The Scotsman by Juliana Garnett Page A

faded, replaced by a fierce desire to keep alive and safe the last reminder of Catriona Fraser.
    Oddly, the captive in the tower reminded him in some way of his mother. Perhaps it was the unusual shade of hair they shared, that coppery glow like sunlit bronze that caught the eye. Or perhaps it was that Lady Catherine’s name was the English form of Catriona. Another similarity that was both striking and disconcerting. Yet the differences were just as obvious, as this Lady Catherine had a more prickly nature than his mother’s sweet temperament. Ah, God, how he missed her, even after all these years. Her death had dealt him a harsh blow.
    So long ago now, even before the Fraser estates had been deseisined by Edward I, before his father had died in another attempt to reclaim them from the English. It was a bitter fact that he had been not long dead when his son had finally managed to wrest their lands back from English hands. But he would hold them this time, though the ancient title that had once been his heritage was nowworn by one of Edward’s nobles. It was galling, that the enemy used that which was rightfully his.…
    “Whsst, Alex lad, where have you gone? You put me in mind of a lost puppy with that long face.”
    Alex smiled, and he looked up at Robbie with a shrug. “I
feel
much like a lost puppy at the moment, Robbie. I had hoped to bring Jamie back with us.”
    “Aye, but we have the next best thing in Warfield’s bonny lass. If the Border Lion can be brought to his knees, she should do it. Of course, there are those who say Lord Warfield has no fondness for anything other than English dirt and stone, unless ’tis his gold.”
    That was what Alex feared—that the earl would prefer the value of Scottish hostages to the value of his daughter. After all, King Edward would pay well in coin and favor for Robert Bruce’s cousin, and if a worthless Scottish youth happened to be part of the prize, then so much the better. It was not a pleasant thought.
    Nor was it a pleasant confrontation when he approached Catherine the following morning. She stood silent and pale in the chamber, the brightness of her hair a vivid contrast to her colorless face as he spread the parchment on a table and held out a quill.
    “Make your mark at the bottom of the parchment, so your father will know you are alive and well.”
    “Unless I pen words to that effect, he will still know nothing more than he does at this moment,” she snapped.
    Alex stared at her with rising irritation. His head hurt. His eyes were scratchy from lack of sleep. He had lain awake all night planning his strategy. Now she refused his request, another irritation, albeit minor.
    “’Tis of no difference to me if you will not put your mark on this parchment, but it might very well ease your father’s mind. Do you not care for his repose?”
    “No more than do you.” Her brows lifted slightly when he swore at her. “I daresay my father will lose no sleep over this. He will do what he thinks right, as he has always done, and trouble himself no more over the matter. It is a trait of his that I have often admired, and more often abhorred. But it is the way of it, sir.”
    “What of your mother? Does the countess feel as he does? Or would she like reassurance that you are alive, do you think?”
    Her lower lip quivered slightly, but she shrugged. “My mother will think what my father tells her to think.”
    “Will she? Lord Warfield is a most formidable man, if he is able to govern the thoughts of another person.”
    “Yea, he is indeed most formidable, as you will soon discover to your regret.”
    “That remains to be seen.” Curse her, she defied him to the teeth. Frowning, he slowly drew his fingers along the sleek length of the goose quill. “I have been known to be formidable myself when crossed, my lady. If you value your skin, you will make your mark on this parchment and be done with it.”
    “I refuse to be a willing accomplice to my own