The Key (2 page)

“What be bothering ye? Do ye no care fer ale?”

Iliana glanced at her betrothed. He was still squinting, but it seemed he could make out
enough to know that she was not drinking the ale his father had poured her.

“Nay, there is I am not thirsty just now,” she lied faintly, unwilling to offend.

“All well.” Taking the tankard, he lifted it to his mouth.

“Oh! But” Iliana began in dismay, but it was too late. He downed almost the entire tankard
in one swallow... And the bug with it, she saw as he rested the now empty tankard back
upon the table between them.

“ 'Tis no sense it agoin' to waste,” he murmured cheerfully, flashing her a brief smile
before wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

Iliana stared at him wide-eyed. For one brief moment when he had smiled, his emerald eyes
sparkling with good humor, her husband-to-be had taken on the look of an entirely
different man. He had looked quite handsome for a moment, despite the grime and soot on
his face and whatever else was staining it just now. Of course, he had ruined that at once
by wiping his mouth on his sleeve and bringing her attention to the fact that the fine,
white fabric was hopelessly stained from such repeated actions. Among others.

“My lady?”

Sighing, Iliana tore her eyes away fromDuncanto peer questioningly at her maid.

“Your skirt.” The woman gestured and Iliana stood again, twisting her head to peer over
one shoulder at the skirt of her gown. There were stains, smudges, and crumbs of food on
it just from sitting. There was also a great wet spot on it. Apparently, the bench had not
been wholly dry when she had been forced to sit there. From the scent wafting up to her
she guessed she had sat in a puddle of ale.

Frowning, she began brushing at it fretfully. Care for clothing had been hammered into her
from a very early age. Clothing was often expensive and difficult to replace so far from
the city tailors and dressmakers. That being the case, she had never been allowed to run
or roll about on the ground with the other children at Wildwood. She had ever been
expected to be a little lady and always act with decorum. Her mother would have been
appalled at the state of her gown just now.

Ebba knelt to try to aid in removing the marks on her skirt, but it quickly became obvious
that it was an impossible task. The skirt was ruined, Iliana realized with dismay.

“Aye. There's no time like the present.”

Angus Dunbar's words caught Iliana's attention, dragging it away from her skirt and to the
conversation Lord Rolfe and the bishop were holding with him.

“ 'Tis true,” Rolfe murmured now. “The sooner we get this business finished, the sooner we
can move on to tending to Lady Seonaid's problem.”

Turning shaiply toward his son. Laird Angus glared at him meaningfully untilDuncansighed
and murmured, “Me father does not agree that ye go to Sherwell and force 'is hand. He
fears the man may agree to the marriage takin' place.”

Rolfe's eyebrows rose. “But I thought marriage was what you were hoping to acheive for
Lady Seonaid?”

“Not to that stinkin' sack o' manure English whelp!” Angus snapped furiously.

“I see.” Rolfe frowned over that, then shook his head helplessly. “I” he began, only to
pause when the bishop leaned forward to murmur something in his ear. Nodding his head with
relief, the younger man then turned back to his host and forced a smile. “Mayhap we should
leave this worry for now. Once we've tended to Lady Iliana and your son, we can discuss
what to do about Lady Seonaid and Lord Sherwell.”

There was a moment of tense silence, then Angus nodded grimly. “Aye. I'll inform the men
and send one out to fetch Seonaid.”

“Fetch her? Is she not here?”

“Nay. She's gone ahuntin'. She'll not have gone far. 'Twill take no time at all to find
her. We can begin the ceremony when she returns.”

Brushing her maid's efforts away, Iliana hurried anxiously to Lord Rolfe's side as Angus
Dunbar headed for the doors of the keep.

“My lords!” Her gaze slid toward her would-be husband. He sat where she had left him, but
was turned toward them, obviously listening to the conversation. Beseeching the king's
emissaries, she hissed, “I do not think I can go through with this.”

“Praise the Lord,” Ebba murmured behind her.

Lord Rolfe was a little less moved. Expression blank, he shook his head. “Go through?”

“Have you not looked about you?” she asked with bewilderment. “How could you expect me to
live here? How could you expect me to marryhim ?” She gestured toward the man seated at
the table. “He smells . This whole place smells. They are drunken louts. They reek of
spirits. It fairoozes from their very flesh.”

Rolfe took a look about, appearing to notice for the first time the frayed edges that
seemed to grace every strip of material in the place, from Duncan's less-than-pristine
clothes to the stained tapestries on the walls. A glance down showed him bones and gristle
mixed in with the rushes on the floor, along with several other things she did not care to
identify. “Well... aye, 'tis a bit messy,” he agreed slowly.

“Messy? Tis a pigsty, and these people are pigs!” “Mayhap it just needs a woman's touch.
Lady Iliana,” the bishop began, but Iliana was not in a mood to

be soothed.

“My dear lord bishop, the touch of ten thousand women could not set this keep to rights.
These people are barbarians and I will not stay here. Look at my gown from simply sitting
on that bench. 'Tisruined ! 'Tis simply impossible. I will not marry him.”

There was silence for a moment as Lord Rolfe and the bishop exchanged helpless glances,
then tlhe younger man sighed. “What of your mother?”

Iliana stiffened. A vivid image of her mother's bruised and tear-streaked face filled her
mind and she sagged unhappily, beaten. She had no choice. She was in dire straits. She
needed a strong husband, far from Wildwood, who could keep her safe from her stepfather.
'Twas the only way to free her mother from the troubles that had descended on them with
her father's death.

“Is there no one else?” she asked dismally.

The bishop's expression was sympathetic. "I fear not, my lady. No one so far north.
Besides, the claim has already been made to Greenweld that this contract was arranged by
your father ere his death. 'Twas

in the letter bearing the king's seal. We could not claim another betrothal now."

“No, of course not,” she agreed miserably, then sighed. “I suppose I really have no choice
then?”

“I fear not,” Lord Rolfe agreed gently. “The contract was signed by both Lord Dunbar and
the king. Tis done.”

“You look lovely.”

Iliana peered unhappily at her maid as the woman continued fussing over her veil and gown.
Lord Rolfe and the bishop had suggested she go upstairs and prepare for the wedding. She
supposed it was their way of giving her time alone to face her fate.

It was a stunning blow... And just one in a seemingly neverending series of late. The
first had come a little more than two months ago with the news that her beloved father,
Abod Wildwood, was dead. The second had been the form in which the news reached them.
Those sad tidings had come in the person of Lord Greenweld, an ambitious baron who shared
a border with their property. He had delivered the news with little more sympathy than he
had shown while beating Iliana's mother. The beating had been to force her to sign her
name to the marriage decree he had brought with him. The effort had succeeded, though
Iliana had since learned that it wasn't the beating itself that had worked, but
Greenweld's tlireats against Iliana if her mother did not comply.

Out riding at the time, Iliana had returned just as the mock ceremony had ended. Before
she had even really grasped the fact that they had guests, her mother had flown into her
arms, nearly knocking her over as she blurted out the news. Iliana had still been trying
to unravel the meaning of the words pouring from her mother's swollen lips when Greenweld
had torn the women apart and had Iliana removed from her childhood home.

Her mother's cries had rung in her ears as Iliana had been bound, tossed unceremoniously
into the back of a cart, and taken away like a common thief. Confused and in shock, she
had found herself transported to Greenweld castle, two long hours ride from Wildwood. For
three days she had lain in a guarded room and grieved the loss of her father. Refusing
food or drink, she had simply lain upon the bed, sobbing. On the fourth day, however, she
had awoken angry, her eyes filled with the image of her mother's battered beauty and
tear-filled eyes. Then she had begun to plan.

Escape was the only answer. To escape her guards at Greenweld, sneak back to collect her
mother from Wildwood, and flee to their nearest relatives.

How naive she had been. How greatly she had underestimated her enemy, she realized now. He
had removed her to Greenweld castle, far and away from everyone and everything she had
ever known, to ensure Lady Wildwood's cooperation while he'd seen to exerting his power
over the people of Wildwood. And he'd been Determined to keep her there.

Time after time, Iliana had tried to escape and time after time she had been caught
restrained, and finally beaten and locked in the tower. Then the baron himself had
arrived, announcing that she was to be married.

A bath had been brought to her, the first she had been allowed since her imprisonment, and
he had sent her a fresh gown. Then Ebba had led her below and she had been introduced to
Lord Rolfe and Bishop Wykeham, who were purportedly to escort her to Scotland and see her
married Iliana had been skeptical. She'd left Greenweld castle Determined to make her
escape the first chance she got... until they had made camp that night and Lord Rolfe and
the bishop had spoken with her.

Iliana's mother had been a friend and favorite of Queen Anne's. Depending upon that
friendship and the king's affection for his deceased wife. Lady Wildwood had written a
letter and slipped it out with a servant to be carried to court. The letter had informed
him of the dire straits in which she'd found herself, as well as the news that Greenweld
was also attempting to arrange a marriage between Iliana and one of several powerful
nobles known to be less than supportive of Richard's reign.

The king had dispatched Rolfe and the bishop at once, sending them first toScotlandto make
the deal withDunbar, then to Wildwood. They had been told to appear surprised at Lady
Wildwood's remarriage, since Greenweld had not yet informed the king of it. They were also
to tell Greenweld that a marriage contract had already been drawn up for Iliana by her
father; that Lord Wildwood and the laird of Dunbar had arranged it during the expedition
in Leland just before his death, and the king himself had witnessed it. Upon realizing
that her father could no longer see to the completion of the contract himself, the king
had sent Lord Rolfe and the bishop to tend to it. He had supplied them with a letter to
that effect, addressed to Lady Wildwood.

Faced with this claim, Greenweld had had little choice but to give Iliana up.

When she had asked why the king had arranged the marriage to a Scot, and not someone
closer to home, Rolfe had explained that Richard wished her to be as far away as possible
for now. He intended on aiding her mother, but could not do so as long as Iliana was
within Greenweld's reach. The baron had separated her from her mother for the express
purpose of insuring Lady Wildwood would cooperate with him and not attempt to annul the
marriage. The older woman had been informed that, should she do anything of the sort,
Iliana would pay the price. Married and living inScotland, she would be safe from that
possibility and Greenweld would have less leverge against her mother. She would be free to
seek an annulment with the king's assistance.

Iliana had relaxed at that news, sure that all would be well. Soon after she was safely
married inScotland , her mother would be removed from her contemptible marriage, and
Greenweld would be dealt with.

Now Iliana realized what a fool she had been. She had never once considered what sort of
man the king had chosen to husband her, merely trusting him to see to her best interests.
But if Duncan Dunbar was his idea of a suitable husband, then the king had very poor
taste. She moved to sit on the edge of the bed dispiritedly. 'Twas a shame she had not
realized that ere giving up her chance at escape. But she had not. She had been more than
satisfied to allow the king to see to everything. She had actually beenrelieved to place
her future, her happiness, her very life and her mother's as well in the hands of these
men. More the fool, she. It was obvious that by doing so, she had lost any chance at
happiness. She could only hope her mother would be able to gain her freedom through this
sacrifice.

Worrying her lower lip, she tugged fretfully at the skill of the pale cream dress Ebba had
chosen for her to wear. 'Twas the best she had. No doubt it would be ruined by day's end
as well. Grimacing, she dropped back to lie upon the bed with a sigh. What could be more
foolish than worrying over a gown when she was expected to many and perform intimacies
with that creature below?

Her gaze caught on the drapes above the bed and she frowned. They were a lovely shade of
cream with embroidered dark red and blue flowers underneath, though she could have sworn..
Page 12

Sitting up, she stood and turned to stare at the bed. Aye, 'twas more a brown with
burgundy and muddy blue flowers on the outside. No doubt the effect of smoke from the
fire. Were she to hazard a guess, Iliana would say that the bed drapes had not been
cleaned in at least ten years. Perhaps more. She would not hazard a guess as to the state
of the bed linens themselves.

“ Tis a shame we have no flowers for you to hold.”

Iliana whirled to gape at her maid as she brushed fretfully at the stains on the yellow
gown Iliana had worn earlier.

“Flowers?” she exclaimed, bringing Ebba's startled gaze to her own. “Flowers! What for? So
that I might lookpretty while marrying into this family? I suppose you think we should put
bows on sheep on the way to the slaughter as well?”

Ebba merely stared at her mistress blankly. She had never seen the young woman lose her
temper so before. Her gaze became incredulous when in the next moment, her mistress tore
off her veil and launched herself at the bed, ripping at the linens that covered it.

“I shall not sleep on these despicable, disgusting Where are my bed linens?”

Ebba blinked. “Your what?”

“My bed linens!” Iliana snapped. “My mother and I have been preparing for years for the
day when I marry. We prepared bed linens, Ebba. Where are they? Surely she sent them with
you?”

“Oh, aye.” Setting the yellow gown down, the maid began sorting through the dozen or so
chests Lady Wildwood had insisted must go with her daughter toScotland, despite Lord
Greenweld's protestations. He had not been able to protest overmuch with Lord Rolfe and
the bishop there.

“Here they are!” Straightening, she held up a set of soft, pure white linens, their edges
hand-embroidered with flowers and peacocks. “Will these do?”

“Aye.” Iliana reached for them, her expression tender as she recalled the many hours she
had sat with her mother by the fire working upon them. Sighing, she lifted the material,
rubbing it across her cheeks and enjoying its clean softness. Then she closed her eyes,
her mind immediately diawing forth a picture of her mother's face. A knock at the door
drove the image away.

“Who is it?” Ebba asked, a nervous shake to her voice.

“Lord Rolfe. Tis time.”

Opening her eyes, Iliana met Ebba's uncertain expression, then sighed and nodded.

“Just a moment!” Ebba called.

Handing her maid the linens, Iliana picked up her veil and covered her face. “Strip the
bed and remake it. I will not sleep in filth. Then find some servants to assist you in
moving the trunks against the walls.”

“Shall I unpack them?”

“Nay. Not 'til we've cleaned this sty up some,” Iliana said grimly, moving to the door.
Pausing, she glanced back. “Have a bath brought up. My husband bathes tonight or he does
not sleep on those linens.”

She may have no choice regarding marrying the barbarian below, but she could choose how
that marriage went, Iliana decided grimly. She would not live like this. He could beat
her, throttle her, even kill her, but she would not live like this. She would rather be
dead, she thought bleakly, opening the door and moving out to take the arm of a
worried-looking Lord Rolfe. He had obviously heard her last words to her maid.

Duncanlaughed along with the others at his sister's jest and tipped his tankard to his
mouth, swilling down half its contents before lowering the mug to peer at his bride. She
sat at the main table next to his father, the same grim expression gracing her face that
had tightened it since coming downstairs on Lord Rolfe's arm. She had held it throughout
the wedding, saying her vows in a dead voice, making it more than to one and all that she
was not overjoyed by her fortune.

Duncanhad slowly moved from irritated to furious during the ceremony. He was aware of the
circumstances behind this wedding, he was saving her from her stepfather. He was her Sir
Galahad. And how did she thank him? By making it obvious that she would wish herself
anywhere but here and humiliating him in front of his own people. Hell! The worst of it
was, by the time his wife had arrived for the wedding, he had been able to fully see
again... and he found her oddly appealing.

Grimacing,Duncanglared at her. He did not have a clue what appealed to him so. Her hair
was brown. 'Twas a lovely shade of brown, a mixture of the color of walnuts and cherry
wood, but brown all the same. He had always been partial to blondes before now. Her eyes
were large and gray, rather like a rainy day.

He'd always preferred green eyes. Her nose was small and straight. That was fine, but her
lips were heart-shaped, sweet and full.Duncanhad never seen lips quite like hers. They
were enough to give a man ideas, and had been giving him many diverse and erotic ones for
the past several hours.

His friends and clansmen were not helping much. What with their jests and good-natured
teasing about the night ahead, they were only managing to fan the fire that had already
been growing in his nether regions at an alarming rate. It seemed no amount of ale was
going to drown it either, for he had been pouring that liquid down his throat steadily all
night and still it had not dampened his ardor any. He was becoming fair impatient to bed
her, and that fact was infuriating when she was making it so obvious that she did not feel
the same way.

“Does yer gaze fer yer wee wife become any hotter, it'll set the rushes ablaze. Mayhap ye
should take a dip in the loch.”

Tearing his eyes from his bride,Duncanglanced at the man who had spoken. Flame-haired, as
tall as he himself was, and near as wide, Allistair was as much a friend as a cousin. Or
at least he used to be, Duncanrealized with regret. That closeness had dissipated somewhat
over the last few years as he had begun to take over some of the responsibilities of clan
chief from his father. As more and more of his time was taken up with the task,Duncanhad
less and less time to spare for hunting trips with Allistair, Aelfread, and Seonaid. Not
that those three had drifted apart. If anything, his absence had seemed to push them
closer together.

“No night swim'll be helping what ails him, Allie,” Aelfread murmured with amusement,
sharing a look with Seonaid that madeDuncan's sister grin widely.

“Aelfread's right. I'm thinkin' there be only one thing that'll quench the fire that's
burning him up and that's he and his bride finally gettin' down to the business
o'hoŸghmagandie .”

Duncanstiffened at her use of the Gaelic word for fornication. She may fight like a man
and be able to drink them all under the table, but there were just some things a woman
shouldn't do. Brows drawing down in disapproval, he slammed his tankard onto the filthy
tabletop and snapped, “Ye'll no be acursin' like that, Seonaid! Do ye do so again I'll
wash yer mouth out with soap meself.”

Unimpressed, she rolled her eyes at this threat and laughed. “ Tis no good usin' such
threats with me, me true-sworn brother. 'Tis far too late to be atryin' to change me ways
and amakin' me into a lady like yer wife.” She glanced toward Iliana with distaste. “She's
a puny lass. Prissy as the day is long, too. I doona ken how ye'll be aputtin' up with
'er.”