Chapter 8

CHAPTER EIGHT

“Ivar,” Dahlia said, “ye ken a lot about healin’ animals. Maybe ye could help Catalina with the wee deer.”

“I’ll be too busy entertainin’ me betrothed,” Ivar said, managing to smile at Anastasia as he refilled her wine glass and then his own, ignoring his sister’s frown.

“Well, I’d love tae see the little fawn. Could we nae get them tae bring it up tae the castle stables, Haldor? It’ll be well looked after there, I’m sure. Then ye could keep an eye on it every day, Catalina,” Sofia suggested kindly.

“I’ll see tae it if that’s what Catalina wants,” the laird said with a genial nod.

“Thank ye, I’d feel better if I could watch over it mesel’,” she answered gratefully.

“Well, ye’re gonnae be here fer a month before we make the journey back tae yer homeland, so ye might as well. Will ye keep it as a pet?” Haldor asked.

Catalina hesitated. “I-er-I had nae thought about that. I suppose I thought I’d return it tae the woods, try tae reunite it with its maither.”

“Well, ye’ll be sentencin’ it tae death then,” Ivar suddenly said gruffly, giving her a hard stare. “That’s never gonnae work.”

“What d’ye mean?” she asked, nervously meeting his eyes.

“Well, fer a start, the maither’s likely dead, killed by hunters. Second, if she isnae, then she’s probably rejected the fawn because it got injured. If ye put it back in the woods it’ll be a fox’s supper in nae time.”

Catalina had the feeling he was painting as brutal a picture as possible, hoping to upset her as a means of revenge.

She broke their gaze and looked to the laird instead. “Is that right?” she asked Haldor worriedly.

He nodded. “Aye, lass, I’m afraid Ivar speaks the truth. It’ll never survive out there on its own. But it’ll make a pretty pet fer ye.”

“Och, it could live here with us if ye dinnae wish tae take it all the way home,” Dahlia said with a smile. “We’ll make sure it’s well cared fer.”

“That’s kind of ye, thank ye. I didnae realize I would have tae keep it,” she admitted, casting a quick look over at her prospective brother-in-law. His cold blue eyes were fixed on her. She averted her gaze and squirmed in her seat, bitterly regretting her foolish outburst earlier.

Despite Anastasia’s apparent calm demeanor, she worried that she had upset her sister by making a fool of her husband-to-be in front of everyone. By the time the meal came to an end, Catalina had hardly eaten anything. When Ivar escorted her and Anastasia up to the second floor to show them to their chamber, Catalina trailed behind at a diplomatic distance while the betrothed couple conversed.

As they climbed the staircase, from behind, she could not help observing what a fine figure of a man Ivar was. Unfortunately, he was obviously the type to bear a grudge. She did not mind so much for herself, but she did not want to make things more difficult for her sister than they already were.

When they reached the chamber door and he prepared to take his leave, he smiled at Anastasia and kissed her hand. But as he turned to go, he gave Catalina a dark look that told her beyond doubt he had not forgiven her.

The sisters stood looking after him as he went down the hall and then went inside their shared chamber. Before the door had closed, Catalina had made a decision: she was going to have to grovel to Ivar Macleod to make things right between them and ensure her sister’s happiness.

After leaving the two sisters outside their chamber, Ivar no longer bothered to hide his bad temper. Feeling the need to blow off some of his anger with Catalina, he headed straight for the arsenal to pick up his gear, intending to go out to the training ground and find someone willing to spar with him for a time.

However, just when it seemed some relief from the pressure was close at hand, in the form of taking out his resentment on some poor unfortunate, he went to put on his helmet and swore viciously as it collided with the lump on his head. Daggers of pain shot through his skull, enraging him once more.

“Great, I’ll dae without then!” Flinging the useless helmet aside, he took a targe and stalked outside, seeking a sparring partner.

He approached several of the men already training, but they all shook their heads and backed away.

“What’s wrong with ye?” he demanded, “Afeared of a good fight, are ye?”

“Nae today, Ivar. We can all see what sort of mood ye’re in, and we’d like tae live ’til dinner time if ye dinnae mind,” one of them told him.

“Ach, ye bunch of yellow bellies, damn the lot of ye,” he grumbled after them as they drifted away.

He was casting about for another victim when he spotted one of the more hard-bitten, seasoned warriors, Henry McLure, sauntering out onto the field to train. He was the perfect opponent, and Ivar almost pounced on him.

“Henry, man, ye’ll train with me a while, will ye nae? Those lads over there are too scared of me it seems. Come on, go a few rounds with me, eh?”

Henry, a tall, burly fellow of about forty, a veteran of many brawls and battles, grinned a gap-toothed smile through his dark stubble and nodded. He put on his helmet and slid his hand through the grip in the back of his targe.

“Aye, Ivar, I’ll be happy tae spar with ye, that’s as long as ye dinnae mind gettin’ beat,” he said with a wicked chuckle as he pulled his sword from its sheath and weighted it in his hand.

Ivar smiled genuinely for the first time that day and nodded. “Good man,” he muttered, taking up his own targe and unsheathing his sword.

“Hang on, lad, where’s yer helmet?” Henry asked suddenly, frowning at him. “Ye cannae expect tae spar with nae protection fer yer head. Ye’re like tae get yer brains bashed out, and I’d rather nae be the one tae dae it.”

“I dinnae need a bloody helmet!” Ivar exclaimed, his anger flaring up again. “I can fight well enough without one.”

But Henry shook his head. “I’ll nae fight ye without one. Did ye forget it?”

“I dinnae need it, I tell ye,” Ivar insisted.

“Ach, just go back and get it. I’ll wait fer ye,” Henry replied, standing down to wait.

Not prepared to tell Henry why he could not put on his helmet, Ivar spat, “Ach, forget it!” He thrust his sword back into its sheath and stormed off back to the arsenal, leaving Henry staring after him in confusion.

“What the hell’s eatin’ ye?” he shouted after Ivar.

A bloody wild cat, that’s what!

He did not bother to answer Henry. Realizing he would not get a fight until the lump had gone down, he stalked back to the arsenal, threw down his targe in disgust, and headed for his room.

If he could not fight and get rid of his anger and tension that way, he would go to his chambers and spend some time alone reading. That usually calmed him down. He headed straight there, his face like a storm cloud, not speaking to anyone he passed on the way. He was oblivious to the way the servants scuttled rapidly aside as he went stomping up the staircase and along the hallway to his chamber.

He slammed the door behind him, heeled off his boots, then unbuckled his sword belt and slung it carelessly over the back of a chair before throwing himself on the bed with a deep sigh of frustration. He could hardly believe it was only the afternoon, and what should have been one of the most momentous days of his life had somehow become one of the most exhausting and vexing. And the lump on his head was aching again.

That immediately brought to mind a certain green-eyed wench with a sharp tongue—as far as he was concerned, she was the cause of all his pain and anger. Because of her he’d had no sleep. Because of her he was now a laughingstock with his family, and no doubt the story of how the wee lass had laid him out would be all over the castle in the next few days. He would never hear the end of it!

Seeking some way to relax, he reached over to the nightstand and poured himself a generous measure of whisky. Glass in hand, he propped himself up against the pillows and tried to think.

How would Thor have handled the situation with Catalina? What if it had been him she knocked unconscious like that and then made out to be some sort of cruel monster?

He had no answers, just the brooding anguish inside him that never went away. He wished Thor was there to ask, to talk to. But his twin was gone forever. He had his family, sure, but in reality, without Thor, he was half a man. He was lonely without his twin, and whatever the others said, he knew he would never get over it.

And now, with Anastasia’s arrival, the marriage that only a few days ago had seemed like a distant fantasy felt all too real.

That evening’s betrothal party loomed ahead of him like some feat of endurance he had to navigate somehow. He would have to put on a happy face, entertain his future bride, talk to her and get to know her. He would have to hide the man he had become, for she undoubtedly deserved better.

He sipped his whisky, feeling hopeless.

He was startled by a loud, erratic banging on the door. He got up and opened it, ready to bite someone’s head off. Arne was standing in the hall with Thorsten, who was bashing the door merrily.

“I came tae see how ye are,” his brother told him, pushing past into the chamber, tugging the little boy along with him.

“Nunclevar! Play,” Thorsten shouted in his childish voice, reaching up to Ivar, his little round face beaming.

“So, young fella, I might have guessed that was ye makin’ all that noise,” Ivar pretended to scold the child while sweeping him off his feet and putting him on his shoulder. Glad for the distraction, he began trotting around the room, playing Thorsten’s favorite game of “horseys,” setting the lad chortling and shouting, “Giddyup!”

Arne sat on the bed and watched them for a while. Then he said, “What was that all about with Catalina earlier on? I’ve seldom seen ye so riled up. Can ye nae take a joke anymore, Braither?”

“That’s easy fer ye tae say, Arne, ’twas nae ye who got kicked in the head and knocked unconscious. D’ye ken, I could nae even train this afternoon because I couldnae put me helmet on over this damned lump on me head? Even Henry refused tae spar with me. That lass is a menace, and she should learn tae curb her tongue. Clipperty-clop, clipperty-clop,” Ivar replied, trotting around the room to amuse his nephew.

“Ye certainly made it clear ye dinnae like her,” Arne observed, not bothering to stifle his laughter.

“D’ye ye ken what I didnae like? The way the rest of ye thought it was all so amusin’, me bein’ knocked cold by a lass. She could have killed me. I suppose that would have made ye laugh even more. Ye’d have put it on me tombstone: Here lies Ivar Macleod, cut down by a wee slip of a lass. What a joke. Rest in peace. Gee up, Neddy!”

“Gee up, Nunclevar,” Thorsten cried happily, using his uncle’s hair as reins to steer him about.

“Ouch, lad, mind me lump!” Ivar suddenly cried with a grimace. He gently lowered Thorsten to the floor. “That’s enough horsey fer now, wee man. Go and bounce on yer Da, go on.” He shooed the child towards his father and sat down next to Arne wearily.

“Well, ye’re nae dead, are ye? And I suppose we all thought ye still had a sense of humor. If it had happened tae me, ye’d have been laughin’ along with everyone else, I reckon,” Arne pointed out.

“I’m nae so sure about that,” Ivar countered, determined to remain unconvinced.

“Well, what d’ye think of yer bride?”

“She’s very beautiful, and she seems nice. Unlike her sister.”

“Aye, Anastasia is a catch, eh? Ye’re a lucky man, Ivar, if ye did but ken it. This marriage could turn out very well fer ye if ye treat her right, and that includes her family.” He paused for a moment before adding, “Catalina’s a fiery lass, but she’s beautiful too. She was only lookin’ out fer the wee fawn. She really thought ye were set on killin’ it. It shows she’s passionate.”

Ivar said nothing, but those green eyes flashed in his mind again.

“So, are ye lookin’ forward tae the party tonight?” Arne asked, with Thorsten now hanging around his neck as if he would strangle him, while also trying to climb on his shoulders.

“Nay, but I’ll be there.”

“And I hope ye’ll make an effort tae be good company instead of yer usual surly self. Anastasia deserves that at least. It must have been very embarrasin’ fer her, seein’ ye and her sister goin’ at it all day. Ye were very rude tae Catalina at lunch. Haldor was concerned about it.”

“Was he now?” That was not good to hear. “Why?”

“Because he says bein’ rude and holding a grudge against her sister is likely tae upset Anastasia.”

Ivar stood up and looked own at his brother. “And I say that ye and Haldor can mind yer business. I ken how tae treat a woman properly. I dinnae need any lessons from ye two. Nae need fer ye tae worry about Anastasia. ’Tis me that’s marryin’ her.”

Arne rose too and swung Thorsten onto his shoulders. “Aye, but remember, Ivar, there’s a lot ridin’ on this union, fer all of us. Dinnae mess it up just because yer pride’s been hurt. Make yer peace with Catalina, man, and fast.”

“Thanks fer the tip, Braither,” Ivar said sarcastically, reaching up to tickle Thorsten, who let out a piercing shriek that made his father wince. “Now bugger off and leave me be.”

Arne made for the door. “I’ll see ye at yer betrothal party then. Dinnae be late.”

“Bye bye, Nunclevar!” Thorsten waved his little paw at Ivar. Ivar smiled and waved back.

“Bye bye, wee man. I’ll come and see ye at bedtime, eh?”

“Nay bedtime,” Thorsten declared emphatically, his face crumpling comically.

“Bedtime’s the least of yer troubles, wee man, if ye did but ken it,” Ivar muttered as the door closed on them. “It just gets a whole lot worse from where ye are, ye poor wee mite.”

With a bleak sigh, he went back to lie on the bed with his unfinished whisky, pondering his brother’s words. He knew he was right: if he kept up his resentment against Catalina, he would indeed risk making his betrothed upset. That would upset Haldor, and it might even end up upsetting The Bruce.

So, why dae I nae care?

Suddenly, from nowhere, a vision of a pair of green eyes popped into his head again. But they were not the gentle, kind eyes of his wife-to-be. They were fiery, and they flashed like green lightning, with passion, challenging and fearless. It was so confusing to him. Why did the vicious little harridan keep invading his mind when it should be her sister who was occupying his thoughts?

Anastasia was lovely. A man would be mad to complain about having her as his wife… however, whenever he pictured her, though he appreciated her beauty, he felt absolutely nothing.

But her sister—now that was a different kettle of fish. Unwillingly, he had to admit that she had made him feel something, and it was not just pain. She had made him feel… alive, something he had not felt in a good long while. As he swallowed the last of the whisky, excitement knotted in his belly, and he felt a strong urge to see Catalina once more. He found himself wanting to find out if the effect she’d had on him was some kind of fluke, or if she could make him feel that way again.