Teresa Medeiros (26 page)

She reminded her of her own mother.

Even with her eyes shining with unshed tears, Tabitha could not resist drawing the girl into a laughing hug.

Colin tossed back his third mug of ale, his gaze straying with increasing frequency to the vaulted ceiling of the MacDuff’s great hall.

Although MacDuff’s feast was being given in his honor, he felt more like a fool than a guest. He wouldn’t even have flinched had one of the jesters trotted over and smacked him upside the head with a pig’s bladder
on a stick. ’Twould be no more than he deserved for breaking both the gentle hearts entrusted into his unworthy hands.

A trio of pipers bleated out a winsome melody. The beaming audience of ladies and knights broke into delighted applause as a dwarf acrobat somersaulted over a ferret prancing across the tiled floor on his hind legs. Colin had long suspected MacDuff of keeping dwarves so there would always be someone in the hall shorter than he was.

Almost as if his canny host had sensed the unkind thought, MacDuff caught his eye and lifted his jeweled goblet in an enigmatic toast. Brisbane’s envoy had arrived shortly before the banquet began and Colin could only too well imagine the poison the pockmarked, mustachioed knight was pouring into the MacDuff’s attentive ear.

He supposed he would find out soon enough. When he was joined by his betrothed and they made their way through the adoring crowd to the seat of honor on the dais.

He’d returned to gazing dourly at the ceiling when Arjon slid onto the bench next to him. “Expecting it to collapse on your head at any moment?”

“I should be so lucky.” Colin reached for the flagon of ale only to find it empty.

His friend swiped a fresh one from a passing page and thrust it into his hand. “ ’Tis fortunate you gave up women instead of strong drink.”

Colin groaned. “I should have stayed celibate and become a monk.” He started to pour himself another mug of ale, then shrugged and began to drink directly from the flagon. “Or a eunuch.”

Arjon winced and crossed his hose-clad legs. “Ah, but then you’d have been forever denied those tender pleasures
of the flesh. Most especially, the Lady Tabitha’s delectable flesh.”

His friend had known him too long and too well. Colin could do nothing to hide the naked longing in his eyes. So he simply shifted them back to the ceiling and muttered, “What in the name of St. Andrew could they be doing up there? Snatching each other bald?”

“From the murderous glint in your lady’s eyes when she discovered your perfidy, I’d wager she’d rather snatch you bald. Or turn you into the randy goat she believes you to be.”

Borne on a wave of panic, Colin surged to his feet. “Oh, dear God, I almost forgot about Tabitha’s powers. What if she turns Lyssa into a moat rat?”

Arjon grabbed his elbow and tugged him back down. “ ’Twould well suit the brat’s shrewish temperament.”

Colin jerked his arm free, relieved to have found a target for his frustration. “Lyssa was always a very sweet girl. You only dislike her because she’s the only female you never could charm.”

The Norman snorted into his goblet. “I’d sooner charm a cobra.”

They drank in disagreeable silence for several minutes before Arjon jabbed Colin with his elbow. Shuddering, he nodded toward the stairs. “Now there’s a sight to chill a man’s blood.”

Colin followed his friend’s gaze to find his lover and his betrothed descending the stairs arm in arm, their bright and dark heads inclined toward one another as if sharing secrets hoarded for a lifetime. If that weren’t enough to make him break out in an icy sweat, he would have almost sworn he heard one of them whisper his name and the other reply with a merry peal of laughter.

CHAPTER
21

T
abitha had never seen a man look quite so miserable and never enjoyed it quite so much.

Colin sat at the head table on the dais, trapped between his jovial host and his radiant bride-to-be. A roguish hint of beard had darkened his jaw, deepening the furrows around his mouth. His eyes still had the dangerous gleam of a stallion on the verge of bolting. Even with his hair bound neatly at his nape, Tabitha had never seen him look more like a barbarian.

His misery couldn’t quite take the sting out of her own suffering. It still hurt too much to see those striking dark heads together. Even she had to admit they made the perfect couple. Lyssandra was just the right height to look up to him.

The knuckles wrapped around the stem of the golden goblet he shared with his fiancée whitened with strain as he was forced to endure toast after toast to his impending nuptials.

A shriveled old man hefted his mug. “I wish the lad potent vigor in the marriage bed.”

“And out of it,” croaked one of the anonymous squires lounging against the back wall, sounding suspiciously
like Chauncey. The jest incited several hearty guffaws and a blush from Lyssandra.

Colin shot Tabitha an anguished look, but she ignored him, making a major production out of picking the almonds out of her pudding.

A jug-eared lord lurched to his feet, sloshing ale over the rim of his goblet. “May God bless you with a passel of brats to kiss your cheeks and tug your ears.”

“His
brats apparently didn’t know when to let go,” Arjon murmured, spooning in another mouthful of pudding.

Tabitha gave her dinner companion a rueful glance. After the guests of honor had taken their seats, she and Arjon had been ushered to an adjoining table on the dais, near enough to bask in Colin’s and Lyssandra’s glow without casting a shadow over it. The man Arjon had identified as Brisbane’s messenger flanked MacDuffs other side, watching the proceedings with a sour smile.

An elderly knight rose from his bench, his drooping mustache adding a note of gravity to the occasion. “To Sir Colin, a knight dedicated to the service of God and king. His conduct both on the battlefield and off of it epitomizes bravery, nobility, justice, and—”

“Fidelity!” Before Tabitha was even aware she was going to stand, she was on her feet. Keenly aware of the sudden silence and the amused quirk of Arjon’s eyebrow, she lifted her goblet and smiled sweetly at Colin, who looked close to strangling on a mouthful of ale. “To Sir Colin, a paragon of Christian virtue.”

Her mocking tribute sent a chorus of “Huzzahs!” thundering to the rafters. She sank back into her seat. She would have been far too shy to initiate a toast at a Lennox Enterprises banquet, but having nothing left to lose was making her reckless.

The MacDuff nodded. “Well spoken, my lady. Your eloquence does both you and your cousin honor.”

Colin’s eyes narrowed, but it was that hint of a scowl that gave Tabitha a thrill of hope. Before she could savor her triumph, a battalion of pages bearing bacon-wrapped hens dressed with real feathers swept into the hall.

Lyssandra picked at the steaming skin of her bird with a delicate ivory-handled knife, but her father used his bulbous fingers to tear apart the succulent flesh. Colin seemed to have embraced a liquid diet. Each time he took a sip, an eager page rushed forward to splash more ale in his cup.

As his guests followed their host’s cue and dug into their meals with relish, the MacDuff gestured, sending bits of chicken flying. “If you’d give me leave to summon the priest to read the banns, lad, we could have the ceremony on the morrow.”

Tabitha had never been so glad to see the stubborn jut of Colin’s jaw. “I’ve told you before,” he said. “I’ll not wed Lyssa till she’s turned eighteen.”

“Now, Papa. Don’t nag poor Colin.” The girl’s weary sigh warned that this was a quarrel of long standing. “After all, I’ll be eighteen in less than two months.”

Ignoring his daughter’s pleas, the MacDuff pointed his knife at Colin. “Your mother was naught but thirteen when she bore you.”

“Aye. And fifteen when she died two stillborn babes later.” Colin’s eyes were beginning to smolder.

Tabitha brushed a hand over her own belly, remembering for the first time what their unprotected sex might lead to. In the twenty-first century, any knight worth his salt would carry a crisp packet of condoms. Her distress was softened by a wondrous vision of a
dark-haired, golden-eyed little boy stretching out his arms to her.

She might have remained in her dreamy trance for the rest of the meal if Arjon hadn’t popped a sugared rose petal into her gaping mouth.

The MacDuff was still needling Colin. “Your father informed me that the two of you quarreled bitterly the night you went galloping off on your ridiculous”—he cleared his throat, remembering his audience of eavesdroppers—
“noble
quest. He begged you to wed Lyssandra before you departed. If you’d have heeded his wishes, he might not have died estranged from his only son.”

Colin slammed his goblet down on the table. “Lyssandra was eleven years old at the time.”

“Soon to be twelve. Old enough for you to put your babe in her belly and cement my alliance with your father before you committed your sword to the Lord.”

Colin rose to his feet. Planting both palms on the table, he leaned over into the MacDuff’s face. Tabitha had to strain to hear the lethal softness of his voice. “And if I had, would my father be alive today? Would you have sent men to his aid when Brisbane attacked or simply ignored his desperate pleas for help?”

MacDuff licked each finger in turn, the arch of his snowy eyebrows painstakingly bland. “Didn’t Lyssandra tell you? I’d packed my entire household off to Castle Arran for the spring. We knew nothing of the siege until we returned. And by then, as you know, ’twas too late.”

The tension in Colin’s stance showed no sign of abating. Lyssandra tugged at his sleeve, her lovely face reflecting her distress. “Papa speaks the truth, Colin. Your stepmother was a dear friend to me. I cried for days when we learned of her death.”

Colin straightened, gently shaking off her hand. “Is that why your father is entertaining her murderer’s minion at his table?”

Brisbane’s sallow knight had been watching the entire exchange, all but drooling with anticipation.

The MacDuff’s ruddy cheeks puffed up with self-righteous indignation. “The quarrel between you and Lord Brisbane is an old one, in which I claim no part.” His acid tone indicated that he knew
exactly
what had precipitated that quarrel. “Once you’ve wed my daughter, son, you’ll have every right to tell me who I should entertain. And who I should wage war against. But until that time, I shall dine with,
and kill
, whomever I please.” He rose and clapped his pudgy hands, coolly dismissing Colin. “Let’s have some music, minstrels. ’Tis dull as a tomb in here.”

As the pipers resumed their melody, Colin dropped back into his chair. The calculating glint in his eyes warned it was less a retreat than a reprieve. Several of the diners rose to join the dance, including the MacDuff and Brisbane’s man, leaving them in awkward silence.

All innocence, Arjon blinked at Tabitha and asked in a voice strident enough to carry all the way back to her penthouse on Fifth Avenue, “Haven’t you some skill as a troubadour, Lady Tabitha?”

“No!” Colin said firmly even as delight brightened Lyssandra’s face.

“Oh, do sing for us, Tabby! I grow so weary of Papa’s minstrels. Perhaps you could teach me a new tune.”

“Heaven forbid,” Arjon said dryly. “The brat never could do more than squall like a dying cat.”

Lyssandra’s smile puckered into a pout. “And have you forgotten, Sir Arjon, that I can also scratch like one?”

He fingered his chin. “How could I when my face still bears the scars from your claws?”

“I should have scratched out your eyes. ’Twould have been no more than you deserved for setting my braid afire.”

“Children!” Colin snapped. “Can’t the two of you declare a truce? People are beginning to stare.”

“He started it,” Lyssandra mumbled, scowling into her pudding with uncharacteristic petulance. “Forgive me, Lady Tabitha. I shouldn’t have presumed upon your generosity. You’re a guest here at MacDuff, not one of Papa’s trained dwarves.”

Tabitha surprised herself by gliding smoothly to her feet. “Why, I’d be honored to sing for you.”

Colin leaned forward in his chair. “I’d rather you didn’t strain your delicate throat,
cousin.”

She fingered the amulet. “Perhaps you’d prefer I show Lyssandra a few of my magic tricks. As you know, I haven’t quite perfected making things disappear.”

Lyssandra clapped her graceful hands. “Oh, I do love magic even more than music.”

“Sing,” Colin said flatly. “By all means, sing for us.”

He watched warily as his fiancée led her to a stool at the side of the dais. If he was expecting a few wistful verses of “If Ever I Would Leave You,” he would be disappointed.

Intrigued by the prospect of a new diversion, the acrobats collapsed in mid-tumble and the dancers drifted back to their benches. Hoping their standards of entertainment weren’t any higher than Colin’s, Tabitha cleared her throat, then threw back her head and launched into a soulful rendition of “Your Cheatin’ Heart.” She knew she was a success when the minstrels exchanged a baffled glance, shrugged, then began
to strum along on their lutes in a flawless country twang.