Читать книгу In the Laird's Bed - Joanne Rock - Страница 10

The sweetness remained. Yet there was more to it than that.

Duncan rolled the honey mead on his tongue hours later, after the meal had ended and the dancing commenced, trying to identify what was different about Lady Cristiana’s famed brew from the last time he’d had a taste. He watched the lady herself as she bowed serenely to her dancing partner, an elder of her clan who served as a close adviser to her father. Like her mead, Cristiana was more complex than he recalled. Time had erased the softness of girlhood from her face, leaving a more elegant and refined beauty. She moved with grace and ease as she danced, though her serious expression made him think she was more apt to be discussing war strategy than holiday celebrations.

Neither she nor her smooth libation were as simple as a sum of their parts. No single facet could be clearly defined. But the effect of the whole was intriguing. Potent. He could feel the sweet sting of the wine in the pleasing stir of his blood.

Then again, he might be confusing the effect of the woman with her beverage.

“You promised me a dance, my lord.”

The husky feminine voice in his ear was not the one he wished to hear just then. Turning, he was abruptly placed at eye level with Lady Beatrice’s considerable cleavage. She batted her lashes and extended her hand, forcing him to either dance or refuse her publicly.

Or…neither.

“Lady Beatrice.” Replacing his empty cup upon the table, he rose to his feet. “I regret that I cannot, for I must act on a New Year’s tradition right now. But I trust you will not be disappointed in the game.” The custom of a New Year’s game or challenge aided the second part of his plan.

“My dear sirs and gentlewomen.” Duncan raised his voice over the dying strains of music from the last dance. Accustomed to ruling over a hall, he did not mind stepping into the laird’s shoes. “I wish to thank your good lady for sharing the richness of her hospitality and the merry mood of her hall.”

His words were echoed round the room, though not very heartily by Lady Beatrice, who appeared disgruntled about the lack of a dance. Over near the minstrels, Cristiana accepted the praise with a demure nod, but Duncan spied her discomfort over having him here.

But she did not deserve an easy heart after the way she had severed all ties to him on the basis of her sister’s fickle moods.

“And in the spirit of the season,” he continued, hiding bitterness beneath a hearty tone, “I ask your lady’s indulgence of a boon.”

Cristiana’s head whipped up, instantly alert. Her gaze swept the hall, perhaps searching for aid among her father’s men. But who would escort him off the dais now that she had invited him there? Half her guards were full of drink and the other half were wooing maids in darkened corners.

Duncan pressed on, determined to have his way.

“There has been a shadow between our families that I one day hope to lift. For now, I ask only that you grant me a moon and a day at Domhnaill to place a wondrous treasure at your feet.” He quieted his voice in deference to the challenge, the storytelling skills of his Scots ancestors not missing him entirely. “If, at that time, my offering does not suit you, I will leave your keep forever. But if you are well pleased, I ask that our clans forge a new peace and heal the old rift once and for all.”

As he finished his proposition, every eye in the hall turned to Cristiana. To her credit, she schooled her features admirably before attention swung her way. But Duncan had seen the flash of fury that had snapped in her gaze first.

He could not have called her out more neatly if he’d thrown a gauntlet at her feet. The public request for a boon at a holiday was something no chivalrous court could deny. Especially in front of such a large company of royal allies.

A bit of revenge felt good for an old slight.

“I am impressed by your earnestness,” she replied, dropping a curtsy where she stood, her heavy golden skirts sweeping the floor.

Was he the only one who heard the sarcasm drip from her words like yeasty foam overflowing down the sides of a brew-filled cup?

Her elder adviser whispered in her ear as she straightened. Did the graybeard tell her to cast Duncan out into the storm? Or counsel public agreement until they plotted privately to oust him from their stronghold?

He might not ever know, since Cristiana shook her head and frowned at whatever the adviser suggested. Instead, she gestured to her guests.

“With all these souls as our witness, so it shall be.” She waved to the minstrels and the trio raised their lutes. “Until then, I invite you all to dance.”

It was the kind of general summons to merriment a hostess made on such occasions, but considering Lady Beatrice’s coiled pose beside him and her readiness to pounce, Duncan took Cristiana’s offer quite literally. Striding purposely toward her, he caught her before she could leave the dancers and spun her into the stately round.

Could he help a desire to gloat after all the grief she had caused his family? Cheated of the Domhnaill wealth a bride would have brought him, Donegal had turned on his own clan, robbing the Culcanon lands of all wealth while Duncan had been off at war these past three years. Duncan’s efforts at war had been thwarted by his lack of men and arms, making his rise to prominence difficult and—worse—costing more men’s lives in the long run.

“You are a knave of the lowest kind,” she snapped softly at him when they passed close together on a turn. “What purpose can you possibly have to take up residence here?”

Duncan saw the heat in her glare. The resentment. Had she not taken enough vengeance already for the perceived insult to her sister?

Even, he recalled, passionate eagerness?

He had time to debate the answer as the dance did not place them near one another again for some moments. When she returned, eyes bright with emotion and cheeks flushed pink, she placed her hand upon his for a slow, methodical turn.

“Our clans were once bound together for a reason.” He had not planned that response, but the words left unchecked. “This stretch of coast is treacherous and must be guarded by one strong force, not two divided clans. The rift between families should have ended with alliances.”

She skipped a step, her expression one of unguarded surprise before emotions shifted and churned.

Seeing they were at the end of the line of dancers, Duncan stole her hand and hauled her away from the revelry. He didn’t stop at the trestle tables or even the dais swathed in embroidered silks, but continued out of the great hall.

Just outside the hall, she halted.

“Nay. I am not some idle-minded maiden to follow where a strong knight leads, just because he wills it.” She wrenched her fingers from his grip with more force than necessary.

“Lady, you are far too calculating and coldhearted a lass to be accused of an idle mind.” Resentment made him incautious. But then, his family had never been known for their restraint. “If you would rather speak of this in full view of your household, let us do so.”

He pivoted to face her. Arms crossed. Impassive. She did not speak.

“Perhaps we should take the discussion to your father?” he prodded, wondering how long she could hide the old man from him. “The laird is best suited to speak for his people anyhow.”

He half wondered if the laird was even in residence. None of the people in her hall tonight had remarked upon his absence. Were they so accustomed to being ruled by an unwed maid and an old adviser that they did not think it strange?

She bristled. Straightened.

“Very well.”

The soft fullness of her lower lip distracted him when he needed to be relentless. He remembered the feel of her against him when he’d shuttled her be hind the tapestry earlier. The scent of her beside him during dinner. The taste of her mead tonight that reminded him of a long-ago kiss. He had walked away from her easily enough five years ago, certain he’d been wronged. As a man in his prime, he had not worried over the loss of a woman who was little more than a girl at the time. A girl he’d only planned to wed for political reasons. He’d had a lover at the time, anyhow—a widow, who had gladly eased the loss of Cristiana.

But seeing Cristiana now—her strength, her full-grown beauty—had put him in a strange distemper. She had robbed him of more than lands, gold and power. She had cheated him of sharing her bed.

“When?” he pressed, ready to seek her father’s chamber now to call her bluff.

“I will ask the clerk for an appointment in the morning.”

“Did you require an appointment with him earlier today when I arrived at your gate? Do marauders and warmongers need to see the clerk first, as well?”

“Since you are neither, it hardly matters.” She turned on her slippered foot as if to re-enter the hall. “And do not count on the chivalry of my court to protect you from any more outrageous proposals in the great hall. Underneath our fine manners, we are Scots the same as you. Our swords are just as swift.”

With a snap of her skirts, she flounced away. And while he had accomplished his goal today of gaining access to Domhnaill and securing shelter long enough to search for a treasure, he had made a tactical error in underestimating his enemy. By dropping the guise of courtly visitor in need of shelter too soon, he had alerted her to more of his motive than he would have liked. Because no matter how sweetly innocent Cristiana appeared on the outside, she possessed the heart of a warrior.

“Father?” Cristiana tapped on the laird’s tower door late that night. She knew seeing her da—healthy in body even if his mind was confused—would soothe the unease she felt from the day’s disturbing events. He still had occasional moments of clarity that re minded her of the old days, when he was the most powerful laird on the eastern seashore and nothing could harm his family or his people.

“Netta?” he called to her from the other side. “Come in.”

It was her mother’s name. Her mother whom he beckoned. Still, Cristiana entered, crossing the planked floor covered in old tapestries to muffle the sounds of his ranting on his less lucid days. He was not a prisoner here, but for his own health he was well guarded. He’d escaped the keep to wander the coast once, and they’d thought him dead for sure.

“Father, it’s Cristie.” She righted a fallen flagon on a sideboard.

The chamber was dark as the fire had burned low. No torches were lit and she’d left hers outside. But as her eyes adjusted, she could see him seated at the slit in the wall where the tapestry had been pulled back to drape over the arm of his chair.

“A stranger walks the cliffs.” Her father turned toward her, his snowy white hair in tufted disarray. Yet his eyes appeared focused, his voice clear. “Is it one of your guests? You should have guards at the walls, girl. I cannot watch over the grounds all night.”

Dodging an open chest of weapons near the bed, Cristiana joined him at the window and peered out. Little land surrounded the keep at the southeastern side. A narrow strip of rocky ground ringed the tower before the land fell off sharply toward the sea.

Even from this height and under the light of a halfhearted moon, Cristiana recognized the broad shoulders of a man rumored to have fought at the English king’s side as a favor to Scots sovereign.

“It is Duncan the Brave. He has returned from Edward’s court to reap the benefit of his new standing with King Malcolm.” She didn’t know whether or not her father would understand the significance of her words, but he appeared more lucid than usual. And she did so sorely miss her strong, decisive father. “He is our guest for the next moon and has turned in his weapons. But I assure you, the walls are well armed, so you do not have to sit watch.”

“That is your young man,” her father observed, clearly remembering another time and confusing it with the present. “You see what a strong man I’ve chosen for you? You see how he would rather keep watch over you at night than sleep? A good man, that.”

Disappointment burned the back of her throat as she realized she would find little to comfort her here tonight, aside from her da’s good health. It had been this way for many moons with him—he would forget old friends and servants. He mixed up the past and present, occasionally demanding to know where Edwina was and why she hadn’t been to see him. For getting that he himself had arranged for her exile after she’d given birth to Donegal of Culcanon’s unclaimed babe.

“You have always tried to do what’s best for me,” she agreed, laying her head upon her father’s shoulder as she watched Duncan prowl around the grounds in the darkness. “I have never denied it.”

“But you did not come here to listen to an old man ramble.” He gave her shoulder a squeeze and dropped a kiss on the top of her head. “What can I do for you, daughter?”

“Our new guest is most anxious to meet with you.” She did not know how to put him off without stirring undue interest in her father’s absences. “I wondered if he could stop by your chamber sometime when Connor is with you and you can explain to him about—er—that you’re not feeling so well?”

Her father’s adviser would do most of the talking and guide the conversation. But Duncan would at least see the laird with his own eyes and know the old Scots lord was not on his deathbed.

She would have one less secret to hide.

“Aye. Well enough. Send the lad around anytime. We need a strong leader here. Your old man can’t protect the walls forever.” He patted her shoulder absently and rose.

Cristiana remembered the time when her father had called for Duncan’s head on a platter alongside his faithless half brother’s. He had been livid to learn his daughter had been touched against her will, and he would have mounted an army to decimate the whole clan had it not been for his wife’s sudden illness and a deathbed plea to let Edwina choose what form his vengeance should take. She had been the one who’d suffered, after all. And Edwina had chosen to have the matter handled quietly, using her bride price to pay for a place for her in the English court, where no one knew of her past.

Later, when Edwina had learned she was pregnant, their mother had already died and their father was so heart-stricken with grief he had hardly noticed Edwina’s retreat to her rooms for two moons’ time. It was in those weeks his daughters had made arrangements of their own to protect the child and ensure the eldest could escape the memories Domhnaill would always hold for her. If the laird suspected the truth, he’d said nothing, emerging from his mourning a changed man.

“I will send him later this week, Da,” Cristiana assured him, her gaze still fixed on Duncan as her enemy stared up at the keep and then back out at the water. “And you don’t have to protect the clan forever. You can name your successor now, and then you won’t have to concern yourself with such worries anymore.”

“And rob my daughter of her rightful place? ’Tis bloody well bad enough that Edwina has lost her Domhnaill home. I will not leave you with nothing after all I’ve done to make this fortress the strongest in the east. Your man shall be laird, girl. And every man who has ever served under me knows that is my wish.”

She nodded mutely, touched by his declaration even as she recognized it for the confused rambling that it was. Her visits here were frustrating, but she never left feeling unloved.

“Thank you, Da.” She hugged her father hard, grateful for every day she still had him.

“Go rest your head, lassie. You’ve had a long day.”

Nodding, she stoked the fire in the grate before slipping from the room. She would make sure Keane was beside her sire when Duncan met him so that the laird did not have to do more than greet him. She could not have her father give his confused blessing on a marriage that could never take place.

No matter how strong a guardian Duncan might be for Domhnaill, Cristiana did not trust him. He’d come back to this keep for secret reasons he had not shared. She knew it in her veins.

Nay, she would not trust Duncan. Not with her heart, not with her father’s legacy and most certainly not with the little girl who deserved the warmth of a family’s love. What might Duncan and his brother do if they learned Cristiana had been harboring their heir for more than four years? Would they declare war on Domhnaill to get her back?

Or worse, was there a chance they spread their seed so carelessly that one more child bearing their distinctive green eyes would not matter to them at all?

For her niece, Leah’s, sake, Cristiana refused to find out.

Duncan would turn this keep inside out to find what he sought.

He arose before the dawn the next morning, determined to make his time at Domhnaill as brief as possible. By the time he broke his fast and dressed warmly to fend off the frigid damp blowing in off the water, the sun’s first rays lit the token he wore about his neck. He held up the medallion to the study the map worked in metal. The cryptic figure he believed matched some landmark on Domhnaill property.

A chill lingered on the breeze that had naught to do with the sea as he stalked farther from the stark gray walls. Unease lurked behind the keep’s strong facade, a sense among the people that their leader had grown weak. Cristiana could make merry all the new year to hide her clan’s shortcomings. But it did not change the fact that Domhnaill was ripe for the taking.

Duncan’s eyes roamed over the stones of the keep in search of a pattern in the rock that might match the figure on his medallion. It was one of many possibilities for what the map might signify. And the task of studying stone walls did not require nearly enough of his attention to keep him from thinking about Cristiana.

About how she’d been ready to wed five years ago.

By the rood, he would never forget the heat of the kiss they’d shared even though she’d been naught but an innocent maid. They’d been left alone to walk in the gardens, their families preoccupied with details of Edwina’s marriage contract. Cristiana had not hesitated to take his arm when he led her through the fruit trees to a bench by an old wishing well.

Oddly, she had not recalled that it had been her to lead him there, since it had been that same day that Donegal had dishonored Edwina. Cristiana had accused Duncan of kissing her to distract her from keeping an eye on her sister. But it had not been so. Cristiana had been eager to be with him, her eyes bright with excitement as she drew him into the trees.

Not seeing any pattern in the stones now, Duncan found his feet picking out the path to that well. He needed to cover a lot of ground in the next moon if he hoped to find the treasure, so it made sense if he spent some of today taking in the lay of the land.

Breaking through the thicket of overgrown fruit trees, he spied a new building between the orchard and the well. A squat, round tower, the structure was too far from the keep to be a kitchen. Yet the smoke of a stoked fire puffed from a hole in the roof.

What construction had the old laird undertaken? Surprised at this sign of ambitious growth, Duncan made sure his medallion was hidden beneath his garments and approached the building, boots kicking up freshly fallen snow.

He tried the door, expecting it to be locked. Instead, the barrier swung open easily and the scent of sweet mead rolled toward him in fragrant waves. The scent of Cristiana.

Indeed, this was her domain. And she must have risen with the dawn like him to be at her work so early. But there she stood, all alone and toiling over a table, her shoulders bent to some work he could not yet see. She had not heard him enter, her full attention devoted to whatever project she labored over.

The building was a brew house unlike anything he’d ever seen before. It functioned as far more than a mere corner of a kitchen where special cauldrons were set aside for mead-making. The entire, fine structure appeared dedicated to Cristiana’s brewing gift.

A hot fire burned in the center of the room, the blaze surrounded by protective stones to contain it. Some of the exterior wall of the tower was stacked with wood, but most of the walls were lined with other cauldrons.

The tower’s only low windows were placed above a worktable near where Cristiana stood. The skin-covered openings allowed the dawn’s light to spill over clay pots of dried herbs and spices. He could see now that she’d cut some sticks of cinnamon into smaller pieces, her hands dusted in fragrant powder.

“Cristiana.” He spoke softly so as not to startle her, but her name became an intimate sound on his lips.

Startled anyway, she whirled around as if expecting to see a field full of marauding Danes.

“Duncan.” Clutching a hand to her chest, she seemed to quiet her heart by force. “I am usually alone out here at this hour.”

Her cheeks were flushed from the heat of the fire as she turned back to her worktable. An amethyst-colored kirtle swung about her feet as she moved, the fabric falling in time with her rhythmic cutting.

“You tend your potions well, Cristiana.” He stepped deeper into the chamber, taking in the rainbow span of flowers drying on the rafters.

The scent of spices and dried berries mingled with the tang of yeast. Being in the brew house was like stepping into a late summer day with the rich warmth of the harvest all around.

“The Domhnaill mead is prized in trade. But I must use care in the making, since I can only obtain a certain amount of honey. Once I run out, I cannot replenish my stores until spring, so I dare not burn any.”

Carefully, she scraped the worktable clean of the cinnamon she’d cut, swiping the last of the powder into her hand. When she’d gathered all she could, she brought it to a pot on the far wall and scattered it over the surface of the brew.

No wonder she carried such an enticing smell on her person at all times. She must absorb the fragrance right through her skin.

“Your father has invested a great deal in this trade.” Peering up at the ceiling, he noted the excess rafters for additional space to dry herbs out of the way of the boiling cauldrons. Mortars and pestles, cups and small jars lined the shelves of an open cupboard.

“Our mead sells for a very good price. In turn, full coffers keep the men paid and attract strong alliances.” She rinsed her hands in a bowl of water kept on the hearthstones and dried them on a linen rag tied to her girdle.

“Your father has not raised a fighting force in many years,” he observed, pacing the perimeter of the structure to view the contents of the fermenting cauldrons. “His coffers must overflow with the excess. He could have made you a fine marriage long ago.”

The dowry Duncan was to have received for her five years ago had been more than generous, especially considering his sons would have ruled Domhnaill one day. What would the laird offer to the man who wed Cristiana now?

“I do not think finding a husband for me is part of his purpose.” Holding back her plaited hair in one hand, she bent over the cauldron in the center of the chamber and sniffed delicately.

The fabric of her tunic dipped away from her breasts as she leaned forward, presenting him with a view so beguiling he stopped cold in his pacing. A jolt of undeniable interest sparked. To lust after her was foolishness. She was no experienced woman to choose a man for pleasure’s sake. She was an unwed maid, who must make a good marriage. A highborn one at that.

And he would suffer the fires of hell before it would be him after the cold way she’d dismissed him.

But the knowledge did not stop the heat streaking through his veins at the sight of her tempting, creamy flesh. The moment ended too soon as, straightening, she took up a spoon and stirred the concoction. He struggled to recall what they’d been discussing.

Ah, yes. A husband.

“Only a fool of a sire would ignore the need to see you wed. And your da is no fool.” A stubborn, hard man perhaps. But other than the misstep with the broken betrothal, the old laird was a keen ruler. Or at least, he had been.

Perhaps she had sensed his gaze on her because she paused in her stirring to peer up at him. Though they stood many steps distant, he could feel the moment the air between them grew charged. As a virgin untouched, would Cristiana even know the source of such heat?

“I choose not to marry.” Her words were so at odds with everything he’d been thinking, it took him a long moment to understand what she’d said.

“Impossible.” He drew closer, telling himself he wished to judge her features and seek out the lie. Yet he knew he was pulled toward her by a power beyond his control. She fascinated him despite their mutual mistrust. “Your father has no sons. He has no choice but to ally himself—his people—with a strong clan who can protect the legacy of his lands.”

She removed the spoon from the spinning, bubbling brew beside her and hung the instrument from a hook near the pot’s handle.

“He will choose his successor when the time is right. I do not need to wed to secure our fate.”

She spoke madness. Her father indulged this? He would question the old man about it when he obtained an audience with him, since it would make Duncan’s work here easier if he did not have to fight off a suitor for control of Domhnaill. For now, he would have answers of a different sort from her.

She stared up at him with that steady, gray gaze of hers. She had become a practical woman. Efficient. Hardworking. But he remembered another facet of her. A passionate, unrestrained side that she’d locked down like it never existed after that day by the wishing well.

Suddenly, he had to know if that part of her still existed or if it had been stamped out forever by cool practicality.

“You would deny yourself a man’s touch for all your days?” He reached toward her, telling himself he did so only to tease her. To make her feel a fraction of the frustration he’d felt years ago.

Her eyes remained locked on his. Perhaps she did not notice the approach of his fingers until he brushed a lock of her hair just above her temple. The touch had the sense of fate about it, and he recalled another touch, another kiss, another moment so similar to this one. The fact that Cristiana was no longer his did not alter a compelling urge to take her. To steal as much from her and the moment as she would allow.