The Highlander's Claim (Highland Romance) Page 19

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Catherine

  The next morning, I am exhausted from the lack of sleep, but I take comfort in the aches and stiffness in my body. I savor the small pains, for they remind me of Malcolm. And as I stroll through my gardens in the bailey, I know with a firm certainty that whoever my father marries me to will never be able to please me in the way he does − physically or emotionally.

  I sit down on my bench that’s secreted away among the flowering bushes of my garden and relive what we did last night in my mind over and over again. I close my eyes and can almost feel the light touch of his fingers on my skin. I can almost feel him inside of me, filling me up and stretching me open. The taste of his kiss lingers on my tongue, and the scent of our sex fills my nose. The memory of it all fills me with warmth, and I feel the hot center of me growing slick all over again.

  “And what is it that has you smiling like that, my niece?”

  All of the pleasant memories that had been filling my mind suddenly dry and wither, the remnants of them blowing away like the desiccated petals of a rose blowing away on a stiff breeze at the sound of his voice. Seeing my uncle standing on the path looking down at me with his imperious gaze curdles my mood like sour milk. I sit up straighter, not bothering to hide the frown that creases my face.

  “My thoughts are my own and are no business of yours,” I tell him.

  He sighs and uninvited, perches on the bench alongside me. Though several feet separate us, just being so near to him leaves a greasy, foul feeling residue upon my skin. The air between us crackles with tension and the bad blood that flows between us. I look away, unwilling to meet his gaze.

  “Why is it that you dislike me so much, Catherine?”

  “It would take our scribe weeks to jot down every reason.”

  He sighs. “I never wanted our relationship to be so sour,” he says. “I hope you can believe me when I say that you are family, and I love you.”

  “Uncle, I would not believe you if you told me that my name is Catherine Seely and that the sky is blue.”

  He shakes his head. “How has it gotten to this point?”

  “I believe the better question is, how have you gotten to this point?” I spit. “How have you allowed yourself to become so hateful and vile that you murder innocent Scots with such delight? How is it that you can hate a person simply because of where they were born?”

  He turns to me, and I glare at him, warning him with my eyes to not even think about reaching out to take my hand or touch me in any fashion. He seems to get the point and does not move toward me.

  “You are young, Catherine. You do not know what these people have done to our family,” he says, his voice filled with a condescension that makes me want to stab him. “They are butchers. They are savages. They murdered our family with the very delight you accuse me of taking. All I am doing is protecting this family. Surely you can understand that.”

  “You protect this family by raiding villages and murdering innocents,” I hiss. “I was in the last village you plundered, uncle. They put the sword to everybody they could find. They almost killed me that day.”

  “And yet here you are, alive and well, free to cast invective at me as you see fit, no matter how unjustified it might be. But, thank God for his mercy, of course,” he responds. “However, as I told your father, the soldiers who sacked that village and hurt you were not acting on my orders. They committed that heinous act of their own accord.”

  “I’m sure,” I roll my eyes.

  “Do not worry though; those who did this have been caught and punished accordingly.”

  It is my uncle’s way of telling me that he killed the men who could have confirmed that they were acting on his orders − thus, cleaning up his mess and keeping the fiction he told my father intact.

  “Is there no end to your depravity?” I growl. “You are a monster. You are evil to the core.”

  “I suppose it’s good then, that you won’t have to be exposed to my monstrous nature for much longer then.”

  I round on him, my stomach giving a mighty lurch, fearing that the next words out of his mouth will be.

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “Do you not know?”

  “Tell me.”

  “I’m sure you suspected it would happen,” he taunts me.

  “Suspected what would happen?”

  “Your father will be taking you to Whitefern Hall,” he says like it is the most obvious thing in the world.

  I thought this was going to come to pass. I expected it. But for some reason, having it confirmed feels like a kick to the stomach. The air is driven from my lungs, and the way he is smiling at me fills my stomach with a greasy, nauseous feeling. He cannot wait until I am shipped off to Carlisle and my father returns to London, giving him free rein to murder Malcolm and his people. I cannot let that happen.

  “You are an insufferable bastard,” I glare at him.

  He looks at me for a long moment, a wolfish grin on his face. “Before you go back to Carlisle, answer me a question,” he starts. “You seem abnormally attached to these animals. Why is that?”

  “They are good people,” I spit. “Unlike you, they are honorable.”

  His chuckle is soft. “When you were with this Malcolm character − did you give yourself to him? Did you sully yourself by letting him stick his cock in you?”

  I feel a wave of nausea so strong; I am afraid I am going to sick up. I manage to hold it off though but just barely. I try to control my features, doing my best to not give away my innermost thoughts. All the while, my uncle is looking at me, a knowing smile upon his lips. He laughs softly.

  “Now I understand why you had that smile on your face when I walked up,” he says. “Well good for you. At least you’ll be taking some pleasant memories from this wretched place. And don’t worry dear niece, your secret is safe with me.”

  I look down, feeling my face flare with heat. My uncle stares at me with eyes that are cold and reptilian, and though it sends a jolt of fear through me, I push it aside, not willing to give him the satisfaction. I raise my head and force myself to meet his eyes.

  “You should not make such wild and reckless accusations, Uncle,” I tell him. “I am certain my father will not appreciate you slandering my good name or sullying my reputation. Or have you forgotten?”

  His smirk is wry, but I can tell he hears the ring of truth in my words. My father will tolerate a great many things when it comes to my uncle but calling my virtue into question is not one of them. We found that out some years back when my uncle accused me of giving myself to another − a soldier whom I was friends with named Gregory.

  Gregory shared my love of literature, and we spent quite a bit of time together discussing different works and what they meant to us. He was a lovely man, and I cherished his friendship a great deal.

  My uncle somehow got it into his head that Gregory and I were more than friends and shared his thoughts with my father. This was before my uncle and I were so openly antagonistic toward one another, and he presented to my father as nothing more than the concerns of a loving uncle. My father, who had no call to doubt his brother back then had been outraged by the thought that I had given myself to anybody, let alone a commoner. My father ordered the man to be executed − an order my uncle carried out with glee.

  It was only after the fact, after my friend had been killed that I spoke to my father about Gregory. I told him there was no possible way I could have given Gregory my virtue since he preferred the intimate company of men and showed him letters to his lover back in Carlisle as evidence. It was a revelation that left him speechless, and for three long days, he had sequestered himself away in his chambers, seeing nobody. Not even me.

  My father was ashamed of his mistake and felt the guilt deeply and profoundly. He had my uncle, who had insisted on the truth of his accusation, lashed to within an inch of his life. It was a beating my uncle has never forgotten − nor should he. It is also why he lack
s any sort of credibility with my father in regard to me.

  “I would say I find it appalling that you gave your maidenhead to one of these filthy savages,” he says, his voice colder than ice. “But honestly, that is the least appalling thing about you.”

  I smile at him sweetly and get to my feet. “Believe me Uncle, coming from you, that means absolutely nothing.”

  I turn on my heel and walk away, my back straight, my head held high. I will not give him the final word in this. Walking up the path, I head for the castle. Yes, I expected to be sent back to Carlisle. I knew it was coming. But that doesn’t make it any easier for me to bear. Knowing in my head that I will be forced to leave Malcolm behind forever and having it confirmed, then feeling it in my heart, is something else entirely.

  I walk down the long corridor that leads to my father’s study, knowing that is where he will be. Aside from the dining hall and his bedchambers, it is the only room he spends time in when he is in residence at Caldryn House. He is like a ghost here, flitting between those three rooms, forever bound to them by some mystical force. Most of the time, the household staff is not even aware of his presence until they stumble into one of the rooms to find him there.

  Reaching the door, I push it inward. The door swings back with a long, tortured squeal − the hinges are obviously badly in need of some oil. It hits the stone wall behind it with a loud bang, which makes my father look up from the parchments and scrolls spread across his desk, a flash of irritation in his eyes.

  The room, like all of the others in this place, is made of mortared stones. Two small rounded windows sit on either side of the giant hearth − in which, a blazing fire crackles and pops, filling the room with a sweltering heat. The wooden shutters are bolted to ward off the chill, and there are two large, plush chairs sitting on a bed of animal furs spread out before the fire. A small, rounded, and ornately carved table sits between the two chairs.

  All around the chamber, antique sculptures and weapons fill the surfaces of the long tables set against the walls. Drab and lifeless paintings are hung on the walls and my father’s old suit of armor, badly dinged and scuffed, the once burnished metal now dull and dingy, stands sentinel in the corner.

  And in the center of the chamber is a large oak desk that is polished to a mirrored sheen with carved scrollwork and flourishes that make it more art piece than desk. But my father uses it to conduct his affairs anyway, heedless to the damage he is inflicting upon it.

  I take one of the two hard wooden seats that are stationed in front of his desk and sit down upon it, crossing one leg over the other and folding my hands in my lap. He sits back in his seat and stares at me in silence for a long moment. He pulls the reading spectacles off his face and sets them atop a sheaf of parchment on his desk.

  “What is it you want, Catherine?”

  “I do not wish to go back to Carlisle,” I state simply. “I wish to stay here.”

  “Out of the question.”

  “Why? Why is it out of the question, father?”

  I had already accepted that my going back to Whitefern Hall was inevitable. I had all but given up hope of staying here in the north. But both Malcolm and Maggie were right − at my core, I am a fighter. I fight for what it is I want and for what I believe is right. I always have, and I have never once in my life simply rolled over and accepted circumstances for what they were.

  And this will be no different.

  “I think the fact that you were almost killed −”

  “By your brother’s men,” I interject. “Had they not been sacking that village − whether on his orders or not − I would not have been wounded, and all of this would have been avoided.”

  My father leans back in his seat and takes a long swallow from the beaten metal mug on his desk. He sets it down, his eyes never leaving mine.

  “Be that as it may, the point is that the entire incident only underscores how much danger you are in up here, Catherine,” he says. “I cannot let anything happen to you. I won’t.”

  I scoff. “Of course you cannot. Because if I am dead, you will not be able to sell me off to a noble house with deep pockets.”

  “Catherine, you go too far,” he chides.

  “Do I?”

  His eyes are hard as he looks at me for a long moment, but then his expression softens. He takes another drink and then lets out a long breath, setting the mug back down on his desk.

  “You’re my daughter, Catherine. I think you know I dote on you even more than your brother. And if you were allowed to inherit, my land and titles would be going to you when I’m gone,” he begins. “I know I shouldn’t say it, but I do favor you over your brother in a great many ways. You are the best of your mother and I. If something were to ever happen to you − I could not bear it.”

  His words warm my heart and bring a small smile to my face, but it does not change my argument or my desire to remain here rather than go back to Carlisle.

  “Father, do you truly care about my happiness?”

  “Of course I do,” he replies. “Why would you ask such a question?”

  “If you truly do, then do not send me back home,” I urge. “My place is here, helping the people in these lands.”

  “Catherine, I −”

  “They need medical care − I know I am not a physician myself, but I have learned a great deal from the physician here,” I cut him off. “I am also teaching many of them to read. Perhaps if there was greater literacy here, people like your brother would think them less savage and more civilized.”

  A small frown touches his lips, and he looks down into the bottom of the mug sitting on the desk before him.

  “I know there is bad blood between you and your uncle, and I wish it was not so,” he says. “Is there anything I can do to facilitate a reconciliation between you two?”

  “I fear at this point, that is not possible,” I respond softly. “I know it causes you no small amount of pain, but I neither like nor respect him as a man.”

  He runs a hand across his face, his beard making a dry, scratchy sound. I can see the hesitation in his eyes, but the firm set to his jaw tells me he is not yet convinced that leaving me here is the best thing. The logical answer comes to me quickly, bringing a smile to my face.

  “There should be no danger for me here, father,” I say. “You and Malcolm signed a treaty, remember?”

  “That treaty will not be worth the parchment it was written upon if the Scots decide to break it,” he replies.

  “Or if James decides to breach the peace.”

  He frowns again, but he knows as well as I that it is just as likely that his brother will violate the terms of the treaty as the Scots. From where I sit, it is even more likely that my uncle provokes the violence.

  “But that is all the more reason for me to stay,” I argue. “To act as a buffer of sorts.”

  “And what makes you think you can act as a buffer?”

  I let out a breath of my own and resettle myself in my seat. My stomach is suddenly filled with butterflies that are wildly battering my insides. I am treading on dangerous ground here and must be careful to avoid revealing too much. I need to make my father believe and understand that I have developed a good rapport with Malcolm without letting on that we have been intimate − or hinting at my feelings for him.

  My father is a very intelligent and intuitive man, so I need to be careful in what I say. If he knew that I had given Malcolm my maidenhead, there would be, as some say, hell to pay. I would not put it past my father to send me to a cloister to serve the Lord and atone for my wicked, wanton ways.

  “Over the days I was − held − by Malcolm, I got to know a bit about the sort of man he is,” I begin.

  “And what sort of man is he?”

  “In many ways, he is like you. He is a man who lives for honor. He is intelligent. Intuitive,” I reply simply. “And like you, he is honest. When he says all he wants is for he and his people to live in peace, I believe him, father.”

 
; He regards me in silence for a long moment, and I feel my stomach roiling. He examines me closely, as if he is trying to see through my words to the truth behind them. I stare back at him, doing my best to hide my innermost thoughts down deep inside of me. He scratches at his beard again, then drains the last of his drink and sets the mug back down.

  “I believe my rapport with him is good enough that should tensions rise; I can talk to him before they get out of hand,” I press. “Also, I think my presence here will help curb some of James’ more violent impulses. If you make it known that I am here acting as your eyes and ears, he will not do what I fear − what I know deep down you fear − the moment you head back to London.”

  He purses his lips and looks down at the floor before raising his eyes to meet mine again. My father scrubs his face with his hands, blowing out a long breath.

  “Fine. You can stay. And you will act as my eyes and ears to provide a check on any potential aggression by your uncle or the Scots,” he says. “But I do not want you taking any undue risks, Catherine. Understand me, just as much as you will be watching your uncle, he too will be watching you. And if I hear of you putting yourself in harm’s way unnecessarily, I will be sending you back to Whitefern Hall before you can say your own name. Am I understood?”

  “Perfectly, father.”

  He hesitates for a moment then gives me a short nod. “Good,” he replies. “And I hope you know this man half as well as you think you do.”

  I know him better than that. Far better. But I cannot tell my father that so instead, I give him a nod in return.

  “I am not so naive as you and James believe,” I say. “I know what I am doing, father.”

  “I hope so, Catherine,” he says firmly. “I certainly hope so.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Malcolm

  I sit on the Clan Chief’s chair, my arse beginning to fall asleep on the hard surface. Clearly my father did not have comfort in mind when he had this thing built. I’m going to have to see about a cushion for this seat. It might be the only way I get through the tedium of the day.