Читать книгу The Laird's Lady - Joanne Rock - Страница 7

Rosalind could not remember ever being so cold. Shivering under her quilt, she pulled it more tightly about her shoulders. Why wasn’t the fire lit? Just as she started to call out for Gerta or her maid, Josephine, she remembered what had happened.

She was in her own dungeon.

Rosalind groaned aloud as she recalled the damning words of the Scotsman responsible.

Malcolm McNair. The formidable Scot had consigned her to the dungeon until things were “well in hand” at Beaumont.

Blinking away the fog of sleep, she peered around her quarters. Food had been left for her, but the bread and cheese held no appeal. She even slept on a pallet instead of the cold floor, so her lot was not too bad. Yet all she could think of was the brutality the Scots could be inflicting on all the people who looked to her for protection.

Steady streams of tears rolled unchecked down Rosalind’s cheeks. Reaching blindly in the dark for a chamber pot, she retched as terror knotted her belly.

She envisioned the huge heathen setting fire to the keep, locking everyone she loved inside so they might burn with it. Just as they had before.

Stomach empty, she collapsed in a heap, too weary to move. She fell into nightmarish sleep, with one breath cursing Malcolm McNair for stealing her home, and with the next, cursing Gregory Evandale for allowing him to do so.

The next morning Malcolm knew his endeavor must be blessed. The people of Beaumont were not welcoming, but they had not revolted, either. They made the best of an unhappy situation, which was all he could reasonably expect.

Since his arrival the day before, everything had moved according to plan. He controlled the keep, thanks to his brothers’ help. Soon the south tower would be rebuilt, not as a comfortable living space, but as part of the defense fortifications.

Now he broke his fast in silence in the Beaumont great hall. A few of his men still slept on the floor of the hall near the keep’s hounds, their snores mingling with the crackle of a low flame in the hearth. The sun had not fully risen, a purple haze penetrating the chamber’s high windows.

He frowned as he bit into a quince and thought of his first task for the day—retrieve the former mistress of Beaumont from the dungeon. He could not regret his decision to lock her up, since her defiance could have cost lives. The wench had shot a flaming arrow at his head.

And yet how could he blame her? He’d attacked her home, after all. Perhaps he’d locked her up because her strong-willed determination reminded him too much of his faithless Isabel. She had teased him with the notion of marriage until she’d found a wealthier lord to share her bed.

Now that he could think clearly, Malcolm decided Will Beaumont deserved the dungeon far more than his sister. The bastard had stupidly chosen to fight a battle he must have known he had no hope of winning, and six of Malcolm’s men had paid for his foolishness with their lives. His thumb smashed the quince he held, his grip tightening as he recalled the men he’d buried.

How could the English knight have gambled so carelessly with his own men? Beaumont could not have known the invaders would refrain from killing anyone seized in battle. Indeed, it ranked as highly unusual for a conqueror to take prisoners in the midst of warfare. Beaumont had been willing to sacrifice everyone at his outer bailey wall.

Malcolm itched to face the fainthearted Beaumont lord and tear the coward limb from limb to avenge the six men he’d lost, but the former ruler was nowhere to be found. The only target for his vengeance had been Will’s fierce sister. Her skills with a crossbow would have made any Highland father proud. Malcolm did not want to reward Rosalind’s bravery with a stay in the dungeon, but he could see from the pride in her eyes that she would never sit idly by while he took over her home.

Safer for everyone if she were locked out of harm’s way.

But now that things were well in hand, Malcolm finished his quince, left the table with the hound at his heels and descended into the dungeon.

“Lachlan Gordon!” he shouted in the sleeping jailer’s ear when he located the door to the keep’s bowels.

The wiry old man jumped, jangling the keys at his waist. “Yes, sir, she is locked away safe and sound.”

“Then let me in, my good man. We canna leave the lady of the keep locked up all week.” Malcolm grinned at the aged Highlander guarding the door. He had not wanted to bring Lachlan on a siege with him, but the old man had been too cantankerous to deny. The McNair lands had been safe for so long under Ian’s rule that some of the men itched to leave solely for the sake of adventure.

Malcolm could only hope he would one day have the chance to be as strong a laird as his brother.

“We canna?” Lachlan rubbed his beard and seemed to consider that news. “’Tis sorry I’m being then, for I fear I have nae given the prisoner much care.”

“What do ye mean?” Malcolm stood very still, digesting the old man’s words.

“Well, she hasna been fed, and I only let her little maid in for a few moments. I dinna know I was to be treating her different than any other captive.”

Unease crept through Malcolm at the thought of how Lady Rosalind might have fared. He tried to recall the image of Beaumont’s mistress up on the battlements. She was a strong lass and a fearless one at that. She would not be frightened by imprisonment. Then another memory entered his mind: of Rosalind crumpling to the floor when he’d announced she would stay in the dungeon.

“Open the door now.”

Lachlan fumbled with the keys, but managed to turn the rusted lock.

Grabbing a torch as he brushed past the jailer, Malcolm raced down the stairs, cursing himself for entrusting the keep’s mistress to a failing old man. He peered around the dank stone walls. There were several cells, but he could see no movement in any of them.

A sneeze emanated from the farthest chamber.

Hastening toward the sound, Malcolm shoved open the door to the last cell. Hell and damnation.

Curled into a tight ball and tangled in threadbare blankets slept the former lady of Beaumont, now looking more like an urchin straight off Edinburgh’s streets.

Kneeling beside her pallet, he scooped her into his arms. She still wore the green gown he’d last seen her in, though its radiant spring hue had faded beneath a layer of grime. Her body radiated feverish warmth against him, yet she shivered violently. As he headed for the stairs, her eyelashes fluttered.

“They are dead,” she whispered, her gaze glassy and unfocused as she stared at him. “All of them…” Her eyes closed once again, and in the growing light Malcolm discerned heavy purple shadows beneath them.

“Find Gerta, the busybody nurse,” Malcolm shouted to Lachlan as he emerged from the dungeon.

“Aye.” Though the old man hurried off, Malcolm did not miss the distraught look upon his weathered face.

Traversing the steps to the main living quarters, Malcolm puzzled over Rosalind’s words. Who had died?

Guilt pricked him as he peered down at her weary form, his fingers sinking into soft feminine curves he would rather not notice. The McNair men had been taught to cherish women. Malcolm knew firsthand how frail they could be. Ian’s young wife had died in childbirth last winter, too gentle for the harsh demands of life in the Highlands.

Not all women possessed the resilience of Scottish thistle and a heart of stone like the woman he’d once planned to wed.

Malcolm searched Lady Rosalind’s face, struck anew at how young and slight she appeared, her body sweetly warming his where he held her. Was this the same lass who just yesterday had boldly fought off a small army and slid her dagger into her enemy’s gut? She did not look capable.

Yet she had done these things and more, he reminded himself, ignoring the way her cheek settled softly against his arm as he carried her. He must not be foolish enough to soften toward her because she was a woman. She had tried to kill him twice in one day. Heaven knew, the English felt no such sympathies for the women of their enemies.

Tamping down any compassion he might have felt, Malcolm deposited his delicate burden in a chamber at the top of the stairs and strode out the door without a backward glance. He nearly knocked over Gerta in his haste.

“She’s in there,” he barked, leaving the old woman to nurse the Beaumont she-demon back to her former good health.

Rosalind awoke to a light so bright she feared she had passed into the hereafter.

“You awake, love?” asked a familiar feminine voice.

An angel?

“You are awake, I can tell. Open your eyes, Rosalind Beaumont, and cease this nonsense.”

No angel. It was most certainly Gerta.

Rosalind peeked out blearily to see her childhood nurse frowning at her. Sunlight filtered in through a small window high above her. The normal courtyard sounds of carts rolling and crofters shouting drifted on the cool breeze, while a fire burned merrily at the foot of her bed.

“I knew ’tweren’t nothing wrong with you that a bit of sleep would not cure.” Gerta smiled, a rare display for the perpetually irritable elder woman.

Rosalind marveled how the change in expression transformed her wrinkled face. Gerta was a fair woman yet.

“Everyone has been fretting about you, but old Gerta knew you were too stubborn to let the dungeon get the best of you for long.”

The dungeon. Memories of the cold, endless night assailed Rosalind.

“Is everyone…” Her belly roiled again. She could not finish the question, but she had to know if anyone still lived after the Scots invasion.

“You thought those Scotsmen would slaughter the lot of us, didn’t you, my poor little lamb?” Gerta squeezed her mistress’s hand in her own. “I had a feeling that is what worsened your health these past days—fear for the rest of us and none for yourself.”

“How long has it been since the siege?”

“Three days. One in the keep’s underbelly for you, two up here convalescing.”

For Rosalind, time had been a blur. “What did they do to me?” Had they beaten her? She honestly couldn’t remember much.

“They did naught to you, sweeting, but neither did they take very good care of you. I let that old goat Lachlan Gordon know what I thought about his neglect, you can be sure.” Gerta’s gray coronet bobbed in time with her emphatic words. “Treating the lady of Beaumont like a common prisoner of war. But at least Lord Malcolm remembered to go fetch you out.”

“Who, pray tell, is Lord Malcolm?”

“No offense to you, but the McNair does run the keep now. The servants did not know how else to call him.”

Rosalind pondered this, appeased but not pleased. She could hardly ask Gerta to purposely bait a barbaric Scotsman.

“At any rate, it has been two days since he brought you upstairs and asked me to care for you.”

“The same man who locked me in my own dungeon to start with?” The thought of herself in Malcolm McNair’s arms disturbed her.

“Aye. But at least we have not lost any lives. A bloody miracle, considering the fight we put up.”

Rosalind’s annoyance fled. Had she heard properly?

“It is true,” Gerta continued, as if sensing her disbelief. “All of the prisoners they took in battle were spared if they would but give the Scots their allegiance.”

“They did what?” Rosalind shot upright, anger pulsing through her even though her head swam at the quick movement.

“Not to the Scottish cause.” Gerta patted her shoulder. “Just a promise not to turn on the new lord.”

“It is the same thing.” Rosalind threw aside her covers and slid out of bed. “You mean to tell me all of Beaumont has sworn loyalty to these Scots?” She yanked a surcoat out of the closet, snagging the fabric in her haste.

“I knew you would be upset, but—”

“Upset does not begin to describe my feeling on the matter.” Rosalind pulled the torn surcoat over her kirtle. “My whole household has given loyalty to the same people who only a few years ago burned half of Beaumont to the ground? The same murderous lot who took all my kin?”

Tears glistened in the old woman’s eyes. “John Steward refused to swear loyalty. He was banished.”

“Banished?” Rosalind croaked, pausing for a moment in her battle with her garters. “What will he do?”

“The rest of us did not have the courage to defy them. I could never be banished from Beaumont, my lady.” Gerta dabbed her eyes with a worn scrap of linen from her cuff.

Rosalind’s heart softened. “Did John say anything to you about his plans or where he was headed?”

“I do not know, but John mentioned he hoped to get word to Lord Evandale.”

An enormous weight seemed to slide from her shoulders. Gregory would come. He would come if only to save her, she knew, but as her betrothed he had another interest in expelling the Scots—Beaumont would be his once they wed with the king’s approval.

“Perhaps all is not lost.” Smiling, Rosalind squeezed the older woman’s shoulders. “If Gregory comes, he will rid us of these barbarians.”

“In the meantime, will you try not to rile the new Scots lord at every turn? Sometimes you can learn much more if you are smart enough to go along with things.” Gerta fiddled absently with the hem of her sleeve as she rose from the bed. “Shall I call Josephine for you? It would seem you need help getting dressed.”

Rosalind glanced down at her wrinkled gown. The tear in her seam glared from her surcoat. Her kirtle was crooked. One garter already slid sadly to the floor. Knowing she would never be able to conduct a rebellion if she wasn’t at least properly garbed, she nodded.

Two hours later, she was glad she had listened to Gerta even if she hadn’t been allowed to leave her chamber. An aging Scots warrior loomed outside her gate, his thick brogue almost unintelligible, but his refusal to let her pass into the hall had been clear enough. She was as much a prisoner in her chamber as she’d been in the dungeon, but at least here she could be comfortable enough to think and plan. To recover her health. To plot against her captors.

Now, she sat in an unforgiving chair draped with a weathered tapestry, her supper on a tray beside her. Picking at a bit of stuffed pigeon to help regain the strength she’d lost to her illness, she barely tasted the food. As much as she resented Malcolm McNair’s arrival, she counted her blessings that he had spared so many lives. Most conquerors would not be so generous.

Malcolm. The very name roused anger and…curiosity. Although she bitterly resented his invasion of her home, she could not deny that his war tactics had surprised her. Who was this warmongering Scot who spared English lives? And had he truly spared them, or was he merely biding his time to wrest hard labor from her people?

Savoring a sip of mulled wine, she recalled the strange sensation that had assailed her from the first time she’d looked at the man. She could appreciate his warrior’s might even if she despised him as her enemy. In the time that Gregory had been away, Rosalind had come to long for a man’s strength at her side. Life would be so much easier with a powerful lord as a mate. Surely the fact that she noticed Malcolm McNair’s capabilities as a warrior only underscored how much she missed Gregory.

Satisfied that she’d uncovered the source of her strange response to Beaumont’s unwanted visitor, she returned her knife to the trencher as a knock sounded at her door.

“Come in, Josephine, your timing is perfect.” She pushed away her half-eaten meal.

The door opened, and a cool gust of air blew into the solar as a heavy footstep crossed the threshold. “I fear ’tis nae Josephine, but I hope ye find my timing equally pleasing.”

Rosalind did not need to look over her shoulder to know who had just entered the chamber. The man’s presence radiated from a league away.

“I am afraid I find your timing deplorable. I would have you depart my chambers immediately.” Rosalind’s hand shook as she replaced her cup on the tray. Had he come here to dislodge her from the master chamber, to oust her from what small domain she still held?

“Can ye be forgetting so soon that ye wished a private audience with me? I am merely fulfilling yer wish.”

She refused to turn around and look at him. Instead she stared fixedly at a silver Celtic cross mounted upon her wall. How could he sound so lighthearted and full of good humor when her whole world had crashed around her ears, her future destroyed by the Scots’ quest for domination?

“My wish,” she ground out through clenched teeth, “was greeted with smug hostility. You threw me in the dungeon rather than listen to me. I have no desire to say anything to you now.”

The heathen did not reply, but Rosalind could hear his footsteps as he moved to the sideboard, followed by the splash of wine into a cup.

“Perhaps ye need another drink, lady. Ye look rather…tense.”

A huge hand reached around her to take her cup from the tray. Rosalind stiffened at his sudden nearness, but still declined to look at him.

When he returned with her drink in hand, however, she had no choice but to do so. He sank onto a low footstool as if he belonged there.

“Here’s to yer health, lass, and to yer very successful recovery.” He clanked his cup heavily against hers and drank the contents down in one gulp.

What did he think he was doing here, making himself at home in her solar, drinking her wine, smiling like a cat that just swallowed the first spring robin? The insolent Scotsman looked a far sight more grand than the last time she’d seen him. When he had ordered her to the dungeon, he had been the very image of a barbarian with his leather cape askew and his blue war paint.

Now he appeared more refined. And surprisingly clean for a heathen. In fact, Rosalind could detect the scent of Gerta’s soap about him. His tunic boasted a fine weave of silk, though the garment had not been decorated after the fashion of noblemen.

His hair shone with cleanliness, as well, falling to his broad shoulders and tied neatly at his nape. Black as sin, the locks seemed indicative of his character. Thick sable brows sheltered eyes that were a clear and vivid blue, perhaps a sign of Nordic ancestry. They should have been raven’s wing dark, too. ’Twould be more reflective of his soul. Still, fine creases around his eyes suggested he was no stranger to laughter. A straight and somewhat prominent nose hinted at pride or mayhap intelligence.

Overall, he was rather pleasing to the eye for a warmongering miscreant. But a fair countenance did not change the fact that he was still a conqueror. And above all, Rosalind craved peace. This was a man to be wary of, no matter what lighthearted jests issued from his mouth.

He seemed to be studying her as intently as she perused him. Attempting to quiet her jittery fears, Rosalind raised her cup to her lips and drank.

“’Tis no Scotch mead, of course,” he commented, his gaze steady upon her, “but ’twill do on a warm eve like this one. Would ye care for some fresh air, perhaps?”

“No,” Rosalind lied, refusing to be affable to a man who’d robbed her of her keep. In truth, she longed to tell him she was not sorry she’d stabbed him, that she would do it again in a heartbeat.

Concern for her people forced her to hold her tongue, along with a healthy dose of good sense that told her not to enrage this man and risk being thrown onto her back and defiled. He might seem trustworthy in that respect, but she could not afford to let her guard down. It was fortunate no lives had been taken in the siege. She would not risk any more by provoking the Scots leader.

“Then we will talk here.” He stood abruptly and paced the length of the solar, his quick gait betraying no sign of the wound she’d given him, which surely must pain him even as it healed.

Her feminine chamber, draped with rich tapestries and gossamer silks, seemed an odd backdrop for a warrior who exuded such maleness. Did he mean to take her chamber for his own and displace her? For a fleeting moment, she envisioned his muscular body reclined on the dark coverlet that graced her bed.

Regrettably, the image was not as absurd as she anticipated. A very clear picture came to mind, burning her cheeks as hotly as if she’d spoken the thought aloud.

“We need to come to some agreement.” His solemn manner assured her he had not somehow divined her misplaced thoughts. “When last we met ye mentioned a ‘peaceful shift of power’ from ye to me. I want to discuss this transition. But first I want to know why this shift of power would come from ye, and nae yer brother, William. Does he hold no authority at Beaumont?” He sat again, waiting for an answer. His eyes never left hers.

She longed to stand, to walk away from him and the peculiar stirring he seemed to arouse in her, but to do so would make her appear intimidated. Her bout of illness had left her too weak to walk steadily, and his presence only made her knees more unsteady.

She found him as disconcerting as his pointed questions. Had he guessed the secret of her brother’s disappearance? “In my brother’s absence, I speak for Beaumont.”

“Tell me again about this strange departure of his.” Malcolm’s hand strayed toward her leg. Startled, Rosalind flinched, but he only picked up the pomander that dangled from a chain at her waist, careful not to actually touch her person. “None of my men saw him leave. How is it possible he escaped our notice?”

Distracted by his keen interest in the keepsake from her mother, Rosalind watched Malcolm as he carefully traced his callused finger over the intricate pattern of Celtic carvings.

She shivered despite the warmth of her room, and warded off the sensation by snapping at him. “Think you I will give away all of our secrets? Perhaps there are ways to and from the keep that you have not discovered.”

“I will discover them all, ye can be sure. No keep of mine will be wrested out from under me.” Allowing the pomander to fall from his fingers, Malcolm rested his elbows on his sprawled thighs. The gesture put his face disturbingly close to her own.

Unwillingly, Rosalind absorbed the warmth of his presence, the heat of his body.

“Ye would do well to learn this now, Lady Rosalind.”

“You must know I do not consider this your keep, therefore when it is wrested out from under you, I will only be regaining what is rightfully mine.” Burrowing her backbone farther into her chair, she created as much distance between them as possible. Not that he scared her, but he definitely unsettled her. She’d begun to trust that he wasn’t here to make a grab for her, or else he would have done so by now.

“Ye mean yer brother will be regaining what is rightfully his, do ye not, lass?” A half smile twitched his lips.

“Beaumont is mine in his absence.” She cringed inwardly at her own blunder and at the laughter in his voice. Cursing her flustered weakness, she vowed to be more careful around him.

“A position ye seem at home with.” He looked around the master chamber meaningfully. “Would ye care for more wine?” One heavy black brow rose with the question.

Rosalind shook her head. Did he suspect her lies? She watched him covertly as he poured himself another cup. The man was completely out of place in her solar with its dried flowers and romantic notions. She guessed him to be a few inches above Gregory’s imposing height. Malcolm’s broad shoulders spanned a vast width, and the muscles at his calves bunched as he walked. A small knife fit into a sheath at his waist.

A warrior to his toes. It occurred to her that he did not look like the sort of craven churl to set fire to a keep and then disappear into the night. She had learned from their conversation that Malcolm liked to keep what he took, for one thing, which an anonymous raider could not do. Just by looking at him she ascertained he was a man accustomed to fighting—something the gutless torch-wielders were not, since they had set blaze to Beaumont and then disappeared into the night.

Thus Malcolm McNair was probably not responsible for the murder of her parents. He still represented the savages who committed the deed, of course, and his conquest of her keep was reason enough to despise him. Just not quite so much as she would have if she had remotely suspected him of the Beaumont fire.

“Getting back to this peaceful shift of power.” He finished his drink and sat before her once again. “I know ye must care for your people, else ye wouldna have been at the parapets wielding a crossbow.”

Rosalind lifted her chin. Did he think to make her feel guilty?

“I find such loyalty admirable,” he continued, surprising her completely. “I understand it was nae yer fault yer brother led ye into a pointless battle. I lay the blame on him for the needless loss of lives in this siege.”

Rosalind was grateful Malcolm glanced away, else he would have seen the guilty flush steal over her features. Given her own losses, she should not mourn the loss of her enemy’s men. Yet guilt pricked her to think men had died because of her actions.

“Because I know ye care for the tenants and servants, I know ye will want to ease their adjustment to my presence.”

Perhaps sensing a protest, he raised his hand to silence her. “I know ye dinna want to face the reality that yer dreaded enemy now rules Beaumont, but ’tis a fact. Ye will only cause distress and mixed allegiances among the people if ye decry me. Would ye honestly want yer tenants to revolt and risk their lives against trained knights of war to preserve ye as their ruler? And dinna mistake me, ’twould be risking their lives.”

“You brute.” Rosalind rose from her seat so that she might look down at him. “How dare you threaten these good people when they have already done everything but kiss your bloody Scottish boot soles.”

He could have stood, as well, and intimidated her, but he remained seated, as if unperturbed by her outburst. Or was he perhaps still feeling some of the sting of the wound she’d given him three days before?

“’Tis well ye know I threatened no one. ’Tis my way of asking ye to lend me yer support and nae rile all yer household. If only ye will allow yerself to be reasonable in this, ye will see the truth of my words.”

“Be reasonable?” Anger churned through her. “I am being more than reasonable allowing you into my chamber. I am being reasonable every moment I do not spit in your face. It is completely unreasonable of you to ever think I will submit like an obedient little maid to a hostile enemy, just because you have the advantage over me at the moment.”

“Ye will risk the people of Beaumont to bolster yer wounded pride?” His voice rumbled with restrained anger and his fingers flexed tightly around his drinking chalice.

“I will not risk my people, heathen.” It occurred to her that at some point during their conversation she had realized she could rail at this man without fearing for the Beaumont folk. Although the warlord might seize her home, he would not vent his annoyance on her people. How odd to think, in this small way, she had already come to trust him. “I shall be rid of you before long. If the king will not come to our aid, Will has other allies to turn to.”

They glared at each other, brilliant blue eyes locked with hers, as the two of them reached an impasse.

“I think our talk is at an end,” Rosalind said finally, spinning away.

Malcolm rose, returning his cup to the tray with a clank. “Nay, Rosalind.”

The low rumble of his voice, the supreme confidence with which he contradicted her, gave her pause. Her heartbeat faltered.

He strode to her and, before she knew what he was about, clamped her shoulders in his heavy palms and held her a scant foot in front of him.

The heat of his hands permeated her thin summer kirtle. His touch confused her, for, although it was hardly gentle, neither was it threatening.

“If our talk was more successful, I would see no need for this.” A look akin to regret crossed his face. “But as it stands, ye will have to be confined to yer chambers until we can come to a more favorable understanding.”

Her heartbeat thrummed in her ears. “Favorable for who?”

His grin was slow and deliberate. “For me, of course. Sooner or later ye’ll be coming around.”

He actually winked at her before striding out of the solar.

Rosalind picked up a pillow from her chair and threw it at the door. The gesture helped vent her frustration, but did not take away the tingling she still felt where he’d touched her.