Caterine's mantle. Preferring a soaking to the bone to moving aside and bidding entry to the Sassunach earl standing before her, she met his arrogance with the most impervious mien she could muster. "You will forgive my lack of hospitality, Sir Hugh," she said, letting the iciness of her voice convey her true sentiments. "The hour of vespers is soon upon us and I fear our humble pottage of dried peas and water is not worthy of your exalted palate."
"Lady, a dry crust of bread would taste as savory as a haunch of well-roasted boar if consumed in your fair presence." Sir Hugh de la Hogue gave her a thin smile. "Would you cease your pointless attempts to resist me, I shall see you dine on naught but the finest of victuals for the rest of
your days."
Giving heed to the urge to put distance between herself and Sir Hugh's thick-girthed, overblown self, Caterine stepped backward until she met the barrier of the hall's half-opened door.
With a cool grace she fought hard to maintain, she kept her head raised despite the rain coursing down her forehead.
"What I sup upon is no concern of yours," she countered her suitor's flowery speech. "With our cattle all but vanished these past months, I've grown quite fond of watery soups and seabird pasties."
"A pity your tenants have stooped so low as to steal from their own lady's herd." The earl made a great pretense of studying the rings adorning his small fingers. "Would you honor Edward's writ and pay obeisance to me as your new lord husband, I should deal swiftly with the thieving peasants."
"There are some who doubt our own people have aught to do with our dwindling fortunes." She leveled a contemptuous stare at de la Hogue. "A good night to you, sir. You will excu—"
Sir Hugh's arm shot out, his fingers curling in a tight grip around her elbow. "Very dear lady, I enjoin you not to wax too proud," he admonished, his features growing stony, the glint in his eyes, menacing.
He cast a meaningful glance at the walled courtyard below. His henchmen arrogantly sat their restive steeds, the horses' iron-shod hooves making hollow clacking noises on the rain-slick cobbles.
To a man, the mail-clad knights' appeared every bit as hostile as their lord, their hands hovering threateningly near the hilts of their swords in a silent but not to be mistaken show of might.
A warning only one as desperate as Lady Caterine would dare ignore.
His steely grip on her arm became a sickeningly slow and far too intimate caress. "It would cost you dear to vex me. Already I grow weary of standing in the rain. Do not provoke me further."
Caterine lifted her chin a notch higher. "Then pray do not delay your departure. I wish you Godspeed on the journey to the rainless refuge of your own hall."
She met his glare with equal arrogance, not even allow ing herself the much-needed relief of blinking away the raindrops dripping onto her lashes and into her eyes.
More annoying still, her futile efforts to free her arm from the earl's grasp seemed to fuel his amusement.
And whet other interests.
Releasing her, he let his piercing gaze rake the length of her. His breath quickened, its foulness coming at her in fast little bursts while his generous paunch rose and fell with ever-increasing rapidity.
As if he could see beneath the scant protection of her well-worn garb, he gawked openly at her breasts and other secret places, blatantly ogling the way her drenched garments plastered themselves to what curves remained on her too-thin body.
Her skin crawled with distaste when his gaze fastened on the vee of her thighs. Nigh slack-mouthed, he brought his hand to the hilt of his sword. But unlike his dour-faced knights whose hands simply hovered near their weapons, Sir Hugh let his fingers toy with the leather-wrapped grip as if fondling a woman.
Or himself.
Caterine shuddered. Either image was too repulsive to ponder. Too reminiscent of other English hands doing other vile things, black memories best left buried