Chapter Sixteen

“A word, mistress, if you do no’ mind.”

Catha looked round at Tansy, who hovered in the doorway of the dining hall, where breakfast had been laid. Dim morning light flooded through the narrow windows, and rain fell outside.

Tansy had left Sir Malcolm sleeping, resisting with difficulty the desire to touch him again. His exhaustion—and the lurid wounds that still marked him—argued he needed his rest.

Besides, she wished to speak with Catha alone.

Catha made a gesture of invitation. “To be sure. Come in, please, and break your fast. I trust you spent a pleasant night.”

Tansy strove to hide her smile and failed. “I did, mistress.” She peered into the room, which seemed overfilled with servants. “But I did hope we might speak alone.”

“Aye, so?” Catha lifted elegantly curved brows. “Let us then repair to my wee parlor. Come.”

The parlor, a small chamber at the back of the house, the room where Mistress Catha clearly pursued her sewing, lay dim and very nearly cold, a poor fire smoldering in the grate.

Catha stirred it to life and indicated one of the benches. “Pray sit and say what you will. I maun admit, Mistress Gant, I am curious about you. Never before ha’ I known Malcolm to associate wi’ any woman, much less travel wi’ one. May I ask how you met?”

“That is a story in itself. Perhaps you will allow me to share it at another time.”

“As you wish.” Catha studied Tansy closely. “What is it troubles you?”

Tansy hesitated. She’d contemplated this step long, lying in Malcolm’s arms while he slept, but still did not know for sure whether she acted as she should. Malcolm would not be happy with her.

Yet she’d sworn to aid him in any way possible.

She returned Catha’s gaze and asked, “Might I speak honestly? I ken fine we ha’ just met.”

“Please do speak honestly.” Catha perched on the bench across from her. “I strive my best to be an earnest woman and deal honestly wi’ everyone, having learned the damage lies can do.”

Tansy nodded. She, on the other hand, had built her life on half-truths. But that was before Malcolm.

“’Tis about Sir Malcolm and his brother—their predicament.”

Catha’s attention quickened. “Has Malcolm told me all?”

“Nay, I do no’ believe so.”

“Aye, and I thought not. I can always tell when he is withholding something. But you will tell me?”

Tansy drew a breath. If she did, would Malcolm ever forgive her?

She answered the question with another. “What do you know o’ this Latham who holds Sir Malcolm’s brother a prisoner?”

“Enough. He is held in high esteem by the King, one of his right-hand men. He is also ruthless, with a reputation for cruelty.”

“You have met him?”

“Many times. My father knew his family from the time I was a wee child. More lately, my husband often went to court and took me wi’ him. Donald Latham was frequently there.”

“He must, then, be a man of means.”

“Unquestionably.”

“One who often gets what he wants.”

“Mistress Gant, if you ha’ a point to this, I pray you speak out.”

Tansy leaned closer on her bench. “Sir Malcolm has told you this villain, Latham, fell upon him and his brother when they landed from France. He’s said they were taken prisoner and held several weeks.”

“Aye.”

“Did he also tell you they were tortured?”

Mistress Catha’s lovely face closed. “Nay, he did no’.”

“This vile excuse for a man wished to persuade Sir Malcolm to do his will. Sir Malcolm’s wounds are many and livid.”

“You have seen?” Mistress Catha’s gaze questioned her.

“I have. Yet, as Sir Malcolm confessed to me, Latham reserved the worst of his cruelty for Sir Mercien, knowing that would hurt Sir Malcolm worse than his own pain.”

Mistress Catha’s hands gripped one another so tightly the fingers turned white. “So it would. I ha’ known them both since we were all wee bairns. Malcolm always made it his place to look after Mercien, even after Mercien, a knight in his own right, no longer needed such care.” She sucked in a breath. “And Mercien remains in Latham’s hands.”

“Aye.”

“Then we maun free him—at any cost.”

“Any cost, mistress?”

“Aye, I ha’ told Malcolm I will aid him in launching an attack against Latham, if he will. Lend him members of my household guard, since he is wi’out his own men.”

“That will no’ serve.” Tansy hesitated and, swiftly, consulted the knowledge—and daring—within. “Sir Malcolm may throw himself against the stones of that keep until he breaks.” Or until he died—indeed, ’twas just that Tansy feared. “Do you think Latham would have undertaken this scheme if he did not believe he could keep hold of his prisoner? Nay, mistress, Sir Mercien will be released only in exchange for another.”

Mistress Catha reared back. “And who is that?”

“You.”

****

Malcolm woke slowly to the pain of his wounds, as he had now for days uncounted. Possession of his mind—which surely had come close to breaking in Latham’s dungeon—returned to him more slowly still, in pieces, as it were.

He lay in a soft bed that smelled clean, and daylight, dim and gray, pressed against his eyelids, so night must be past. Yet his deep exhaustion, barely touched, remained with him as well as…

Another hunger, barely assuaged—for the touch, the taste of the wee witch lass. White, agile limbs, a still more agile tongue, black hair wrapped around them both, and the raw, intoxicating taste of her. Pleasure so sharp even the memory of it made his heart leap.

His eyes flew open. The chamber lay empty except for Malcolm himself, naked as she had left him. Someone must have come in while he slept and lit the fire. Had Tansy gone before that, in an effort to maintain the propriety of the household?

It did not seem like something she would do. His wee witch did not concern herself overmuch with propriety.

Sprawled on his back in the bed, he contemplated the things she had done with him—and to him—last night. Turned him inside out right proper she had, stolen a piece of him. Given a piece back too, quite possibly. He grew hard just thinking on it.

He needed to find her, gaze into those pale, uncanny eyes of hers—the same ones that glowed with magical light when he entered her—and…well, ground himself, he supposed. He had no words for the way he felt toward Tansy Bellrose Gant. Just emotions, and he’d never been good at naming those.

Perhaps, when it came to this woman, names did not matter.

He climbed from the bed and dressed hastily, not waiting to confine his hair in its thong of leather, so it hung loose on his shoulders. Servants he encountered outside the dining hall directed him to Catha’s private chamber. He tapped on the door and walked in to hear her say, “Me?”

Both women froze with their heads close together, leaning from opposite benches, before they looked at him guiltily. At least, Catha appeared startled and guilty; the expression in Tansy’s eyes held something more. Chagrin? Regret?

His heart clenched in his chest. “What are you doing here?”

Tansy sprang to her feet. Her hands—the same that had been all over him during the night—tangled together.

“I ha’ told Mistress Catha the truth.”

“What?” It came from him in a roar. His men and his horses alike might attest he rarely raised his voice, save in battle. Now the agonized word burst from him.

“She has a right to know. She loves him, Sir Malcolm. And ’tis her safety at stake.”

Catha rose also and spun to face Malcolm. His spirit recoiled at the look in her eyes. “Did you truly mean to betray me, Malcolm? After all we ha’ been to each other? Like family, just.”

“If I had to.” Right after he finished strangling the wee witch. Or handing her over to the Royal Commission, which might be preferable.

Catha looked as if he had slapped her. He stepped farther into the room and shut the door, measuring Catha as he did so. It would be easier to take her by force out on the road than here beneath the noses of her household guard. But Tansy might just have spoiled his chances of persuading her away.

Catha’s cheeks flamed. “So ’tis me Latham wants.”

“Aye.”

“As a price for Mercien.”

“Aye, Catha.”

She stared at him long while none of them so much as breathed. Then something in her stance eased. “’Tis a fair trade.”

“Eh?” he gaped at her and, angry as he felt, shot an incredulous look at Tansy.

Catha lifted her chin a notch. “I agree to the exchange.”

Malcolm shook his head as if trying to clear his ears. “What did you say?”

“I agree to the exchange—myself for Mercien. I would give far more to win him free.”

“Catha—” he began.

She interrupted him. “What did you think o’ me, Malcolm, to suppose I would no’ care more for him than mysel’? How did you mean to accomplish it? By trickery? By trussing me up like a prize hen and handing me over against my will?”

His throat closed. “Aye.” He struggled for breath. “I meant to persuade you to tak’ the trail wi’ us by telling you Latham—holding you in some regard—might listen to your arguments and release Mercien. Then I intended to give you over to him by force if need be.”

“What o’ my guard? Did you no’ suppose I would take a number of men wi’ me?”

“I hoped to convince you a small party travels quickest. And I intended to murder your men if I had to.”

Her brows twitched. “Honest, at least.”

“I am an honest man. When I can be. I do no’ like resorting to deception, Catha, especially where you are concerned.”

“And now, thanks to Mistress Tansy, you will no’ have to. We will leave directly. Only let me give instructions for the household before I go.”

“Catha…”

“I do not ken when—if—I will return.”

“Catha, he intends marriage.”

Her blue eyes met his, full on. “I ken. ’Tis naught I ha’ not endured before.”

“But Latham…”

“Is a vile beast who takes pleasure in causing pain to others, aye. But we are speaking of Mercien. His pain. His release. I love him, Malcolm. Do you no’ ken that? I would give mysel’ over a thousand times for his sake.”

The truth of that stopped all words in Malcolm’s throat.

“And,” Catha concluded, “I would ha’ wound up in Latham’s hands either way, no? For you would ha’ handed me over. The only difference is, Mistress Tansy warned me.”

“Aye.” He bent another look on Tansy, one rife with fury. How could he ever trust her again?

Tansy stiffened in response to his glare but leaned forward and said, “Mistress Catha, your sacrifice will be a brief one. For I ha’ determined that this beast, Latham, must die.”