The Countess (13 page)

He folded his arms across his chest, his fair companion making a comment to which he did not reply. Indeed, Duncan's eyes narrowed in a most unwelcoming manner. But Alienor did not care. She granted him her finest smile.

“Good morn to you,” she said, breathless to be directly before the object of her desire.

Duncan was even more tall and mysterious at close proximity, his eyes filled with a hundred tales. Alienor could well imagine that he kissed like a god and she shivered as she imagined his hands upon her flesh.

And he was a chieftain, the most important man hereabouts, which was of equal significance to Alienor. 'Twas high time she had another man in her life like her father, a man who understood that luxuries were necessities to women, a man who would pamper her as she deserved, a man who would steal her from beneath Eglantine's strict demands. She was due to be lavished with gifts and masculine attention.

Aye, Alienor was certain that Duncan knew much of stealing and spoiling women.

“I am Alienor,” she declared,

“So I understand.” Duncan regarded her with amusement, some shadow in his eyes not entirely welcoming. Indeed, he reminded her of her stepmother, always prepared to be disapproving.

Alienor put one hand on his arm, intent on capturing his attention in a less parental way. “Are you wed?”

“Nay.” Duncan lifted her hand, none too gently and removed it.

“Betrothed?”

He cast her a quelling glance. “Nay.”

“Nor am I.” When he frowned instead of returning to her brilliant smile, Alienor tossed her hair. Duncan spoke tersely to his men, his gaze lazily roving over the settlement.

And avoiding her. He was only
feigning
indifference, Alienor knew it well. She had only to prompt his jealousy to change his tune. She spared the man on Duncan's left—the fair one, the appreciative one—that same smile. He smiled eagerly down at her, his gaze trailing over her sheer chemise with appreciation.

Duncan said something fast and foreign, and the other man's smile faded. Alienor did not need to understand the words to feel triumphant, though—her ploy had worked! Duncan was defending her as his woman.

She leaned towards him and batted her eyelashes provocatively. “I do hope our meager meal yesterday was sufficient,” she murmured. “A man of this wild land, like you, must be accustomed to more hearty fare.”

“'Twas a fine stew,” Duncan said, his tone noncommittal. “And a finer meal than we might have had otherwise. The countess was most gracious to share.”

“The countess,” she scoffed, then rolled her eyes at the absurdity of the title. “If anyone should be called countess, it should be me. My father would have wished it to be so.”

'Twas not entirely true, for the title passed to her elder brother and hence to his wife, but Alienor noted with pleasure that she had snared Duncan's attention.

“Indeed?” he asked.

“Indeed.”

“And what happened to your father?”

Alienor shrugged. “He died, as old men are wont to do. I must say 'twas most troubling for me and the beginning of all my woes...” She tried to force a tear to win his sympathy, but Duncan frowned in a most unsympathetic way.

“Your father died of old age?”

“Nay, not precisely. He choked on a chicken bone at the board.” Alienor winced at the banality of the truth. “Eglantine tried to aid him—doubtless she was in no hurry to be widowed—but he cast her off, insisting that only his châtelain might aid him. That man came to his side too late. He was ancient, and could scarcely walk, much less run.” Alienor did manage to find a tear and let her lip tremble as that tear spilled to her cheek. “'Twas horrible for me, for I was a mere child...”

“Did you witness this?” Duncan interrupted sharply.

“Aye, I was there.”

“And your mother tried to aid him, in truth?”

“Aye, Eglantine did,” Alienor allowed, her tone turning cross for she did not wish to speak of Eglantine. “But she is not my mother.”

“She said she was.” Duncan studied Alienor as though he thought she might be lying. 'Twas not the most flattering response he might have shown, and Alienor lifted her chin.

“She is my step-mother. My father wed her when I was four summers of age.” The old jealousy that had raged through Alienor in those early years of her father's second marriage claimed her again and she hoped Duncan did not glimpse it before she managed to conceal it once more. He watched her steadily though, his gaze assessing. “Eglantine left the household when my father died.”

Duncan frowned, as though puzzling this through. “But Esmeraude is her own daughter?”

“As is Jacqueline.” Alienor tried to keep the resentment from her voice and failed. “Jacqueline was born to Eglantine and my father a year or so after they were wed. Esmeraude is the child of Eglantine and Theobald.”

Duncan's eyes narrowed and Alienor feared he saw too much.

“'Twas no concern to me when Jacqueline was born, you understand,” she insisted “for my father always loved me more than any other.”

But Duncan did indeed seem to read more into Alienor's words than she intended. “Because 'twas Eglantine you resented,” he suggested softly.

And the words fell from her lips before Alienor could stop them. “She stole my father's eye away!”

“Yet you make your home with her.”

Alienor glared at him. “I had no choice.”

“How so?”

She folded her arms across her chest and tapped her toe, desperately trying to calculate how she might chart the conversation's course back to herself and her desires and their entangled future.

“In my darkest moment of despair, when I most had need of a hero, my elder brother showed that he was not that man. So, too, did my betrothed, who showed the lack of foresight to die before our nuptials. His family kept my dowry, and I was left with naught but the garb upon my back. This was contrary to my father's will for my future, but none saw beyond their own greed.”

Alienor let her breath catch, knowing a show of vulnerability might win her much. “They
cheated
me, and none came to my aid!”

Her companion seemed unstirred by this confession—which only meant she had not put sufficient emotion into her words.

Alienor boldly placed her hand upon his chest. She could feel his heartbeat beneath her fingertips and was pleased that she conjured a maidenly flush.

She tipped up her face, opening her eyes wide to hold his skeptical gaze. “I knew that somewhere in Christendom, there would be a man for me, a bold man who would care naught for my lack of dowry, a man who would but gaze into my eyes and know that we were destined to be together for all time...”

Duncan eyed her skeptically. “But in the interim, you asked Eglantine to provide for you?”

The man had no romance in his soul, 'twas clear. Alienor's lips tightened as she eyed him. “She owed me no less.”

“Indeed?” Duncan laughed beneath his breath. He eyed Alienor, his expression knowing. “Because you so sweetly welcomed her to your father's home?”

Alienor flushed scarlet. 'Twas as though the man peered into her memories and saw the toads that had found their way to Eglantine's bed, the fine bridal chemises that had been shredded, the gold chain of the lady's heirloom amulet that had been willfully broken and left scattered across the floor.

“She deserved no less than what she won,” Alienor muttered.

Duncan's gaze did not waver. “Because your father loved her?”

“He never loved her! He but lusted for her and she tricked him into marriage. She
tempted
him and made him forget my mother's precious memory!”

“She cannot have been old enough to have been a temptress.”

“Fourteen is old enough when sin is in the blood,” Alienor said darkly. “Everything changed when she came! My father nigh forgot about me—'twas unfair! 'Twas justice served that she was never happy in our home, justice that my father was furious at the arrival of another daughter and spurned Eglantine, justice that my brother cast Eglantine from the gates before my father was even laid to rest.”

Duncan arched a brow in surprise. “It would seem a small comfort to let a widow witness her spouse's funeral.”

“'Twas a family event and she was not family.”

“What a fine brood you are. 'Tis no credit that your brother treated his father's widow even more shamefully than he treated you.”

“Nay, I bore the brunt of his malice!”

“And what of Jacqueline? Had she no right to attend her father's funeral?”

Alienor could not hold Duncan's gaze. Indeed, this conversation did not proceed as she had hoped. She tapped her toe impatiently, wondering why Duncan persisted in talking about old and withered Eglantine when she, ripe and lovely Alienor, was directly before him.

Perhaps the man was blind as well as unromantic.

“It seems the lady bore much in your household,” he commented quietly.

Alienor exhaled noisily, annoyed with his insistence upon this mistaken conclusion. “I bore the brunt of it.” She pointed emphatically to herself. “I did. I was the one cheated of a dowry, of a father's love, of a spouse and a life of ease, I was the one poorly served.” Her tears came in earnest this time, a testament to the ordeal she had suffered, at least from her own perspective.

“The lady Eglantine,” Duncan said, “has shown you more charity than your behavior toward her deserves. If you wish to find that man of whom you dream, you might take a lesson from the countess.”

He snapped his fingers at his companion, spoke rapidly, then strode away. He gathered the other men with a word here and another word there, clearly oblivious to Alienor's dismay.

Oh, he was insufferable! How could he not be touched by her tears? How could he not take her side? How could he champion wretched Eglantine at Alienor's expense?

But the fair man was not so unappreciative. Though he took a step away at Duncan's command, he lingered.

Alienor spared him a cutting glance. “And what do you stare at?” she snapped, wiping her tears with impatient fingertips, then covering the shadows of her breasts with her hands. “Go away!”

He smiled at her, then touched his heart. “Iain MacQuarrie,” he said, his accent so thick that it took Alienor a moment to comprehend that he confided his name.

“I do not care who you are,” she retorted. “Duncan is the man for me. I will have a rich man, a man of influence and power, a man who will treat me as I deserve.” She cast a scathing glance over this man, as though to make her point clear.

“Nay Duncan,” he growled, his low words making her shiver. He jabbed himself in the chest with his thumb. “Iain MacQuarrie.”

No man would tell Alienor what she wanted. She wanted Duncan and she knew it well, even if this man's fair good looks and his intense manner made her pulse skip.

He was of no repute, after all.

“Nay Iain MacQuarrie,” she corrected sharply but he laughed again, as though he knew better than she. He stepped closer and caught her shoulders in a sudden move that Alienor had not anticipated.

Then he kissed her, his mouth warm and firm upon her own. She trembled, though whether from indignation or pleasure even she could not say. Iain slanted his mouth across hers and tasted her more fully, pulling her closer so that her breasts bumped against his chest.

Duncan cried a warning and Iain reluctantly ended his kiss.

But his blue gaze bored into Alienor's own. He murmured something low and hot in the language of the Gaels, then rubbed the rough edge of his thumb across her cheek in a blatantly possessive gesture. He whispered his own name again as though he would bid her to recall it.

Alienor glared at him.

Who did he think he was? She made to kick him for his audacity, but he danced out of range.

That he laughed at her was no balm to her pride.

“Cursed creature!” she cried. Iain winked as though he guessed her thoughts and did not care. Then he was gone, striding after Duncan and leaving Alienor standing alone.

But she could not catch her breath and she could not slow the hammering of her heart. Her fists were clenched and her breasts ached for something she could not name. Alienor took an impatient breath, not pleased to be so readily forgotten when she was all a-tingle. She glared at Iain's back, then returned to her dismayed maid in a huff.

She knew 'twas Iain who called her name, but Alienor ignored his cry. She had no interest in a man who thought he could tell her what to do, she would have Duncan and no other.

Even if he did not possess eyes of startling blue.

E
glantine returned to chaos that even she doubted could be made aright.

She could not believe that her camp could be cast in such disarray, but her eyes did not deceive. The entire household scurried like frenzied ants, tents lay collapsed and wagons were spilled. Palfreys and goats wandered untethered through the mêlée, even the hens had been loosed from their temporary pen. She strode through the disarray, quickly determined that none were injured, and noted the tent pegs pulled from the ground.

Then she was shown not one, not two, but a dozen guylines cleanly cut almost through. The last cord in each had snapped, no doubt by the weight of the tents in question shifting, but would never have broken without the initial cut.

And Eglantine knew instinctively who was responsible. Her gaze lifted to one Duncan MacLaren, who loitered with his men and grinned.

Shameless rogue! If he thought she would demurely let this insult pass, he was mistaken indeed. Eglantine stalked out to meet him, knowing her anger showed.

“I would have thought that such petty vandalism would be beneath you,” she said by way of greeting.

“Me?” Duncan's eyes widened in mock alarm. “You think me responsible for this?”

“Who else might it be?”

“No doubt, my lady, you are unaware of the caprice of the winds in these places. They gust, most unpredictably. But then, you would not be accustomed to such vigorous winds in France.” His eyes narrowed, his gaze flicking over her as though he would wring secrets from her very soul. “You are on foreign shores, after all, and much must be unfathomable.”

“And most unwelcome upon them, clearly.” Eglantine arched a brow. “Do the winds in this land come equipped with knives, as well? There are guylines cut almost through and though I have no doubt that the wind finished the task, it most certainly did not begin it.”

She thought the corner of his mouth quirked mischievously before Duncan whistled through his teeth. “Oh, my lady, I fear this could be dire indeed.” He frowned with evident concern and laid claim to her elbow.” You must let me see one.”

He had that unpredictable look again, and Eglantine feared she stepped directly into the trap he had set for her. But surely there could be no harm in this?

She wished she knew for certain. But she did not, and his thumb moved across the inside of her elbow with such persuasive ease that she could not think as clearly as she would have liked. She found herself accompanying him back to the site of the damage, only realizing his intent when her entire household gathered around.

“Oh, this is most serious,” Duncan proclaimed, his tone prompting Eglantine's vassals to eye each other in consternation.

“Aye, 'tis willful destruction.”

“Nay, worse.” Duncan frowned and shook his head. “I warned you well, my lady, that this was a sacred place to our forebears. I warned you that there might be ancient souls displeased with your presence here. But you did not heed my counsel and now a toll must be paid.”

Eglantine felt the shiver run through her company. She pulled her arm from his gentle grip, not wanting them to look like they stood together, and glared at him.

“Ridiculous,” she said crisply. “All souls go to heaven, hell or purgatory, as their circumstance dictates. There are no souls lingering hereabout, ancient or otherwise.” Her priest nodded agreement with this recounting of doctrine, but Duncan shook his head.

“Perhaps not in France, my lady, but we have older traditions here.” Duncan raised his gaze to scan the horizon, his eyes narrowing as though he saw the shadows of events long past. “Perhaps 'tis because of our heathen roots, the history of our faith in these parts, the bloody course of our past.”

The assembly leaned closer, eyes rounded, and Duncan warmed to his theme. Oh, he told a fine tale, she would give him that!

His voice dropped low and he looked the villeins in the eye, each in succession, as though he would persuade them of the truth of this claim. Eglantine tapped her toe, impatient with his nonsense, but the assembly was rapt.

“Once there stood an entire circle of stones upon this land where you now build your abode. That one remaining was but the largest, the one on the eastern side of the circle. 'Tis said that there was the altar, that there was where the pagan priests made their blood sacrifices to their hungered gods.”

The company shivered, though Eglantine rolled her eyes. “Foolery to frighten children to their beds, 'tis no more than that.”

“Oh, my lady, you are brave indeed to so challenge what all know to be true.” Duncan nodded grimly and Eglantine was disgusted at the way her vassals hung on his every word, greedy for gruesome detail. “'Tis said among us that those souls who leave matters unfinished in their lives do not pass to the beyond. They linger, hovering, influencing the circumstance of the living, insisting that those unfinished matters be resolved before they can rest in peace.”

He fingered his chin as he looked toward the great stone, the company following his glance. “What secrets does this stone recall?” he mused, though none noted how Eglantine rolled her eyes. “What tragedies and marvels has it witnessed? I cannot help but imagine that those unfortunates who were sacrificed upon these stones had need of such resolution. Surely they would linger near the place of their demise, insistent upon seeing justice done.”

He had every one of them snared beneath his spell. Her vassals edged closer to each other, as though the sun was not enough to warm them in this place. Eglantine made to interrupt, but Duncan touched his fingers to her lips with such familiarity that she was momentarily startled.

'Twas long enough to suit him. He fingered the broken rope and let it fall from his fingers, his expression grim. “So many centuries they have waited in solitude, so many centuries they have longed for revenge. Can one blame them for seizing upon the first so bold as to build a keep upon the site of their misfortune?” He shuddered and stood. “Who knows what toll they ultimately will demand? In truth, I fear for you all—though you have acted in ignorance, you may well be forced to pay some gruesome toll.”

A chattering broke out in the ranks of Eglantine's vassals and she wished she could consign Duncan to that same state of lingering between this world and the next.

It took but a trio of heartbeats before the appeals began.

“My lady, we must abandon the construction.”

“My lady, we must move camp.”

“My lady, we beg of you, do not trouble these souls any longer.”

“Perhaps,” Louis interjected crisply, “'twould behoove us to return to Crevy.”

Eglantine spun in horror to eye her châtelain, never having expecting him to correct her before the company. There was a glint of determination in Louis' eye, though, and she knew he did not believe Duncan's tale.

But he seized the opportunity to express his opinion of what should be done. Eglantine gritted her teeth, fully intending to have words with the older man over his so-called loyalty to her family.

The company rallied behind the châtelain, their gazes expectantly fixed upon Eglantine. She had but a glimpse of the wicked twinkle in Duncan's eye, but 'twas enough to spark her temper.

He enjoyed the havoc he wreaked on her!

“This man lies to us all,” Eglantine declared with such fervor that her company was visibly startled. “Are you so witless that you do not see his hand in this? 'Twas a mortal hand that cut these ropes and pulled these pegs, 'tis a mortal man who wishes us to leave that he might make his claim to this land. He contests ownership of this holding, after all, and 'tis in his interests to see us gone.” Eglantine lifted her chin and glared at Duncan. “I will not be such a coward as to cede to his game.”

The company rallied slightly at her words, but the seeds of doubt were sown. The damage was done. Eglantine knew that reason would sink with the sun this night and that her vassals would lay awake whispering in fear. She knew that Duncan would not cease his manipulation of events and she knew that if he were not halted, her support among her own superstitious vassals would erode.

And he would claim Kinbeath in the end. Eglantine was not prepared to let him win so readily as that.

She would fight fire with fire. She hailed the priest and beckoned to him. “Father, we have need of a mass.”

“Aye, my lady.” The priest of Arnelaine bowed deeply. “'Twas the edict of none less than Pope Gregory to consecrate the heathen shrines of Britannia to the service of Our Lord. With your permission, we shall celebrate the mass at noon at the great stone.”

An apprehensive shiver rolled over the company, but Eglantine smiled with confidence and spoke before Duncan could interject. “I have always admired the clear thinking of Pope Gregory. Make it so, if you please.”

The assembly dispersed, chattering avidly as they returned to their duties. The priest chose a few to aid him and strode toward the stone, his crucifix held before him and his black robes blowing in the wind.

Eglantine left Duncan without another word, so irked with his game that she had no interest in whatever he was clearly schooling himself to say. She spoke with Louis, though to no avail—he believed he served the ultimate welfare of the family by expressing his doubts.

His tone made it clear that he thought Eglantine risked all for no good reason. 'Twas not an argument she could win. Esmeraude played with Célie, reminder of another battle in which Eglantine took the losing side. Alienor swept past Eglantine and headed directly for the camp of Duncan's men, prompting her stepmother to sigh with exasperation.

Could anything else go awry?

First matters first. Eglantine's gaze was drawn unwillingly to Duncan, joking with his men. He stood with his muscled legs braced against the rock, as much a part of this place as she was not. Her heart skipped when he lifted a hand to her in silent salute.

As though she would welcome his company after what he had done! Eglantine stalked in the opposite direction. She had to find an alternative, more enduring, solution to the problem and the presence of Duncan MacLaren. She glanced back in time to see Alienor preen before Duncan as he watched, a small smile playing over her lips.

And with sudden certainty, she knew.

Eglantine had hoped French knights would compete for her daughters' hands. But then, there was a paucity of knights in this region, and Kinbeath was considerably further from civilization than Eglantine had expected. 'Twould take years to build the manor, perhaps even longer to build a reputation that would coax men to Eglantine's court.

And Alienor grew no younger.

Duncan was the chieftain of the Clan MacQuarrie, so evidently a man of some affluence and influence in these lands. He spoke Norman French and thus could converse with Alienor, an apparently distinguishing characteristic in these parts. He was far from foul to look upon, Eglantine conceded, ignoring the unruly skip of her heart. He was not without charms—he could sing, he had shown compassion with Esmeraude.

Alienor clearly found him appealing. Perhaps they two would suit each other—her demanding nature might pass for honesty in his estimation. Aye, and Alienor could certainly benefit from a match with a man nigh as stubborn as herself.

Certainly, such a course would resolve the issue of their respective claims, for a marriage between Eglantine's family and Duncan's clan would merge the ambitions of both groups. 'Twould halt this nonsensical competition between them and ensure all could labor together for the benefit of all.

'Twas perfect. Something needled Eglantine about the solution, but she deliberately ignored her doubts. No doubt Duncan would agree with such a sensible proposition. Aye, once he had a woman in his bed, he would cease his attempts to seduce her, as well.

For some reason which did not bear exploration, Eglantine did not want to think overmuch of that.

Aye, as soon as she set the camp to rights again, she would propose the arrangement. The matter must be presented delicately, in privacy and with ceremony. Eglantine nodded crisply. She would see her own tent outfitted as her temporary court and welcome him as an honored guest. He would be impressed with the circumstance.

Duncan would surely be delighted that she thought so highly of him as to surrender her daughter to his hand.

* * *

Contrary to Eglantine's expectations, Duncan was infuriated.

She sent for him shortly after midday, and Duncan expected naught good. Indeed, 'twas unlike her to send another to retrieve him, instead of simply hunting him down herself and he assumed 'twas no good portent. He came to her tent, as bidden, braced for her fury and a lecture on the inappropriateness of fostering superstition, no less meddling with the beliefs of her vassals.

But the lady surprised him, yet again.

She received him with a gracious smile, like a queen at her court. She wore a kirtle he had not seen before, its rich green hue making her eyes yet more like emeralds. Her hair was secured behind a sheer pale veil, making her look disconcertingly unfamiliar and remote by dint of her formal attire. She appeared slender and regal and unapproachable in such garb, even more foreign than she had thus far.

In contrast, he felt somewhat less than presentable. Aye, Duncan was well aware that his shirt had need of a scrub—as did all the rest of him—and his whiskers had need of a scrape. The tower his men occupied offered somewhat primitive accommodations and they had not intended to linger here, after all.

Coals glowed upon an ornate brazier near the lady's feet, rugs were thick beneath his feet. The silken walls of the tent shimmered as they moved slightly in the wind, the filtered sunlight painted the rugs in striped patterns. A thick mattress piled high with pillows lurked behind the lady, the fine texture and varied colors of the cloth beyond what was seen locally.

Duncan was awed. Eglantine wrought a court of naught, she proved her ascendancy and her birthright, in the same moment she made Duncan painfully aware of his lack of one.