In the Laird's Bed Read online

  But it had been for the best. Her sister would take care of Leah and protect her from the gossip that would hound Edwina forever. Instead of letting life defeat her, she’d become a bit of a warrior herself, making herself useful to anyone who could put her in a position to return home.

  Calculating her next move, she turned back to the bins of fresh herbs she’d been culling through before he arrived, seeking out the leaves and stems with the strongest scents and richest colors.

  “You are too cruel to remind me of your idle fancies when they cut me to the quick.” She took an odd pride in her skill at manipulating men and sometimes she found herself down on her knees in church to beg forgiveness for it. But then, she’d never been able to forgive her attacker for what he’d done to her. And each man she maneuvered into giving her what she wanted soothed an old wound she doubted would ever heal.

  Not every man would have been taken in by such obvious guile, but Edwina considered that part of her gift. She understood which men could be duped by this method, and which men required cunning or directness.

  “How so?” Henry touched her shoulder in order to encourage her gaze. A caress which he withdrew almost immediately.

  She knew she had a powerful effect upon him.

  “Please, do not,” she entreated him sweetly, rubbing her fingers meaningfully over the place he had just touched, as if that brush of his hand were a caress she’d craved. “You know I will not wed while I am in exile. I must return home. No woman wants to speak her vows in a strange land among people who do not care about her. Have you so little concern for my future?”

  Or her dowry?

  She did not speak the thought aloud, however, knowing Henry’s noble soul would be wounded all over again at the suggestion.

  Around them, spice traders and bakers, metalworkers and weavers began to pack their wares to close the market stalls by noon.

  “It means so much to you?” Henry pressed, removing two pouches of herbs from her hand so that she could rummage through the remaining bins. Unencumbered. “Enough to risk our safety?”

  “Domhnaill is on the water, so you needn’t travel on dangerous roads.” If he waited for the land passages to clear, she would be stuck here until the end of spring. “Now that the Danes have given up on the coast, the sea is very safe for travelers.”

  She had turned toward him in her excitement and for a moment, she thought he considered it. But then he let out a ripe bark of laughter and handed back her herbs.

  “Edwina, those eyes of yours are enough to drive a man to almost consider it.” He grinned and shook his head. “I will wait until you come to your senses. But I will wait for you, my sweet.”

  His tender words didn’t begin to penetrate her cold anger, but she did her best to appear only mildly miffed. She would need Henry and his protection yet. How else would she return to Domhnaill without her father’s approval or her own coin?

  Soon, she would slip out of her bed one night and put her wiles to work. Poor Henry’s honor was about to be tested to the fullest.

  Chapter Five

  “I don’t know why I have to wait with you,” Keane grumbled later that week as he stood beside Cristiana in the great hall. “Can you not wait for the young Culcanon and bring him to your da’s chamber when he arrives?”

  “No.” She gripped the old adviser’s wrist, unwilling to meet Duncan alone for even a moment.

  Although he’d been a gentleman the past three days, she had not dismissed the warning he’d given her outside her chamber. She would not be foolish enough to tempt fate and cross paths with him unaccompanied. In the past, she’d been sorely tempted by his stolen kisses. How great might the allure become if he applied all his efforts toward seduction?

  She was ashamed to admit how much time she had devoted toward considering the topic. Her body still burned with the memory of what had happened on the staircase leading to her chamber.

  “Well, I don’t know how you expect your da to scare off the man when the laird has not been reminded what you hope to gain from this meeting.” Keane scrubbed the matted fur atop one of the hounds’ heads as the older man paced in front of the hearth. “He gets confused. He will not know to let me do the talking.”

  They had already moved the appointment once, as the laird had been particularly unwell the day they first intended to speak. Cristiana had begged Keane to send Duncan a note using her father’s seal, since she had not wanted to broach the topic with him herself. She had decided her safest course of action was to keep her distance and do whatever she could to encourage a speedy leave-taking.

  “I went to his chamber earlier to remind him.” Cristiana had not let her father forget that a Culcanon touched Edwina without the protection of marriage. And while her father did not know about the babe that resulted from the union, he had stormed about the keep threatening war for days afterward. Cristiana felt certain he would recall their enmity for a few hours at least. “He knows we hope do drive Duncan away and get back to the business of choosing a viable successor to—”

  “My lady. Keane.” Duncan’s low tone rolled through the hall, his voice touching a nerve with her. He stood in the door and gave a shallow bow in greeting. His high color and damp hair gave him the appearance of a man who’d already been out of doors. “Shall we?”

  Keane gave the hound a last scratch and hurried over.

  “Aye.” The word croaked from her lips as if she hadn’t spoken in a sennight. She’d been silent beside him at sup the past few days, eating quickly and then rising from her seat to make merry with other guests.

  Keane did not seem to notice any awkwardness, however. He hurried toward the doors while the matted hound barked at his retreat.

  “This way, then.” He waved Duncan to follow him. “The laird expects us, but he has much to do today and will not have a great deal of time.”

  Cristiana heard the nervousness in the counselor’s voice as they sought the back stairs leading directly from the hall to the laird’s chamber. Would Duncan detect the anxiousness, too?

  For the first time, Cristiana saw her household as Duncan might—ruled by frail men aided by a woman. Up until that time, she had allowed herself to believe that Domhnaill’s strong walls, legendary wealth and generosity would preserve them until another member of the clan took over as laird. But what if their weakness showed all too clearly?

  Might Duncan truly take the keep in the king’s name?

  She wished more than ever that she had not allowed this meeting.

  “My message for the laird will not take long to deliver.” Duncan’s clipped response gave her scant assurance.

  What if he merely wanted to convey his intention to claim Domhnaill? He’d threatened as much that day back in the brew house, but she had not taken him seriously.

  “Duncan, wait.” She paused just outside her father’s rooms.

  But her former betrothed never slowed his pace.

  Instead, he rapped upon the door guarded by a lone man-at-arms.

  “Wait? Your adviser has just suggested we move things along in a timely manner. Let us see your father while we can. You and I can talk later.” His expression shifted as his eyes darkened. “Perhaps we can finally speak privately?”

  His voice hummed along her senses, alerting her to the warning and the invitation that came hand in hand with his offer. She hated that her heart beat faster, knowing she had more to fear from her own weakness than from him. He’d proven to her three nights ago that he was a man of great restraint and nothing like his brother.

  But that deep sense of honor of his that put her innocence in her own hands, was the same sort of honor that would never abide keeping Leah from her father.

  “We can go right in,” Keane assured them, peering back and forth between them as if he could make sense of the undercurrents if given enough time.

  Cristiana did not think even she could understand what forces were at work between her and Duncan, so as crafty as her father’s adviser was, she
did not worry that he would guess the full import of their exchange.

  Keane opened the door, leading the way into her father’s rooms. Cristiana followed quickly, edging past Duncan as he held the door. Even that brief moment of nearness was enough to stir her senses. The warmth of his powerful body called to mind those moments in his arms when he’d carried her to her chamber. The pine and leather scent of him reminded her how much time he spent outdoors, a strong presence on Domhnaill lands even though he did not lead the people.

  Sweet merciful heaven. What if he’d been riding the perimeter of the lands all this sennight to take full measure of the property he planned to seize?

  “I never thought I would see a Culcanon dare to return to my keep,” her father said by way of greeting, calling her from fearful thoughts.

  Sensing more fight in him than she had seen in some time, Cristiana felt hope stir. She moved to take a seat on one side of him while Keane ambled over to the other. The laird’s chamber was a wide, long room that had once housed the whole family while the towers were being constructed. The extra space now held a table where the laird could conduct his affairs or meet with advisers privately. Duncan claimed a seat across the wide table from them.

  “And I never thought I would see one of the strongest lairds in the kingdom allow his keep to go underdefended for so long.” Duncan planted his forearms on the table and leaned across it. “Are you trying to invite war? Even across the border in King William’s court, they say Domhnaill is ripe for plucking.”

  Keane rose to his feet, incensed to his Highland toes at the notion. But beside her, her da appeared confused again.

  “They say that?” He shook his head, shaggy eyebrows drawn together. “I have enough gold to pay the men-at-arms on these walls for well nigh two years.”

  “But you’ve no one to lead them. And you know as well as I that paid men are only as loyal as their next coin when there is no strong leader to guide them.”

  “We will make a transition soon,” Keane assured him. “This is why you wanted to meet with the laird? To insult his rule when your own keep falls about your ears in your absence? We have all heard that thieving brother of yours has stolen from you the same way he stole from us five years ago.”

  Cristiana tensed, confused by Keane’s seeming attack on Duncan now when the adviser had all but championed him a week ago to take over Domhnaill. Had the older man recovered his sense? Or were his accusations a kind of political maneuvering? If only her father had maintained his wits, she would have trusted his judgment completely.

  “Edwina would not even meet with us to make her accusation,” Duncan reminded him. “We had no reason to believe her over Donegal.”

  Cristiana bit her lip hard to keep from entering the discussion. It would do no good to berate the half brother now. But how dare Duncan suggest Edwina should have displayed private bruises in intimate places as testament to her word?

  Keane sank back to his seat.

  “Aye. You had no reason to discount your brother’s word back then. What about now? Do you think maybe you were a wee bit hasty to take up for the knave now that you’ve witnessed his treachery firsthand?”

  “I am willing to concede that Edwina was wronged.” Duncan did not look at her. Did not allude to the fact that he had told Cristiana quite the opposite very recently.

  “Wait a moment—” She did not like the sound of a conversation that resembled a negotiation.

  “You have the goodwill of the king?” her father asked, his eyes showing the shrewdness that used to be there all the time and now only came in fits and starts.

  “I served him well overseas. He would give me Culcanon outright, but I do not wish war on my people. I will wrest my share from Donegal. ’Tis Domhnaill that is to be my prize.”

  The announcement hit her like a blow.

  “No.” She studied his features, searching for some hint that he fabricated the news. “You came to the gates to seek shelter. I only admitted you for charity’s sake.”

  “I hoped to speak to your father peaceably and spare your people any undue fear. I have seen first hand at Culcanon how quickly loyalties divide when the villagers are frightened.”

  She could scarcely absorb his words. For the past three days, she’d been so cautious around him, biding her time until he left, so that her world could return to normal. When all along he’d known that she was to be deposed and he was the one who would rule here.

  A Culcanon was to inherit the Domhnaill legacy after all, no matter her vow to her sister.

  “You’ve shown us mercy,” her father admitted, though there was a weariness to his voice that broke her heart. “Perhaps, now that you’ve seen the error of your trust in Donegal, you will show us one more bit of mercy.”

  “I think we can all agree I’ve been patient already.” Duncan stood, his large frame unfurling from the bench to loom over them. “We will make an announcement to the guests at sup tonight before everyone departs on the morrow.”

  “Just consider one more bit of generosity toward the people of Domhnaill, as their goodwill toward you ensures their loyalty,” her father pressed. He rose to his feet now, too, though he leaned heavily upon the table to do so. Still, the old warrior was near as tall as Duncan, and would have been if old injuries had not bowed his back.

  “Sir, do not ask it,” Duncan warned, perhaps guessing what “mercy” her father wanted him to show.

  Cristiana, perhaps distracted by the many ways this news would alter her life forever, did not anticipate the old laird’s request.

  “Take my daughter.” He shook a finger in Duncan’s face. “Wed Cristiana as you once intended and you will win more acceptance here than any show of strength or contract from a king could ever garner.”

  “Never.” It was her turn to rise. There was no way she would accept such a proposition. To do so could endanger Leah. “I might be able to bend my knee to a new laird, and leave behind every bit of the life I’ve known. But do not ask me to speak vows that would bind me to a false-tongued knave who played upon my sympathies for entrance to the keep and who lied about his purpose here every day. I will not do it.”

  The lady of the keep might not believe him. But since his arrival at Domhnaill, Duncan had been true to his word. He had, for example, shared small treasures with Cristiana and her people each night at sup.

  After the kiss he’d given her that first day—his most enjoyable discovery by far—he’d presented her with garlands of holly to decorate her hall, a sack full of pheasants for a saint’s day feast and an exotic songbird he’d captured at great risk to life and limb in the hopes that she would delight in its unusual song.

  No gift had been particularly well received. Although there’d been a moment during that kiss when he’d thought maybe…

  But she’d remained unmoved to the point where she would not even consider a marriage she’d once been most eager to accept. He ruminated over the rejection that day as he worked with his men in a young field of fruit trees to hone their skills after sitting idle for a sennight. Duncan had recovered their weapons after his talk with the old laird, assuring the man he had no intention of using force upon the men-at-arms currently employed on the walls for protection. Duncan planned to keep them on, in fact, but until he’d announced his assumption of the stronghold to the people, he kept his men’s swordplay far from the keep.

  If Cristiana discovered his intentions, there would be no more enticing kisses. And truth be told, he wanted the taste of her on his lips again.

  “You won the rights to the place with no bloodshed and no bride.” Rory the Lothian met a charge from Duncan’s sword with his shield, the reverberation jarring him to his teeth.

  “He puts much stock in the fact that I have served the king.” Duncan had not exaggerated Malcolm’s promise of both coastal keeps. But he had no writ or deed to that end as Malcolm would have never committed armed forces to secure lands Duncan should be able to claim on his own.

  But Duncan
had put himself in an untenable situation by not conquering the keep with the sword. Out of respect for Cristiana and her people, he’d opted to keep them all safe. Of course, that meant he’d resorted to an even sharper weapon.

  A cunning she would not appreciate when she found out.

  “What of the lass?” Rory whipped the sword at knee-level, driving Duncan backward into a tree branch.

  It was the memory of his time with Cristiana that had him fighting like a squire instead of a seasoned warrior. Plunging forward, he forced Rory’s blade aside, accomplishing by brute strength what he could not with strategy.

  Perhaps he’d tapped all of his shrewdness in his battle with Cristiana.

  “She does not wish to wed.” He shoved his friend aside, sweating from the practice battle despite the cold wind blowing in from the sea and the hard-packed snow beneath their feet.

  “I do not ask what she wishes.” Rory swung his sword in an arc over his head and then swapped the haft to the other hand to repeat the motion. “What is to become of her? Will you send her off to live with far-off kin or allow her to remain on your lands? Would you benefit from a marriage between her and one of your men?”

  Duncan stilled. His gaze flew to the other knight’s face, but the man was engrossed in wearing himself out with the blade, engaging an invisible foe in battle.

  “What are you asking?” Possessiveness roiled inside him like a great beast stirred to life. “Do you suggest I hand her over to you?”

  Rory glanced up from his sword work.

  “You don’t want a deposed heiress marrying a powerful enemy who will use his claim to her as a claim to Domhnaill.” His gaze never wavered as he seemed to take Duncan’s measure. “Far better to bind her to someone who is loyal to you. Someone less powerful.”

  “You want her.” The realization did nothing to soothe the beast in his chest. The fresh snow falling all around them did not cool a temper quickly rising. “You have sat in her hall and watched her. Coveted her.”

  The thought of his friend’s hands upon Cristiana made a vein throb in his temple. A dark storm of fury swirled in his gut.