Читать книгу Lord of Dunkeathe - Margaret Moore, Paul Hammerness - Страница 9

AS THE SERVANTS carried away the remains of the baked apples, Nicholas turned to Robert, seated to his left at the high table. To his right was the elderly priest who had taken residence in the castle after the chapel had been completed. Father Damon greatly appreciated the ease of his duties ministering to Sir Nicholas, as well as the household and garrison. The lord of Dunkeathe was certainly no stickler on religious matters.

Robert stopped looking at the table where the beautiful Lady Joscelind and several of the other guests were sitting. Nicholas couldn’t blame the man for being distracted; so might he have been, if he hadn’t encountered Lady Joscelind in the courtyard.

“I’m going to give the garrison commander the watchword for tonight,” he said, rising. “If my guests require more wine or food, or music, it should be provided.”

“As you wish, my lord. And the watchword is…?”

Nicholas gave his steward a small smile. “Restraint.”

Robert’s eyes widened, then he flushed. “Forgive my lack of attention, my lord. I’m not used to being among so many nobles and several of the young ladies—”

“Are quite attractive,” Nicholas replied evenly. “I might be worried your eyesight was going if you weren’t distracted. I should return shortly.”

He begged Father Damon to excuse him, and then left the dais. In truth, he was happy to get away from his guests for a little while. He, too, wasn’t used to being around so many nobles who weren’t also trained fighters waiting for a battle or a tournament. These high-ranking men were the same sort who’d treated him with scornful disdain before he’d earned his castle, with the possible exception of young Audric, who seemed a quiet, modest fellow.

As Nicholas made his way through the tables and the cloying odor of perfume, he nodded greetings to his guests. Whatever he thought of them personally, they were all powerful and important in their way, and he wouldn’t offend them if he could help it. He’d come perilously close with Lord Chesleigh. He should have had the good sense to stay by the stable wall and not let himself be intrigued by a bright-eyed woman sitting on a ramshackle cart.

The boisterous Scots thane was seated toward the back of the hall, in a place that should have told the man, if he had any perception at all, that his niece was unlikely to be the object of Nicholas’s favor.

Where was she?

Perhaps she was tired from her journey, or from upbraiding him in front of his guests.

He should be angry about that. He’d certainly been angry when she’d first spoken, but he’d found it difficult to stay angry when she faced him with that vivid, defiant fire in her eyes and spoke to him not with coyness or even deference, but as if she were his equal in pride, if nothing else. He’d noted the regal carriage of her head that would befit a queen, and that she looked more noble in her simple gown than any of the ladies in their fine clothes and costly jewels.

It was a pity her family was poor and unimportant, for she would likely prove worth the wooing.

Once outside, he drew in deep breaths of the fresh air slightly tainted by the smell of smoke from the Midsummer bonfires. The courtyard was too far from the village for noise to reach him from the celebrations, yet he didn’t doubt there was much merrymaking and many games being played, with far more good humor and joy than that shared by those feasting in his hall. His guests, though, weren’t friends or well known to each other, so what else could he expect?

He passed by the kitchen and glanced over the fence into the garden. It was a fairly large one, and normally provided enough for the needs of his household. An apple tree, now finished blooming, stood in the center like a guardian, as he was guardian of the people on his estate, watching over them as he’d watched over his brother and sister.

Someone was beneath the apple tree—a woman, seated on what looked like an overturned bucket.

It was the Lady Riona, gazing up at the sky through the leafy branches as if seeking heavenly portents. Or perhaps she was unwell.

Determined to find out why she was alone in the garden, he opened the gate and stepped inside. She quickly turned to look at him, then simultaneously jumped up and cried a warning.

Sucking in his breath, he instinctively and immediately drew his sword from his scabbard and crouched into a defensive position, ready to strike his attackers.

Who weren’t there, he realized as he swiveled on his heel, looking first one way, then the other.

His ire roused like his blood, he glared at the lady as he lowered his weapon and demanded, “Why did you cry out?”

She met his gaze squarely. “You were going to crush the rosemary.”

The rosemary?

He looked down at the row of plants at his feet, then brought his stern gaze to bear on her. “I’m used to warnings in battle or tournaments to save me from bodily harm or even death, not the potential squashing of a plant. In future, a simple word of warning would do, not a cry as if there are assassins on the walls.”

“If there had been an assassin, I assure you, my lord, I would have shouted louder. Forgive me for alarming you.”

She made him sound like some timid girl who saw a mouse. “I reacted as I was trained to do,” he said as he sheathed his sword.

“So did I,” she replied, calm and cool and apparently not a whit embarrassed or ashamed that she’d made him think he was being attacked. “At home, the garden is one of my responsibilities.”

“And do you stand guard over it like an anxious mother hen? Are you handy with a slingshot?”

“I was speaking in general terms, my lord. I take care of my uncle’s household, and that means I have to prevent waste and loss wherever possible.”

She was still remarkably calm in spite of his obvious anger, and he suddenly felt like he was tilting at a wooden dummy who neither feared nor favored him.

“Your uncle informed me that you run his household,” he said, walking toward her, this time mindful of the rows of plants. “He also claims you’ve done so since you were twelve years old.”

“That’s quite true,” she answered.

“My steward says yours is not a rich estate, so I presume you haven’t many servants to supervise.”

“No, we don’t,” she confessed without rancor or embarrassment, “so I do a good deal of the work myself and have little time for leisure. As I was sitting in your garden, I was enjoying having nothing to do.”

He thought of his early years as a soldier for hire. How he’d cherished every peaceful moment, every hour he had free to do with as he pleased. Then he recalled how he’d wasted some of those hours in brothels and taverns, and the memories soured. “I feared you might be sick and wanting some fresh air, although the night air may be doing you more harm than good.”

“I’m not used to such a crowd and the noise they make. I wanted to have some peace and quiet, that’s all.”

From the direction of the barracks, the soldiers who’d finished their meal started singing a bawdy ballad, loudly. The shouts of a very angry and frustrated cook chastising the spit boy, the scullery maid and incompetent servants in general filled the air. At the same time, the door at the entrance to the hall opened, and Sir James and Sir George came stumbling out, obviously drunk and laughing uproariously at some shared jest.

Nicholas raised a brow, just as he had that morning when he’d wanted to see what that boldly staring maidservant—who was no maidservant—would do. “This is your notion of peace and quiet?”

She laughed softly, a gentle rising sound of mirth that he found most pleasant. “It was quieter here than your hall, my lord.”

Sir James and Sir George staggered toward the well near the kitchen. Not wanting to have to talk to them, hoping they’d go back to the hall or retire for the night, he moved closer to the apple tree and its shadows, and her. “I should go and give the guards the watchword for tonight.”

“Ah yes, the very many guards.”

What did she mean by that? “I worked and strived for many years for what I possess, my lady, and I intend to keep it.”

“Obviously.”

He didn’t appreciate her tone. “The Scots king himself gave me this estate. If you aren’t pleased by that, you should complain to him.”

“Somehow, I don’t think he’d much care what Riona of Glencleith has to say about it.”

She stayed where she was when he joined her beneath the trees. The movement of the leaves made the moonlight shadows dance across her face.

Wanting to see her more clearly, he inched closer. “Your family has no influence with the king?”

“My family has no influence with anybody,” she freely admitted.

The only other woman who’d ever been so frankly honest with him was his sister—yet the thoughts he was having about Lady Riona were far from fraternal.

“How exactly did you guess who I was this morning?” he asked, no longer able to contain his curiosity. “Or did someone tell you when you arrived?”

Again, she answered without hesitation, as boldly as he’d come to expect. “You weren’t doing any work, although there was plenty for the servants to do, and I saw how the other servants and guards responded when they saw you. I realized you must in a position of some power or command, and I remembered what my uncle said about you.”

Which was? Nicholas wondered, even as he told himself the opinion of an impoverished Scots thane was completely unimportant.

“Your uncle claims you’re very clever,” he noted, “and given that you were the only person to realize who I was this morning, I’m inclined to agree.”

That brought a smile to her face.

She wasn’t a beauty, like Lady Joscelind, or even what he’d call pretty, but there was a vibrancy to her features, a liveliness and spirit, that fascinated him, especially when she smiled. Her bold responses were far more interesting than any coy answers from Lady Joscelind and her kind, too.

“They also weren’t expecting you to be dressed like a soldier and unloading baggage carts,” she continued. “Neither was I. I’m curious, my lord, as to what prompted that act of subterfuge?”

He suddenly wasn’t so proud of what he’d done, or why. “You heard me give my reason to Lady Joscelind. I wasn’t properly attired.”

She regarded him with such outright and unabashed skepticism, he blushed.

It had been many years since he’d felt his face warm like that, and he was glad they were in the shade of a tree at night. “You could say I was getting the lay of the land,” he admitted.

Her eyes narrowed. “I thought you were looking for a wife, not a fight.”

“I was sizing up the players before the game commences.”

She frowned even more. “It may be a game or amusement to you, my lord, but it certainly isn’t to these nobles and the women.”

Her words startled him. He hadn’t given a moment’s thought to what the women involved would think of his plan—until now. Yet he wasn’t about to confess that to this slip of a Scot, no matter how she looked at him. “I’m not doing this for my amusement. I require a wife, and I see nothing wrong with inviting suitable women to Dunkeathe and choosing the best among them.”

“And you will decide who is ‘best’?”

“Who better? She will become my bride, after all.”

“Yes, she will.”

He could decipher nothing in her eyes or voice to tell him whether she thought that a worthy goal. Yet after what had passed between them in the courtyard, he was sure she found him attractive.

Determined to prove that to himself at least, he sidled closer and dropped his voice to a lower, more intimate tone. “So, what exactly did your uncle say about me?”

“Clearly he told me enough to guess who you were.”

“So now you will prevaricate, my lady?” he replied, inching closer, willing her to be attracted to him, to feel the same sort of desire that was waxing in him. “After the boldness you’ve displayed, I’m disappointed.”

She straightened her shoulders and that bold fire once more kindled in her eyes. “Very well, my lord. Uncle Fergus said you were young, skilled at arms and handsome.”

He’d have to thank the man. “And you, my lady? Now that you’ve met me, what do you think of me?”

“That you’re one of the most arrogant men I’ve ever encountered.”

It was like falling into a freezing stream.

Before he could think of a suitable response, the door to the kitchen banged open, and a shaft of light nearly caught them. With a gasp, Riona ran farther back into the garden, to a place by the inner curtain wall deep in shadows.

Not willing to let this conversation end with her condemnation, Nicholas followed her to her hiding place, standing directly in front of her so that she was blocked from sight by his body. She was breathing rapidly, her rising and falling breasts pressing against her gown.

Her hair smelled of spring blossoms, natural and wholesome.

His annoyance lessened.

A servant hurried past without seeing them, yet when he was gone, neither of them moved.

“You don’t find me the least bit attractive or intriguing?” he whispered.

“No.”

“I think you do.”

She looked to either side, then tilted her head to regard him with unwavering steadiness. “I have no particular interest in you at all. We’re here because my uncle was convinced we should come, and I didn’t have the heart to refuse.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Which would be further proof of your arrogance, if I needed it.”

“Then why have you stayed in the garden?”

“Because I saw no reason to flee. Should I be afraid of you, my lord?”

God’s rood, she had an aggravating way of accusing him. “Of course you needn’t fear me. I’m a knight sworn to protect women, not harm them.”

“Perhaps you should remind some of your fellow Normans of that part of their oath.”

He didn’t want to discuss the vows of Norman knights. Despite her words, he wanted to take her in his arms and kiss her until she was dizzy. Or begged him to take her to his bed.

“What of your potential brides, my lord?” she continued. “What if you’re seen here in the garden with me? I don’t care what your Norman friends think, but shouldn’t you? They probably already question your judgment for allowing my uncle and me to stay. What will they conclude if they hear we’ve been together, and so intimately, too? And what of the ladies? They may think twice about offering themselves to you.”

His annoyance kindled into anger. “This is my castle, and I will do what I will.”

“Not if you’re to get yourself the sort of bride you’re after,” she replied, apparently not a whit disturbed by his tone. “I can hear them now.” She continued in a slow, haughty drawl, in an amazingly accurate imitation of Lady Joscelind. “And the fellow had the effrontery, the audacity, the sheer bad taste, to actually talk to that poor Scot and his niece—and be alone with her, too. Really, what can he be thinking, consorting with those outrageous barbarians?”

“My guests are well aware they’re in Scotland when they’re in Dunkeathe,” he retorted.

“They may be able to tolerate staying in your fortress, but they have no respect for the Scots.”

“I have,” he replied, not willing to be lumped in with the other Norman noblemen. “My sister married one.”

“I had heard, my lord, that you didn’t approve of her marriage.”

His jaw clenched before he answered. “In the beginning, I didn’t. But I’ve come to admire and respect my brother-in-law and his people. I’m also grateful to your king, who gave me this estate. The woman I marry will come to respect the Scots, too,” he finished firmly.

She still seemed unimpressed. “Yet I can’t help noticing, for all this supposed respect you feel for the Scots, that you neither said nor did anything to demonstrate that respect to your Norman guests when my uncle and I were in your hall.”

“Because I saw no need,” Nicholas countered. “You were managing quite well on your own. As for your uncle, I treated him with no disrespect, even when he barged into my solar while I was discussing business with my steward.”

Her gaze faltered at last. “You must forgive my uncle his enthusiasm. He means well and—”

“And I mean what I say,” Nicholas interrupted. “I think the Scots are a fine people—for the most part. I don’t forget that my sister’s own brother-in-law betrayed her and her husband, and that there were many in their clan who sided with the traitor.

“I also don’t forget all the years that I was poor and treated just as you have been, by Normans like my guests. Never think that because I say nothing, I do not see. That because I don’t chastise my guests, I condone what they do.

“But God’s blood, Riona, I’ve served and fought and struggled for too long to give a damn about gossip. If I want to linger in my garden on a moonlit night, I shall.”

He took hold of her shoulders and pulled her close. “If I want to be alone with you and talk to you, I will. And if I want to kiss you…”

He captured her mouth with his. His lips moved over hers with torrid heat as the desire he’d been trying to contain burst free.

For a moment, she was stiff and unyielding.

For a moment, until she began to return his kiss with equal fervor. Her arms went around his waist, pulling him closer, enflaming his passion further.

She was bold in this, too, just as he’d imagined. Daring and more stimulating than any woman he’d ever kissed, her lips and body filled with the same fire as her eyes. He could feel the need coursing through her, as it was through him.

His tongue pressed her lips to open, then smoothly glided inside. Her embrace tightened.

Drunk with desire, aware only of his need to feel her warmth around him, and the throbbing surge of completion, he moved his hand to seek her breast.

The instant he touched her there, she broke the kiss and pushed him away. Her eyes wide with dismay, her lips swollen from their passion, she stared at him as if he were a loathsome thing.

Without a word, not even another condemnation, she shoved her way past him and marched out of the garden.

While Nicholas stood where he was, panting and frustrated. God’s blood, he never should have entered the garden.

Restraint, indeed!

THE FIRST RAYS of the morning sun were lighting Riona’s chamber when she heard a soft tapping at her door.

“Riona, my dear, are you still asleep?” Uncle Fergus called quietly as she shook her head as if to rid it of the remnants of her dreams.

What little sleep she’d had after fleeing the lord of Dunkeathe and his kiss had been restless and disturbed. First, she’d dreamt of a great black crow with beady eyes carrying her off in his clawed foot. Then a sleek black cat had stalked her through the hall and corridors and apartments of Dunkeathe. Then, finally, she’d dreamt of Sir Nicholas himself, tall and dark and inscrutable. He’d swept her up in his arms and carried her to his bed covered in a thick black fur. He’d laid her upon it and then…

“I’m awake,” she said, opening the door to her uncle. She’d been awake and fully dressed since dawn.

He bounded into the room like an eager puppy and seemed to fairly bounce as he went to the window and threw open the wooden shutter to look out into the courtyard below.

“A fine morning, my dear,” he declared, gesturing at the window. “That’s a good sign, eh? Three days without rain, and warm to boot!”

How was she going to tell him that they had to leave? She couldn’t reveal exactly why she wanted to leave so urgently. It was too humiliating. She should have had more restraint, more self-control, more pride.

Or maybe she’d been too proud. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have lingered in the garden, thinking she could hold her own against the lord of Dunkeathe. She wouldn’t have been so sure that her scorn for his Norman arrogance would protect her against the other feelings he aroused.

Because it hadn’t.

And there was more to fear than losing her uncle’s respect if she told him what had happened in the garden. Uncle Fergus might accuse Sir Nicholas of dishonorable conduct and challenge him to combat.

If Sir Nicholas accepted that challenge, her uncle would probably die.

“It’s a fine day for a journey, too,” she began.

“Journey? Oh, aye,” Uncle Fergus answered absently, still looking out the window. “But all the women who want a chance for Sir Nicholas had to be here by St. John’s Day.”

“I was thinking, Uncle, that it would be a good day to go home.”

When he didn’t answer, she realized he hadn’t heard her because his attention was focused on something outside. Wondering what it could be, she went to the window and followed his gaze to see Fredella bustling toward the apartments, and carrying a bucket.

Clasping her hands nervously, she tried again. “Uncle, I don’t think we should stay in Dunkeathe after the way we’ve been treated.”

Uncle Fergus stopped looking out the window to regard her with surprise. “Sir Nicholas has treated us very well,” he said, nodding at the chamber, which was indeed quite comfortable, as was the bed.

If she hadn’t had that disturbing encounter to relive over and over, if that same excited, yet shameful, heat hadn’t coursed through her body every time she remembered that kiss, if she hadn’t had those disturbing dreams, she would have slept very well indeed on the soft featherbed.

“I wasn’t speaking of Sir Nicholas,” she clarified. “His other guests have been very rude to us.”

Uncle Fergus took her gently by the shoulders and gave her a kindly smile. “They’re just jealous.”

Shaking her head, Riona moved away. “They don’t respect us, or our country. I don’t want to stay here to be the object of their scorn.”

Following her, Uncle Fergus gave her an incredulous look. “Who cares what those ignorant Normans think? We know better, and so does Sir Nicholas. He’s been respectful, and he’s related to the Mac Tarans.”

He sat on her bed and patted a place beside him. “Come here, my girl, and listen to me,” he said gravely.

When she joined him, he put his arm around her. She laid her head on his shoulder, as she’d done many times before when she was troubled or upset.

“Riona, the Normans are generally a sad lot,” he said. “Conceited and arrogant and rude. Yet whether we like it or not, because of our king and the rebellions he’s had to deal with, they’re here to stay. That doesn’t mean we have to like them, of course, and who could? But there are a few worth getting to know, ones worth respecting, ones who could help Scotland. Sir Nicholas is one such Norman. As for the rest…” He blew out his breath as if snuffing a candle and waved his hand. “Ignore them, as I do. Why give them the satisfaction of having even that little bit of power over you?”