Page 29 of Claimed By a Savage Scot
She was leaning on her stick, hobbling purposefully across the cobblestones towards the doors of the keep. The forest-green kirtle she was wearing was a stunning contrast to her old black gown, its flowing, fitted skirts showing off her small waist and elegant curves. He felt the pinch of lust.
Over her shoulder was slung a large cloth bag stuffed with greenery. Herbs, he guessed, recalling she was due to start helping Mairead in the infirmary that afternoon.
Where has she been? That bag looks too heavy. Is she steady on her feet?
He wanted to go to her, take the bag from her, give her his arm so she would not fall and hurt herself again. Better still, pick her up.
But he had to be contented with simply watching her every step, holding his breath until she reached the steps to the keep, hobbled up them, and disappeared inside.
Only then did he breathe.
“Hey, lads, it looks like somethin’s got the laird more than usually distracted today. Or should I saysomeone,” one of the clansmen good-naturedly.
It was a harmless little jest of the sort that Malcolm would have laughed off on any other day. But not today.
He whirled on the speaker, unaccountably angry. “Distracted, am I? I’ll show ye how distracted I am,” he said coldly. “I’m suddenly in the mood fer a sparrin’ match. And ye look like the ideal opponent. Let’s go.”
Without another word, he stalked off, pausing once to make sure the unfortunate clansman was following him towards the training field. The rest of the group trailed behind, caught up in various states of excitement and perplexity about the coming fight.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
After dining in her chamber that evening, Catriona went down to the hall and spent some time in conversation with some of the castle women, councilors wives most of them. But she excused herself after a while, having adopted the habit of taking a walk around the castle each evening, for exercise, entertainment, and to tire herself in preparation for restful sleep. She had brought her cloak with her for the purpose.
She was absorbed in thoughts of home when she happened to pass an archway leading into one of the towers. As children, she and Duncan and Ewan and Malcolm had often played up and down the tower stairs, make-believe warriors with wooden swords, taking turns to defend and attack the castle. A tug of nostalgia made her suddenly decide to make the climb up to the battlements to admire the view she remembered from childhood, never mind her handicap.
It was a laborious climb, but she really wanted to see the view and thought the extra effort worth it. Besides, she hoped the exertion would help her sleep later on, as sleep often eluded her.
When she finally reached the top and stepped out onto the battlements, puffed with exertion, she was startled to see Malcolm there. He was about twenty feet away, alone, leaning on the ramparts, looking out over his domain. She figured the gusty wind was the reason he had not heard her coming.
She stopped to get her breath, taking the opportunity to observe him unseen.
She felt very naughty as she allowed herself the luxury of admiring his long, muscular legs encased in tight moleskin trews, which he wore tucked into his favorite black riding boots. Her gaze ran over his impressively broad shoulders and brawny arms. The muscles strained against the confines of his leather jerkin, showing off his powerful body to perfection.
Just looking at him set her pulse racing and made the most private parts of her body tingle. He was big, strong, hard, and fearsome. He could kill a man without a second thought. And he was utterly, sinfully gorgeous.
“Monarch of all ye survey,” she said, creeping up behind him and leaning on the adjoining rampart. She laughed at the mixture of surprise, alarm, and concern that appeared on his face.
“Cat!” he burst out, then stopped, clamping his lips together as if he had misspoken.
Her ears pricked up at his use of the old diminutive, the name he had always called her in happier times. Warmth spread unexpectedly through her chest at the sound on histongue. Since meeting in the priory tunnels, except for that one exception when they had been sitting in the Great Hall the other night, he had always addressed her formally as Catriona. She had not questioned it, she supposed because for much of the time, she had been angry with him for not being Duncan and had wanted to keep a distance between them. Now, she yearned to hear him say it again.
But he was already speaking. “How the hell…” he began, his beautiful dark eyes frowning at her. “Tell me ye didnae climb all the way up here on a sprained ankle.” He glanced at her stick, which she had propped against the wall. “With a bloody walkin’ stick!”
She chuckled, pleased with her surprise. “Nay, dinnae be so daft. I flew up here on me broom,” she joked.
He looked away from her, out over the lush valley, shaking his head. “Christ, woman, ye’re unbelievable.”
“Shall I take that as a compliment?”
He snorted softly. “Aye, if ye like. Once again, I havetae admire yer determination. I just wish ye wouldnae be so… so reckless with yer own safety. It drives me mad.”
“If I remember rightly, I used tae accuse ye of bein’ reckless,” she countered, feeling his warmth soaking into her, liking the way the wind was blowing his dark locks across his forehead. His handsome profile looked as though it had been chiseled out ofgranite by a master sculptor, stirring enough to make her sigh inwardly.
“Aye, ye did.”
Silence fell between them, while the wind buffeted them and tugged at their clothes and hair like an overlarge, playful puppy.
Catriona sensed a heaviness in his silence, a hidden darkness within him, something weighing on him she had not noticed before. But she had no idea what it could be. If she knew what it was, then she thought maybe she could help him.
