Free Dreamer (Highland Treasure Trilogy) by May McGoldrick, Nicole Cody, Jan Coffey, Nikoo McGoldrick, James McGoldrick Page A
Castle before midday yesterday, and this was the first time she had stepped out of her
bedchamber, ignoring all invitations.
Glancing in the direction that
she’d disappeared, he told himself that she’d be back. He was certain of that. But as the moments passed, the earl became a bit uneasy. Though the cook and the serving folk
who slept in the kitchens were, for the most part, an amiable lot, Athol
couldn’t imagine they were, as a whole, very fond of this haughty, reclusive
newcomer. Nay, he thought, sitting back and waiting. None would lay a hand on
her.
John Stewart had, at first, been
surprised that his ailing mother had placed his bride in the drafty old east
section of the keep. This western section of the castle, where he had his own
Great Chamber, had been rebuilt by his grandfather, and though a bit
old-fashioned, it was far more comfortable than the crumbling buildings where
Catherine had been deposited. In fact, he was even more surprised that the
newcomer hadn’t been chained to his bed, knowing his mother’s obsession with
him begetting an heir.
Well, it was time to do just that. By next summer, he could have a bairn bouncing on his knee.
The movement by the door drew his
eyes. As he knew she would, Catherine entered the Hall again, bending to pat a dog’s head before moving quietly from table to table, looking for food.
*****
Catherine pressed the heel of her
hand against her growling belly. She’d thought Balvenie Castle would hold much
worse torment than an empty stomach, but this was bad enough.
Jean had been very apologetic when
she’d come to Catherine’s chamber with no supper last night, but she simply
couldn’t defy the earl’s wishes. Catherine knew that he had come. How could she
not? With all the ruckus he and his men had raised in the courtyard earlier,
there was no ignoring him. And knowing he was here had stiffened her will to
rebel. He wanted a wife? Well, let him get one elsewhere. He wouldn’t have her.
Just as she’d told Lady Anne, she would stay locked away as long as she
must--until such time as he forgot that she even existed.
But she still needed to survive. So
now, with the castle silent and sleeping, she had decided to venture out and
collect water and food. And if there were an opportunity for escape, she would
take it.
But nay, the woven iron bands of
the portcullis cut off any chance of disappearing beyond the curtain wall into
the Scottish night.
And her foray into the kitchen had
been fruitless, as well. The expansive room, dominated by a huge double-arched
hearth, had been crowded with sleeping bodies. Feeling her way back through the
dark to the Great Hall, she had been very careful not to step on any sleeping
dogs, nor on any tartan-wrapped warriors, either.
Catherine moved stealthily along
the trestle tables. From the fading light of the fireplace, she could see only
a half dozen bowls and a ewer or two remaining out. Remnants of the night’s
drinking, she realized, picking up an empty bowl and sniffing it. And there was nothing of dinner itself, as far as she could tell.
Anxiety joining with the hunger
already gnawing at her stomach, Catherine took a deep breath and tried to stop
her knees from trembling. She wiped her wet palms on her dress beneath her
cloak and reminded herself that she was no thief.
Even the dogs had a right to search
for food.
*****
John watched her reach for a ewer
sitting beside the ear of the warrior lying on the next trestle table. The
container was empty; he’d made sure of that himself. And her disappointment
with that discovery showed up as she pushed back the cloak’s hood from her head
and brought a hand to her brow.
This was the closest she’d gotten
to him, and the fireplace nearby cast her face in a soft, amber glow. From
where he sat in the shadow against the wall, his legs sprawled beneath the
table before him, John knew she could not see his eyes watching her. She had a
fine
bedchamber, ignoring all invitations.
Glancing in the direction that
she’d disappeared, he told himself that she’d be back. He was certain of that. But as the moments passed, the earl became a bit uneasy. Though the cook and the serving folk
who slept in the kitchens were, for the most part, an amiable lot, Athol
couldn’t imagine they were, as a whole, very fond of this haughty, reclusive
newcomer. Nay, he thought, sitting back and waiting. None would lay a hand on
her.
John Stewart had, at first, been
surprised that his ailing mother had placed his bride in the drafty old east
section of the keep. This western section of the castle, where he had his own
Great Chamber, had been rebuilt by his grandfather, and though a bit
old-fashioned, it was far more comfortable than the crumbling buildings where
Catherine had been deposited. In fact, he was even more surprised that the
newcomer hadn’t been chained to his bed, knowing his mother’s obsession with
him begetting an heir.
Well, it was time to do just that. By next summer, he could have a bairn bouncing on his knee.
The movement by the door drew his
eyes. As he knew she would, Catherine entered the Hall again, bending to pat a dog’s head before moving quietly from table to table, looking for food.
*****
Catherine pressed the heel of her
hand against her growling belly. She’d thought Balvenie Castle would hold much
worse torment than an empty stomach, but this was bad enough.
Jean had been very apologetic when
she’d come to Catherine’s chamber with no supper last night, but she simply
couldn’t defy the earl’s wishes. Catherine knew that he had come. How could she
not? With all the ruckus he and his men had raised in the courtyard earlier,
there was no ignoring him. And knowing he was here had stiffened her will to
rebel. He wanted a wife? Well, let him get one elsewhere. He wouldn’t have her.
Just as she’d told Lady Anne, she would stay locked away as long as she
must--until such time as he forgot that she even existed.
But she still needed to survive. So
now, with the castle silent and sleeping, she had decided to venture out and
collect water and food. And if there were an opportunity for escape, she would
take it.
But nay, the woven iron bands of
the portcullis cut off any chance of disappearing beyond the curtain wall into
the Scottish night.
And her foray into the kitchen had
been fruitless, as well. The expansive room, dominated by a huge double-arched
hearth, had been crowded with sleeping bodies. Feeling her way back through the
dark to the Great Hall, she had been very careful not to step on any sleeping
dogs, nor on any tartan-wrapped warriors, either.
Catherine moved stealthily along
the trestle tables. From the fading light of the fireplace, she could see only
a half dozen bowls and a ewer or two remaining out. Remnants of the night’s
drinking, she realized, picking up an empty bowl and sniffing it. And there was nothing of dinner itself, as far as she could tell.
Anxiety joining with the hunger
already gnawing at her stomach, Catherine took a deep breath and tried to stop
her knees from trembling. She wiped her wet palms on her dress beneath her
cloak and reminded herself that she was no thief.
Even the dogs had a right to search
for food.
*****
John watched her reach for a ewer
sitting beside the ear of the warrior lying on the next trestle table. The
container was empty; he’d made sure of that himself. And her disappointment
with that discovery showed up as she pushed back the cloak’s hood from her head
and brought a hand to her brow.
This was the closest she’d gotten
to him, and the fireplace nearby cast her face in a soft, amber glow. From
where he sat in the shadow against the wall, his legs sprawled beneath the
table before him, John knew she could not see his eyes watching her. She had a
fine