T
he 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.