In the Laird's Bed (5 page)

“What is it?” Her voice was a thin wisp of sound in the drafty tower staircase.

“
You
are her mother.” The realization hit him like a rockslide.

They stared at one another, locked in wordless indictment. A myriad of emotions passed over her features. Did she think to deny it? Her long delay as good as confirmed his suspicions.

“Do not think about lying to me,” he warned.

“It is true. She is mine.” She gave a tight nod, her lips pressed in a flat line.

Yet, she appeared relieved at the same time. As if there were a great weight off her shoulders now that she’d shared the truth.

Anger welled up in him as though a jealous fist squeezed his insides.

“She is not yet five summers, but she is close. What knave dared to touch you while you yet belonged to me?” He closed the distance between them, gaze locked upon her. He should not care if she’d taken a lover back then. Until that day that he’d kissed her by the wishing well, he’d paid her little enough attention, agreeing to the betrothal out of a sense of duty.

He’d had a lover of his own, after all. But that was not the same and she knew it. He would hunt down the man who’d touched her.

“No one, I swear it.” She shook her head, as if the idea were repugnant. “I would die before forswearing myself.”

The vehemence in her words was so powerful, so passionate. Could they be true?

“Then when did it happen?” His chest was tight with fury. He would have never guessed proud Cristiana would defile herself that way. And yet, he’d seen the girl. The cinnamon curls and delicate shape of her face mirrored the Domhnaill women exactly.

“It was that summer after you and your brother departed. I—I was devastated.” Her voice lowered. Softened. “I did not ever wish to wed after what happened.”

The thought of her touching another man so soon after he’d kissed her sent a maelstrom of violent emotion through him. His breathing possessed the ragged harshness of a man who’d fought a days-long battle.

It should not affect him so much. But by all that was holy, the child she tended should have been his. Anger and possessiveness tightened around him, choking him.

“Yet you could not deny yourself passion. Passion that I introduced you to. Passion that should have been mine to claim.” He couldn’t have hidden the fierceness in his voice if he tried.

She backed up a step, but she must have caught her heel on her hem for she stumbled and pitched forward. Her flickering taper fell from her hand and tumbled down the stairs, the light extinguishing as the beeswax column rolled away.

“Oh!”

Catching her in his arms, Duncan was in no mood to tread lightly around her anymore. She was no maid to deny his kiss and deny herself womanly pleasure. She had run to another man and gladly tasted passion after she’d cast him aside.

He would not let her rebuff him again.

Wrapping an arm about her back, he sealed her breasts to his chest. Her rapidly beating heart aligned with the thunderous throb of his. Not giving her any quarter, he picked up where they’d left off in the brew house. Threading a hand through her hair, he tipped her head back and found her mouth with his.

Darkness enveloped them, cocooning them in a world lit only by fiery need. He backed her against the wall, protecting her back from the hard stone by sacrificing his knuckles to the unforgiving granite. While one hand cradled her head, his other pressed her hips into his.

She made a muffled cry that could have been pleasure or pain, but she did not attempt to free herself. If anything, her mouth relaxed under the pressure of his, her back arching so that her breasts tested the neckline of her dress. He could feel velvet and linen
shifting beneath his onslaught, the beaded crests of her womanly curves an undeniable sign that she was not just a curious maid anymore, but a woman in need of his touch.

With a tug and a yank, he wrenched free the tie that laced her gown up one side. Velvet slithered from her shoulders, leaving her warm, creamy skin protected by naught but frail linen that was no match for him.

He kissed his way down her neck, savoring stolen tastes of her fragrant skin as he neared her collarbone. Her shoulder. The swell of her breast.

As his mouth closed around one tight bud, she cried out. Her fingers closed around his tunic, clenching and opening again and again as he drew her deep into his mouth. Had her first lover given her such pleasure?

Protest shuddered through him and his only defense was to pleasure her better. More. Drive the bastard who’d stolen her innocence from her head forever.

He released her flesh and lifted her off her feet, careful of her head near the stone wall. His heart thundered in his ears as their breathing echoed in the winding tower.

“I’m taking you to your bed.” He climbed the steps, cradling her close to his body. And while he could not see her features clearly in the shadowed tower with only a few arrow slits to spill scant winter moon light, he could picture the way she looked right now.
Her auburn hair spilling over his arm to cloak his shoulder. Her skin pink and damp from his kisses.

Her calves exposed by her skirts, waiting for more thorough exploration.

“Nay.” Her whispered word was all but drowned out by his pounding footfalls up the steps. “We must not.”

“You. Belonged. To. Me.” Each word coincided with the hard stomp of a boot impressing his will as he reached the gallery at last. “I never betrayed you. I did nothing to earn your enmity.”

The full import of her perfidy—denying his marriage contract while offering herself freely to another man—was a newly ripped wound that would not heal without some concession on her part. An admission of how wrong she’d been. A confession that it had been
him
she’d wanted and not some black-hearted knave who gave her nothing.

“You allowed us to think your half brother was as much a Culcanon as you.”

The cold words slowed his step as he reached a door that he could only assume led to her chamber. The outer towers of Domhnaill were narrow, each housing naught but storage for arms and a chamber.

“He is my father’s son.” Duncan had never be grudged his half brother his rightful share of the legacy that would be theirs. “Half of Culcanon be longs to Malcolm.”

“But I have heard he has tried to steal the whole
of it for himself while you did your king’s bidding in foreign lands. No Culcanon worthy of the name would undermine his own blood. I cannot believe you did not know that a traitorous heart beat within him when you came to Domhnaill in search of brides.”

The icy venom in her voice reached through his anger. The fury was still there, but he had to put it aside long enough to make sense of this new accusation.

“It is true Malcolm tried to seize control while I was away. He has changed since your sister refused him. Bitterness can ruin a man.” He gazed down into Cristiana’s eyes, now visible by the small torch someone had left alight at her door. “Indeed, I know its sting tonight more strongly than ever before.”

The powerful emotions that burned inside him clamored for release. Demanded an answer for her faithlessness.

Yet when she twisted in his arms, he knew he would never find satisfaction in imposing his will upon a woman he’d once vowed to honor. No matter that the oath had not been sworn in front of a priest. He had promised as much to her in the kisses they’d shared.

“Release me,” she demanded, perhaps not realizing how the urgent writhing of her body only reminded him how quickly he could turn her anger to something far more enjoyable for them both.

With regret, he lowered her to her feet.

“I will not take in anger what you won’t give freely,” he promised. But that did not mean he would let the matter drop. “Know this, however. I will not treat you like an innocent maid any longer. You are a woman with earthy experience and I will not forget it. The next time we meet in an abandoned corridor, have a care. When I touch you again, I will apply every last skill to make you beg me for more.”

She opened her mouth to speak, then snapped it shut again. With a shaky little nod, she acknowledged his warning and fled into her chamber.

He was not surprised to hear the bar lower across the door on the other side.

Edwina of Domhnaill was no stranger to heartbreak.

Although she had put hers firmly in her past, she lived through other people’s enough times that she had a good nose for sensing when trouble was on the horizon. Right now, listening to the careless whispers of rebellion on the villagers’ lips while she shopped in the small market at Evesburh, she could almost feel the inevitable despair of these poor souls foolish enough to rebel against the rule of her overlord, William the Bastard.

Or, the Conqueror, as his biographers now preferred he be called. No matter the name, Edwina respected the king’s indomitable strength. It was underestimated by the churls wolfing down meat pies
near the empty village stocks at this small hamlet outside North umbria. But Edwina had not made the mistake of underestimating a strong man ever since Donegal the Crude—a name of her own making—had deceived her into thinking he would wed her and then seduced her.

Brutalized her.

“Edwina.”

The deep male voice behind her was obvious enough to identify, but she pretended not to recognize it in order to draw out her latest suitor.

“Who would speak my Christian name in public without regard to my reputation?” Closing her eyes, she tapped her finger to her lips thoughtfully.

She’d been sent on a short errand for a local noblewoman, one of the countless fortunate Normans who had inherited the country since the debacle at Hastings. Edwina had been instructed to seek good herbs to make fresh dyes for the lady’s embroidery thread.

“My lady.” The man behind her lowered his voice, bending closer to be heard. “I meant no offense.”

“Yes, Henry, but I keep hoping one day you will,” she teased, spinning on her heel to face him. She opened her eyes and feigned delight at his young, pockmarked visage.

Henry Osgood would have been a handsome enough youth, but childhood disease had not been kind to him. Edwina admired his warrior’s strength,
however, even if he was not exceedingly clever. Actually, that thick wit of his worked in her favor, since he had no ear for the nuances of court gossip and resolutely refused to listen to anyone speak unkindly of her.

A first.

Since her arrival in King William’s court four years ago as an exile—and a ruined one at that—she had often been the subject of suggestive rumor. No one knew for certain about her past, but the fact that she kept it well hidden spoke volumes. Only Edwina knew of the child she bore. The child she’d given up so that the little girl would have a better life. Even thinking of it now caused her heart to tighten and ache.

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.

“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?”