crowded room. More banners hung from the vaulted ceiling two stories above the rush-strewn floor. The well-run hall, the thread of camaraderie made Ross’s gut twist with remorse. Kennecraig and the Boyds reminded him of Edin Valley, the home he had turned his back on a year ago. The home and the clan he had betrayed as despicably as he was about to betray the Boyds.

The key to redeeming his pledge was this shy, gentle lass who, according to Hakon, was heir to the family’s whiskey recipe. However much he disliked it, Ross would pry from her the secret Hakon demanded in exchange for Ross’s note.

Poor little bird, Ross thought, gazing at the top of her head. He guessed Catlyn was a simple lass, not used to dealing with men, while he not only possessed a quick and highly educated mind, he had over a dozen years’ experience with the lasses. From the time his voice had changed, women had been chasing after him. Not that he minded. He found them delightful creatures, full of soft promise and earthy mystery. He enjoyed exploring the differences that made each woman unique. It pleased him to give pleasure, in and out of bed, to share a meal, a song or a quiet moment watching the sunrise. It hurt him immeasurable that he must lie, cheat and steal from this compassionate young thing. But he would do whatever he had to to gain the information he needed.

With a heavy heart, Ross began his campaign. “The food is very good,” he murmured. Indeed, it was, mutton stew, barley bread and cheese washed down with ale.

“Cook does his best, but the time just before harvest is always lean and monotonous,” said the lady, her head still down.

Again Ross thought of Edin Valley, the hills lush with grain ready to cut, the sheep fattened by summer grazing. There, too, the harvest was only a few weeks away. If he did not succeed here, Hakon would be reaping the benefits of the Sutherlands’ hard work. Or trying to. Though Ross had pledged his estate to Hakon, his sire and clansmen would not give up an inch of Edin Valley without a bloody fight.

And that blood would be on his head.

Ross gritted his teeth. “The harvest fast approaches.”

“Aye.”

“What crops do you raise so far north?”

She raised her head, spearing him with surprisingly intelligent hazel eyes. “Why do you ask when you cannot care?”

Ross blinked, startled as much by her candor as her vehemence. “I was but making conversation.”

“To what purpose?”

Betrayal. Thievery. “I would know you better.”

“Why, when you will be leaving in a day or so?”

So the Boyds were anxious to be rid of him. Perhaps they were not as trusting as he had supposed. Which meant the Boyds who had trailed after him had not only been helping him settle in but watching him. Inconvenient, that. It would make it more difficult for him to locate the stills and make a drawing of the equipment. “It is a thing people do. A courtesy.”

“Something you use on the ladies at court in Edinburgh?”

“What makes you think I’ve been to court?”

“You speak French.”

Ross recalled the orders he had bawled at his men when they’d arrived, and vowed to watch himself. “You must speak it, too.”

“One does not have to speak a language to recognize it.”

“True.” Ross inclined his head, surprised anew by her facile mind. And sharp tongue. “You are wroth with me?”

“Is there a reason I should be?”

Oh, aye. “I can think of none.”

“Then I cannot possibly be angry with you.” She shut him out again by lowering her head.

Damn and blast, he’d coaxed women into his bed with less effort than this Puzzled by her coolness, especially after the way she had acted in the courtyard, he took another bite of stew and looked about.

Dressed in dark wool adorned by nary a gold chain or a sparkling gem, the Boyds had made his own troop welcome. For a clan supposedly in possession of the perfect recipe for whiskey, they drank little. Indeed, their manner was as subdued as their clothing. He wondered at that, for Ross was a man who liked people, male and female. The subtle nuances that made one person different from another fascinated him. It was part of his charm, claimed his mother. “People sense that you are genuinely interested in them, and so they confide in you.”

Apparently that charm was lost on Lady Catlyn. A pity, for he found her more and more appealing. While he had been changing into dry clothes, she had exchanged her white gown for a simple one of dark green wool. The color was a perfect foil for her pale skin and honey hair. She wore it up, but a few tendrils had worked loose to froth around her face. He had an unaccountable urge to demolish that braid and bury his hands in her hair, a nearly uncontrollable need to kiss the starch from the prim pink mouth that spoke to him so coolly and disapprovingly.

Did she dislike all men? Or did she sense that his interest in her was dangerous? Either way, winning her trust would be a challenge. One he might have relished had the stakes not been so high. “Did you create the lovely wall hangings?”

“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.”

“My lady,” Ross protested. “I thought we might talk.”

“Talk with Eoin.” Eyes glittering with mockery, she glanced at each of them in turn. “I think you have much in common.” Lifting her skirt, she moved away.

Ross watched her leave, thinking that the queen had never made as regal an exit. But with her went his only hope of recovering his family property.

“Leave her alone,” Eoin growled. His face flushed with hostility, he stalked off in the lady’s wake.

“Plans going awry?” Mathew Sutherland, Ross’s cousin and second in command, strolled over to join him.

“For some reason, the lady has taken a dislike of me.”

“Inconvenient.”

“Damnably so.”

“What will you do?” Mathew whispered.

Leave at first light. But he could not. Ross clenched his teeth. “I will just have to find a way to charm the lady into revealing her secrets.”

“That should not be difficult for a man with your skill at wooing the lasses.” Mathew winked lewdly.

“This one is made of ice.” It rankled to chase after a woman who obviously disliked him. Yet her rudeness made him feel less guilty about what he must do. “Were you able to learn anything from the Boyds you dined with?”

“Just that they seem to be simple, hardworking folk who think of little else besides their whiskey making. Adair did ask several sharp questions of us.”

Ross grunted. “I marked him for a canny man. Our lads?”

“Have quick wits and careful tongues.”

That they did, for they had been trained in the fine art of thief-catching by Ross’s uncle, Hunter Carmichael, Warden of the Scottish Middle March. “This is not so different from other tasks we’ve performed for Uncle Hunter. We need information before we can decide how best to get what we came for. Have the lads find out where the stills are located, who has access to them and, if possible, where their records are kept.”

Mathew nodded. “I will see to it immediately.”

“I trust you had enough to eat,” Adair said as he joined them. “This is a busy season for us,” added the older man. “We retire early and, much as I dislike forcing guests to do the same, I must ask you to seek your beds.” Behind the grizzled warrior stood a quartet of beefy Boyds.

“Guards?” Ross exclaimed.

“Aye.” Adair’s level gaze offered no apology. “We are pleased to offer you shelter, but you are strangers to us.”

“Are we to be locked up like prisoners?” Ross demanded.

“Only if you will not follow a few rules.”

“Such as?”

“Keep to your rooms, the great hall or the courtyard and do not attempt to evade those set to watch you.”

The rules were reasonable. No more than he’d have insisted upon himself if the situation were reversed. Ross was in no mood to be reasonable. And guards would make it difficult for his men to move about freely. But arguing would only raise more suspicions. “We agree,” Ross grumbled. “But tell me this. Was it your lady who ordered that we be watched?”

“Nay. I have charge of such things. Why do you ask?”

“She does not like me.”

“Oh.” One of Adair’s gray brows rose. “Why is that?”

“I did not insult her, if that is your meaning. Quite the contrary. The more charming my manner, the colder hers grew.”

“And why would you be wanting to charm our Catlyn?”

Ross blinked. “Because...because I owe her a debt.”

“A debt, is it?” A grin tugged at the corners of Adair’s lined mouth, and a knowing gleam entered his dark eyes. “Well, since we’re owing you a debt as well—for thwarting Hakon’s plans—I’ll be telling you the lass is not much one for charm.”

“What do you mean by that?”

Adair’s grin spread to lighten his weathered face. “If you are around long enough, you may just find that out.” He winked at Mathew. “And now, lads, I’ll bid you good-night. We’ve put the pair of you in Catlyn’s solar, it being the only chamber that’s not occupied. I’m told the maids took up sleeping pallets, blankets and such. If you need anything, just ask.”

Anything but freedom. Still Ross could not fault their caution. Nodding, he followed the pair of guards up two flights of narrow, winding stairs, conscious of Mathew’s suppressed tension. His cousin was canny enough to hold his tongue till the door to their borrowed chamber had shut behind them.

“By the rod!” Mathew exclaimed. “Do you think they plan to keep us prisoners here? Murder us in our—”

“Shh.” Ross drew Mathew across the long, spacious room to the window. “If they meant to harm us, they’d have taken our weapons. Their wariness is reasonable, if damned inconvenient.”