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 behind the tapestry earlier. The scent of her beside him during dinner. The taste of her mead tonight 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.

But seeing Cristiana now—her strength, her full-grown beauty—had put him in a strange distemper. Because no matter how sweetly innocent Cristiana appeared on the outside, she possessed the heart of a warrior.

In the Laird’s Bed

Harlequin® Historical #1026—January 2011

Author’s Note

As an author of medieval romance, I have frequently been inspired by the Arthurian legends. Last winter I reread Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, and really enjoyed the idea of a stranger who appears on a dark winter’s night to issue a challenge. The set-up for In the Laird’s Bed was the result of that inspiration.

From there, however, Cristiana and Duncan took full control of their story. Both have secrets to keep, a task that becomes dangerously difficult as heat flares between them. Life in this medieval keep quickly becomes a pressure cooker, with nowhere else to go for miles in the thick of a Scots winter.

I hope you enjoy In the Laird’s Bed, and don’t forget to learn more about my upcoming releases at www.joannerock.com.

Happy reading,

Joanne Rock

In the Laird’s Bed
Joanne Rock

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Available from Harlequin® Historical and JOANNE ROCK

The Wedding Knight #694

The Knight’s Redemption #720

The Betrothal #749

“Highland Handfast”

My Lady’s Favor #758

The Laird’s Lady #769

The Knight’s Courtship #812

A Knight Most Wicked #890

The Knight’s Return #942

In the Laird’s Bed #1026

and in Harlequin Historical Undone! ebook

A Night of Wicked Delight

The Virgin’s Pursuit

Did you know that some of these novels are also available as ebooks? Visit www.eHarlequin.com.

For Ann Leslie Tuttle and the editorial team at Harlequin Historical who make my work such a pleasure.

Thank you for sharing your wisdom and your passion for stories!

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Epilogue

Prologue

The scent of her beckoned.

Even from the desolate rocky outcropping beneath the guard tower of Domhnaill, Duncan the Brave caught Lady Cristiana’s fragrance on the wind. The intoxicating smell was no herb-laden soap or rose-strewn bath, however. It was the scent of her fabled mead that rolled down the cliff side, surrounding Duncan and his men in a cloud of steamed clover and honey.

Who could have guessed a woman who brewed such heavenly delights would refuse a man shelter?

“Tell her I ask in the name of Christian charity,” Duncan called to the surly guard who did not wish to admit them to the ancient seat of the Domhnaill family. The grizzled old keeper of the gate had left Duncan’s men waiting many long, cold minutes while he exchanged messages with his hard-hearted lady.

“’Tis the laird who does not wish to shelter his enemy,” the guard returned, even as Duncan knew the man lied. Rumors of the old laird’s poor health had traveled far. He did not rule his own keep anymore. “He bade me inform you there is a monastery nearby—”

“On the other side of a mountain,” Duncan pointed out, giving his frustration vent. “Tell your laird and his heartless daughter that I will gladly hand over my armor for the chance to thaw the icicles from my cloak until the storm passes.”

Curse the Domhnaill pride.

In the five years that had passed, they had not for given the wound suffered by their family when Duncan’s brother had tested the bridal bed with Cristiana’s sister before their nuptials. They’d declared the marriage contract void and took the lovers’ act as a declaration of war, widening a long rift between their clans.

Wind whistled down the rocks, swirling in erratic bursts around his men’s feet and lifting the horses’ manes to blow wildly. Icy snow had fallen hard all day, making their march north impossible. Duncan had no choice but to seek shelter and wait out the storm.

Just as he’d planned.

Above them, the old guard disappeared and—after a few more moments—a new face appeared through the frosty veil of snow. The figure leaned through the guard-tower window, prompting a long fall of cinnamon-colored hair and gold silk scarves over the casement. The heavy fur hood she wore over her head did little to contain the lush, unbound locks in the fierce weather.

The mistress of the mead herself.

Cristiana of Domhnaill did not greet him with a smile.

“You will submit every last blade and arrow, sir,” she commanded in a tone that suggested she was not accustomed to being disobeyed. “And even then, you will find our hospitality is limited for oath-breakers.”

“You look well, my lady.” Duncan bowed in the saddle, a difficult task considering his bones had frozen stiff a few leagues back. “I’ve no doubt your hospitality will be as generous as your forgiving heart.”

“I’m pleased we understand each other. I will lower the bridge, but you must await my men for the disarming before you set foot upon it.” At her words, the bridge mechanism gave a mighty creak, the big gears moaning in protest. “We sup late to welcome the new year and you may join us then. I have guests within, sir, and would not have admitted you except that I cannot afford to appear uncharitable.”

In a swirl of golden veils and cinnamon strands, she departed, leaving the day colder still in her wake. She was not present to see Duncan’s satisfied grin.

“Our gamble has rewarded us with success.” He crossed himself in gratitude, since the risk could have been a lethal one. For although he’d hoped to plead a traveler’s need for admittance to the Domhnaill stronghold, he had not anticipated how quickly the cold and snow would come upon them. The unforgiving Highland winters had laid more men low than enemy blades.

Beside him, one of his best knights snorted.

“You call it success that we’ve been lured into the lap of the enemy with naught to defend ourselves?” Ronan the Lothian eyed the armed guards riding over the lowered drawbridge with suspicion. “I’ve always known you were hell-bound, Duncan, but I thought you would at least go to your death with sword raised and curses flying.”

“Some battles cannot be won with a blade.” Un buckling his sword belt, Duncan hoped he could trust his instincts on Cristiana’s character.

He’d known her only briefly five years ago, but she’d once pledged herself to him with a sweetness he’d never forgotten. Had it not been for his brother’s actions, both he and Duncan would have been wed to Domhnaill women for many moons by now.

Calamity would not have befallen his people. The men and riches of this keep would have protected his lands.

Ronan scowled as he withdrew an ice-encrusted dagger hilt from a strap at his thigh.

“Aye. And in this case, your enemy might be subdued with the only sword you’ll still possess when we are finished here.” Ronan lowered his voice as the Domhnaill guards drew closer to retrieve the growing pile of steel.

Divested of all his weapons, Duncan guided his horse up onto the bridge planks.

“’Twas such a tactic that created trouble last time.” He’d never understood why the Domhnaills felt the need to break a betrothal contract for their daughter, when the union had only been consummated early.

Their excuse had been that Donegal was too rough in the taking. But what pampered virgin did not complain thus after her first time?

Nay, insufferable Domhnaill pride had cost them all dearly. Even Cristiana, whom Duncan had treated with naught but fairness, had cried off their betrothal. She’d somehow convinced her father that the Culcanon family had come to Domhnaill only to further the long rift between the families, and that Duncan would surely treat her unkindly one day if they were to be man and wife. The old laird—even then, well ruled by his daughters—had called off the alliance and refused the marriages. And that action had marked the beginning of all the problems that had torn apart Duncan’s clan these past three years.

But not for much longer. With a secret token concealed on a thong beneath his tunic, he possessed a key to solving the matter of his ravaged lands and divided people. A map that would lead him to the long-buried wealth of a generations-old ancestor whom he shared with Cristiana. All he needed was enough time to search it out before she banished him from her keep forever.

Chapter One

The steaming scent of cloves and ginger sprinkled on her latest brew brought Cristiana none of the usual pleasure. She breathed in the fragrant bouquet wafting over the boiling honey and water, testing for the right mix of heat and herbs to her most popular mead. But although the balance smelled fine now, she feared this batch would be bitter in the end. In her experience, the best meads were brewed when her heart was light and, right now, worry weighed her down more heavily than the ice-coated fur she’d worn outside into the storm.

The presence of an enemy under her roof had not been far from her mind this past hour as she’d hastened to oversee final preparations for an elaborate meal. She had to run the keep for her invalid father while maintaining the duties of a lady, since her mother had died many years ago and her sister had been sent far away after being ruined by Duncan the Brave’s callous kin.

How dare he call upon her now after siding with his brutish half brother? Cristiana would be hard-pressed to hide her secret from Duncan while he took shelter here.

Stirring the bubbling mead mixture one last time, Cristiana left the squat brewery tower her father had built to encourage his daughter’s gift. He had tried to dissuade her from mead-making for years, declaring the interest to be the purview of lesser men’s daughters. But when the lords of the realm began requesting it for purchase and foreign kings sent gifts to obtain a small store, her sire had seen the wisdom of indulging her.

Now she raced through the keep to attend her guests, knowing she would not have time to change before the meal. It had been all she could do to hide the evidence of her secret from her new visitor and his men. The preparations had been hasty and not as thorough as she would have liked, but her temporary arrangements would hold at least until after they supped.

The New Year’s feast had always been celebrated at Domhnaill with great festivity, and Cristiana could not afford any changes in routine that would hint at her family’s struggles.

Wiping her brow of the perspiration accumulated from her dash to the great hall, she straightened a tapestry and measured what else was left to do before the meal. Quickly, she handed off her fur cloak to a giggling server who pinched and teased a squire of one of the guests. Cristiana gave the maid a stern look that held the promise of more work if she did not mind herself.

“You were that young once, my lady.”

The rich roll of a deep male voice came from behind her, startling her even as it called forth a wealth of memories that made her feel foolish. Oh, how she had craved that voice in her ear once upon a time.

Turning, she faced her enemy full-on without the safety of her guard tower and a moat separating them.

Duncan the Brave, the legitimate son of Malcolm Culcanon, rose from a seat he’d taken in the shadowed corridor outside the great hall. His shoulders blocked the light from the nearest torch, casting his tall, formidable frame into a dark outline. Five years had taken little toll on his handsome features. Women all over the Highlands vied for his attentions ever since he’d been a youth. Cristiana herself had found him most pleasing when they’d met. The keenness of his dark green gaze mirrored his fine intellect. His close-cropped brown hair lacked the flowing beauty of more vain men, but Cristiana appreciated the cleanliness apparent in the sheen of it. Most of all, she admired the warrior strength of him, his chest so solid, it felt as if he wore chain mail upon it or rather, it had once upon a time when she’d ventured a touch. She’d hardened her heart to this arrogant man and all his family long ago.

“Fortunately, I was never that foolish.” She turned from him to welcome two other guests who’d been invited for the winter revelry, a neighboring lord and his lady, who had supplied Domhnaill with men and allegiance for generations.

“Duncan!” the velvet-swathed mistress, Lady Beatrice of the Firth, gushed with delight upon recognizing Cristiana’s companion. She clamped a heavily jeweled hand to her breast as if to quiet her heart. “How good to see you. We have heard about your success in driving the Normans from our borders—”

“We must take our seats,” her husband interrupted, his low tone laced with warning. “Duncan has only sought shelter because of the storm. No doubt, he is weary with travel.”

Forestalling the argument that appeared imminent from Beatrice, Peter of the Firth dragged his wife into the hall.

“If you are stirred by the dance music, my lord,” Beatrice called over her shoulder with a simpering smile, “I will be most glad to partner you.”

Cristiana would have taken the exchange as an excuse to sidestep Duncan, but he must have sensed her motive, for he clamped a broad hand about her wrist and tugged her back into the shadows behind a giant tapestry.

“Sir,” she protested, yanking her hand back and finding it well caught.

Alarm pricked over her skin. No one could see them here. Would he brutalize her as his half brother had brutalized her sister? He had made no secret of his fury over her choice to break their betrothal.

“We need to speak freely before we dine.” He spoke into her ear, holding her much too close. “I am prepared to do you homage tonight as a peace offering. Will you accept?”

She tried to quiet her alarm by recalling how many important lords and ladies were on the other side of the tapestry. Duncan could not possibly mean her harm. Taking a deep breath, she calmed herself. And in the space of a heartbeat, she noticed the laundered scent of a fresh tunic and the warmth of his powerful form beneath it. His fingers spanned the inside of her arm while his thigh brushed against her skirts.

Her heart thundered at the audacity of his suggestion and his closeness.

“I will offer you shelter and nothing else.” She tried not to think about the last time he’d held her thus. The sweetness of the kiss that had made her long to be a wedded woman back before she knew how faithless a Culcanon could be. For all that Duncan had expressed outrage at her refusal to wed, he’d wasted no time in reuniting with his lover at a nearby keep. “Do not take a charitable action for granted, lest you find your men escorted from my gates with all haste.”

“It would not be wise to rebuff the king’s new ally in front of so many witnesses, Cristiana.” His hold on her eased. “Perhaps you have not received news of the kingdom since your father has been ill, but I assure you, Malcolm is unifying his holdings and carving a new order. The world has changed much in five years.”

On the other side of the tapestry, more guests arrived and a minstrel struck up a bright tune sure to draw the rest of the keep to the hall for holiday revelry.

As early as this morning, a smoothly run supper to distract from her father’s continued absence would have been her biggest concern. Now, Duncan suggested her efforts fooled no one, and worse, her family’s standing might be suffering for the lack of a Domhnaill presence near King Malcolm.

“You forget yourself, sir.” She slid free of his grip and busied her nervous hands by straightening her belt. “The Domhnaills have long been loyal supporters to the crown. And although we never troubled the king with the injury your kin did to mine, it is not too late for us to appeal for justice if you wish to bring the matter to his attention.”

She had not forgotten the hurts her sister had suffered. The humiliation. The bruises. The recollection steeled her spine and deafened her ears to the other memories of that summer when the Domhnaill women had admitted treacherous men into their hearts.

“Cristiana, do not allow old angers to blind you. Domhnaill needs a leader, and if your da does not choose a successor, the king will find one for him.”

The possibility so closely echoed her deepest fears that she felt Duncan had breached her walls for the second time today.

Indeed, she was so rattled that she did not protest when Duncan took her arm to lead her away from the tapestry and into the dim corridor once more.

“I am flattered to be your dining partner this eve,” he announced loudly, as if they’d been in the middle of a conversation. By taking advantage of her tongue-tied state, he’d just claimed the seat beside her at sup.

Cristiana knew she needed to regain her wits before he commandeered the whole holiday revel.

The minstrel’s song had reached a high note and the great hall was nearly full. Laverers circled the tables, offering a basin and towel to diners wishing to wash up.

“A poor traveler will always find a meal and a warm hearth at Domhnaill,” she returned with forced brightness, holding herself stiffly away from him.

How did he know so much about the problems here? Swallowing back her fear, she allowed herself to be guided through the diners, toward the dais. Green pine garland hung from the rafters, infusing the room with the scent of a forest. A jongleur whom she’d named master of the revel was leading the servers in a song of welcome while guests found their seats.

“The hearth is all that is warm these days,” Duncan whispered for her ears alone. “I remember when that was not always so.”

She stiffened.

“You’ve no right—” she began, but cut herself off as a server approached them. The maid carried a heavy flagon of mead, reminding Cristiana of her first duty as hostess.

Duncan must have remembered, as well, for he leaned close again, not bothering to hide his nearness from her guests.

“Perhaps you will recall some of the old warmth when you must serve me?” He eased away from her, but masked his callousness with a low bow over her hand.

Fearing he might kiss her fingers in the courtier’s way, she snatched her hand back at once. But Duncan only smiled and took his seat at the high table.

Cursing him roundly under her breath, she accepted the pitcher of mead and approached the dais. The lady of Domhnaill had always served her guest personally to begin meals in this ancient hall, and Cristiana had no intention of straying from the tradition when she had fought so long and hard to show the world everything ran smoothly here.

“To your health, my lord,” she intoned, even managing to dip her head slightly in his direction as she did so. Thankfully, the forced curtsy helped to hide her burning cheeks.

With hands that hardly quivered, she approached Duncan the Brave and poured him a cup of her finest mead as if her world wasn’t falling apart. As if her father wasn’t dying. As if her beloved sister hadn’t been exiled.

And almost as if Cristiana wasn’t raising her sister’s illegitimate babe in secret.

Chapter Two

The 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.

“I will send him later this week, Da,” Cristiana assured him, her gaze still fixed on Duncan as her enemy stared up at the keep and then back out at the water. “And you don’t have to protect the clan forever. You can name your successor now, and then you won’t have to concern yourself with such worries anymore.”

“And rob my daughter of her rightful place? ’Tis bloody well bad enough that Edwina has lost her Domhnaill home. I will not leave you with nothing after all I’ve done to make this fortress the strongest in the east. Your man shall be laird, girl. And every man who has ever served under me knows that is my wish.”

She nodded mutely, touched by his declaration even as she recognized it for the confused rambling that it was. Her visits here were frustrating, but she never left feeling unloved.

“Thank you, Da.” She hugged her father hard, grateful for every day she still had him.

“Go rest your head, lassie. You’ve had a long day.”

Nodding, she stoked the fire in the grate before slipping from the room. She would make sure Keane was beside her sire when Duncan met him so that the laird did not have to do more than greet him. She could not have her father give his confused blessing on a marriage that could never take place.

No matter how strong a guardian Duncan might be for Domhnaill, Cristiana did not trust him. He’d come back to this keep for secret reasons he had not shared. She knew it in her veins.

Nay, she would not trust Duncan. Not with her heart, not with her father’s legacy and most certainly not with the little girl who deserved the warmth of a family’s love. What might Duncan and his brother do if they learned Cristiana had been harboring their heir for more than four years? Would they declare war on Domhnaill to get her back?

Or worse, was there a chance they spread their seed so carelessly that one more child bearing their distinctive green eyes would not matter to them at all?

For her niece, Leah’s, sake, Cristiana refused to find out.

Duncan would turn this keep inside out to find what he sought.

He arose before the dawn the next morning, determined to make his time at Domhnaill as brief as possible. By the time he broke his fast and dressed warmly to fend off the frigid damp blowing in off the water, the sun’s first rays lit the token he wore about his neck. He held up the medallion to the study the map worked in metal. The cryptic figure he believed matched some landmark on Domhnaill property.

A chill lingered on the breeze that had naught to do with the sea as he stalked farther from the stark gray walls. Unease lurked behind the keep’s strong facade, a sense among the people that their leader had grown weak. Cristiana could make merry all the new year to hide her clan’s shortcomings. But it did not change the fact that Domhnaill was ripe for the taking.

Duncan’s eyes roamed over the stones of the keep in search of a pattern in the rock that might match the figure on his medallion. It was one of many possibilities for what the map might signify. And the task of studying stone walls did not require nearly enough of his attention to keep him from thinking about Cristiana.

About how she’d been ready to wed five years ago.

By the rood, he would never forget the heat of the kiss they’d shared even though she’d been naught but an innocent maid. They’d been left alone to walk in the gardens, their families preoccupied with details of Edwina’s marriage contract. Cristiana had not hesitated to take his arm when he led her through the fruit trees to a bench by an old wishing well.

Oddly, she had not recalled that it had been her to lead him there, since it had been that same day that Donegal had dishonored Edwina. Cristiana had accused Duncan of kissing her to distract her from keeping an eye on her sister. But it had not been so. Cristiana had been eager to be with him, her eyes bright with excitement as she drew him into the trees.

Not seeing any pattern in the stones now, Duncan found his feet picking out the path to that well. He needed to cover a lot of ground in the next moon if he hoped to find the treasure, so it made sense if he spent some of today taking in the lay of the land.

Breaking through the thicket of overgrown fruit trees, he spied a new building between the orchard and the well. A squat, round tower, the structure was too far from the keep to be a kitchen. Yet the smoke of a stoked fire puffed from a hole in the roof.

What construction had the old laird undertaken? Surprised at this sign of ambitious growth, Duncan made sure his medallion was hidden beneath his garments and approached the building, boots kicking up freshly fallen snow.

He tried the door, expecting it to be locked. Instead, the barrier swung open easily and the scent of sweet mead rolled toward him in fragrant waves. The scent of Cristiana.

Indeed, this was her domain. And she must have risen with the dawn like him to be at her work so early. But there she stood, all alone and toiling over a table, her shoulders bent to some work he could not yet see. She had not heard him enter, her full attention devoted to whatever project she labored over.

The building was a brew house unlike anything he’d ever seen before. It functioned as far more than a mere corner of a kitchen where special cauldrons were set aside for mead-making. The entire, fine structure appeared dedicated to Cristiana’s brewing gift.

A hot fire burned in the center of the room, the blaze surrounded by protective stones to contain it. Some of the exterior wall of the tower was stacked with wood, but most of the walls were lined with other cauldrons.

The tower’s only low windows were placed above a worktable near where Cristiana stood. The skin-covered openings allowed the dawn’s light to spill over clay pots of dried herbs and spices. He could see now that she’d cut some sticks of cinnamon into smaller pieces, her hands dusted in fragrant powder.

“Cristiana.” He spoke softly so as not to startle her, but her name became an intimate sound on his lips.

Startled anyway, she whirled around as if expecting to see a field full of marauding Danes.

“Duncan.” Clutching a hand to her chest, she seemed to quiet her heart by force. “I am usually alone out here at this hour.”

Her cheeks were flushed from the heat of the fire as she turned back to her worktable. An amethyst-colored kirtle swung about her feet as she moved, the fabric falling in time with her rhythmic cutting.

“You tend your potions well, Cristiana.” He stepped deeper into the chamber, taking in the rainbow span of flowers drying on the rafters.

The scent of spices and dried berries mingled with the tang of yeast. Being in the brew house was like stepping into a late summer day with the rich warmth of the harvest all around.

“The Domhnaill mead is prized in trade. But I must use care in the making, since I can only obtain a certain amount of honey. Once I run out, I cannot replenish my stores until spring, so I dare not burn any.”

Carefully, she scraped the worktable clean of the cinnamon she’d cut, swiping the last of the powder into her hand. When she’d gathered all she could, she brought it to a pot on the far wall and scattered it over the surface of the brew.

No wonder she carried such an enticing smell on her person at all times. She must absorb the fragrance right through her skin.

“Your father has invested a great deal in this trade.” Peering up at the ceiling, he noted the excess rafters for additional space to dry herbs out of the way of the boiling cauldrons. Mortars and pestles, cups and small jars lined the shelves of an open cupboard.

“Our mead sells for a very good price. In turn, full coffers keep the men paid and attract strong alliances.” She rinsed her hands in a bowl of water kept on the hearthstones and dried them on a linen rag tied to her girdle.

“Your father has not raised a fighting force in many years,” he observed, pacing the perimeter of the structure to view the contents of the fermenting cauldrons. “His coffers must overflow with the excess. He could have made you a fine marriage long ago.”

The dowry Duncan was to have received for her five years ago had been more than generous, especially considering his sons would have ruled Domhnaill one day. What would the laird offer to the man who wed Cristiana now?

“I do not think finding a husband for me is part of his purpose.” Holding back her plaited hair in one hand, she bent over the cauldron in the center of the chamber and sniffed delicately.

The fabric of her tunic dipped away from her breasts as she leaned forward, presenting him with a view so beguiling he stopped cold in his pacing. A jolt of undeniable interest sparked. To lust after her was foolishness. She was no experienced woman to choose a man for pleasure’s sake. She was an unwed maid, who must make a good marriage. A highborn one at that.

And he would suffer the fires of hell before it would be him after the cold way she’d dismissed him.

But the knowledge did not stop the heat streaking through his veins at the sight of her tempting, creamy flesh. The moment ended too soon as, straightening, she took up a spoon and stirred the concoction. He struggled to recall what they’d been discussing.

Ah, yes. A husband.

“Only a fool of a sire would ignore the need to see you wed. And your da is no fool.” A stubborn, hard man perhaps. But other than the misstep with the broken betrothal, the old laird was a keen ruler. Or at least, he had been.

Perhaps she had sensed his gaze on her because she paused in her stirring to peer up at him. Though they stood many steps distant, he could feel the moment the air between them grew charged. As a virgin untouched, would Cristiana even know the source of such heat?

“I choose not to marry.” Her words were so at odds with everything he’d been thinking, it took him a long moment to understand what she’d said.

“Impossible.” He drew closer, telling himself he wished to judge her features and seek out the lie. Yet he knew he was pulled toward her by a power beyond his control. She fascinated him despite their mutual mistrust. “Your father has no sons. He has no choice but to ally himself—his people—with a strong clan who can protect the legacy of his lands.”

She removed the spoon from the spinning, bubbling brew beside her and hung the instrument from a hook near the pot’s handle.

“He will choose his successor when the time is right. I do not need to wed to secure our fate.”

She spoke madness. Her father indulged this? He would question the old man about it when he obtained an audience with him, since it would make Duncan’s work here easier if he did not have to fight off a suitor for control of Domhnaill. For now, he would have answers of a different sort from her.

She stared up at him with that steady, gray gaze of hers. She had become a practical woman. Efficient. Hardworking. But he remembered another facet of her. A passionate, unrestrained side that she’d locked down like it never existed after that day by the wishing well.

Suddenly, he had to know if that part of her still existed or if it had been stamped out forever by cool practicality.

“You would deny yourself a man’s touch for all your days?” He reached toward her, telling himself he did so only to tease her. To make her feel a fraction of the frustration he’d felt years ago.

Her eyes remained locked on his. Perhaps she did not notice the approach of his fingers until he brushed a lock of her hair just above her temple. The touch had the sense of fate about it, and he recalled another touch, another kiss, another moment so similar to this one. The fact that Cristiana was no longer his did not alter a compelling urge to take her. To steal as much from her and the moment as she would allow.

Chapter Three

Cristiana held her breath at the feel of Duncan’s fingers skimming her temple to sift lightly through her hair. To allow such a touch was foolishness, when they were utterly alone here. Her sister had been wooed to ruination once, and paid for it still. Would Cristiana follow in her footsteps?

Yet a part of her wanted to know if she had imagined the delight she’d once found in Duncan’s caress.

Heaven help her, she had not.

“I understand there will be sacrifices with my choice,” she answered finally, willing herself to step back, out of his reach.

But with her heart thudding a slow, insistent rhythm in her chest, she could not hasten her feet to do her bid ding. There had been a time when she dreamed nightly of belonging to this man—body and soul.

“Do you?” He smoothed his thumb along her cheek and down to her jaw, stopping just below her chin. “Can you truly appreciate what you will miss when you’ve never experienced it?”

Heat sparked over her skin as he drew closer. From this distance, she could see the flecks of gold in his green eyes. Then her gaze flicked down to his mouth as she remembered the feel of his lips upon hers. His kiss had been exquisitely sweet. Patient. Stirring.

A new, small scar speared his top lip with a tiny white line. She found herself wondering what that marred skin would feel like against her mouth if he were to kiss her again.

Her heavy heartbeat sped faster, anticipation humming in her veins even as she reminded herself that he could play this game far better than she could. Five years ago hadn’t he made her believe he cared about her, then raced away to another woman’s arms without ever acknowledging Edwina had a legitimate complaint against Donegal’s brutish behavior?

“I suppose it is easier not to miss something you’ve never had.” Her voice was naught but a whisper between them, a quiet confession for his ears only.

Time dragged out. She wished for some kind of intercession to break the spell he’d cast over her. But perhaps if she indulged this once—if she made a decision to take some small pleasure from him on her own terms—she would not be so plagued with wonder about the attraction she couldn’t deny.

“No good strategist makes a decision without adequate information.” His gaze tracked hers. He handled her gently despite her fears about the Culcanon brutishness. “Perhaps you’ve forgotten the power of even one simple kiss.”

His lips covered hers before she could argue the point. And wasn’t it wicked of her that she did not want to argue it? The arrogant young laird could be mounting a takeover of her keep and yet all that concerned her right now was to test her fanciful memories of him against the truth of the flesh-and-blood man.

Pleasure flooded her faster than strong mead warmed the blood. At the feel of his mouth on hers, her knees wavered. His hand curved about her neck, holding her still for the quick, silken lash of his tongue along the fullness of her lip. She seemed to melt on contact, her whole body swaying until it found the steadying strength of his. Her lips parted, opening to his kiss.

In for a penny, in for a pound. At least this once.

Her fingers clutched at his cloak, seeking anything to steady herself. She gripped the fine wool in clenched fists as her body trembled beneath layers of the worn linen gown meant for working in the brew house. Now, that soft, much-washed fabric afforded her little protection from the raw masculine appeal of his muscular form. Her breasts pressed tight to his chest, the pleasant friction making her head spin with carnal thoughts no maid had a right to consider.

But the feel of her body against his consumed her. This was why she had not wanted to wed. The memory of her last kiss with Duncan had been thus and she feared it would not be the same with any other. For all that she was a maid, she knew deep down this kind of passionate potential did not exist between every man and woman. And—after once having the smallest taste of this soul-stealing excitement—she could not imagine settling for a cold coupling with some man twice her age.

“Cristiana.” Duncan spoke her name over her lips between kisses. “You were meant to be touched. Kissed. Tasted.”

Arching up on her toes, she brushed her mouth to his again, luring him back to wreak the skillful magic that made her senseless with desire. She just needed another moment. A last few stolen minutes to feel passion she’d never know again.

His hands locked about her waist. Holding her against him, yet restraining her from further contact. She blinked, confused.

“Why did you refuse me?” His voice was harsh, all traces of the silken-tongued suitor gone. “Why punish us both for a sin we did not commit? Was it not enough that Edwina broke her oath to Donegal? You had to break yours to me, as well?”

Her senses returned so quickly she felt a chill at the loss of passionate heat. She tried to wrench free, regret stinging sharp. His grip did not budge, however. Emerald eyes pierced hers, demanding answers she had already given.

“Do not pretend to have felt punished when you ran to your leman with the haste of a man who has been at sea for years,” she accused. His defection to another woman’s arms had rubbed salt in a wound since he had murmured sweet words in her ear the day prior about making love to her.

“You are so coldhearted that you would deny a man all comfort? Perhaps I should have sailed straight into battle afterward to take out my fury on an unsuspecting enemy?” His features were hard. Unforgiving. And bore no trace of the man she’d kissed.

Which was just as well. She would rather not face that man again anytime soon.

“The point is that you never gave up your lover when you were pretending to court me. And it was not my sister who broke the oath of the betrothal,” she insisted. “’Twas Donegal who simply took what he wanted without respect to the marriage contract. For my part, I would never wed a man who would take his family’s side so quickly he does not see the truth.”

“I might say the same of you. Why are you so sure your sister did not find Donegal’s bed willingly, only to regret it later? You have seen how persuasive a man’s touch can be.”

The sharp bite of his comment sank long teeth in an old wound. Anger erupted, giving her the strength to yank away.

“How flattering to know you only kiss with a purpose. But I will not defend myself or my sister to you again. You chose long ago to side with your brother who, I’ve since heard, has shown his true nature in your absence by bankrupting your lands and dividing your people. Yet you still believe he acted nobly in his treatment of my sister?” She stalked to the other side of the cook fire beneath the cauldron, needing a barrier between her and any man who could make her so angry.

She had lost so much, thanks to his need to humiliate her. Her family. And could he be so blind to Donegal’s character still? How could she trust him with her own people if he couldn’t discern clearly?

“He may have been a poor manager of people and lands. At the time, I could not see how that made him the beast your sister portrayed him as.” He stalked to the cupboard and retrieved a vessel, then plunged it into an open pot of fermenting mead. “Besides, I saw Edwina depart the hall with Donegal myself that night they consummated their relationship. They stole kisses in the courtyard as they left. And I assure you, Edwina did not give those kisses begrudgingly.”

“Stop.” Cristiana refused to think on that night anymore. She certainly did not want to consider the reckless, headstrong heart her sister had left with, only to return home with bruises and a soreness in her spirit that had never fully recovered. Her anger at Donegal had left Edwina unable to bond with his child, robbing her of the joy she should have felt in motherhood.

Edwina had begged Cristiana to raise her child. The choice had broken her sister’s heart, but at least the decision had been a selfless one. Edwina had recognized that her exile from home and her broken spirit would not help her nurture the child. She had wanted Leah to have every advantage—a secure home, safety from her brutish father and a mother whose heart had not been frozen by violence.

So in order to protect the babe from its father and to salvage Edwina’s reputation, Cristiana had vowed not to reveal Leah’s existence until she was a woman grown. Indeed, the secret was not even hers to tell.

“Stop what? Forcing you to see that an innocent maid may not have understood where teasing kisses lead?” He threw back the contents of the cup and then slammed the empty container on the worktable. “You tossed away your future with both hands because of an incident that was as much Edwina’s fault as anyone else’s.”

“Out.” She could not muster more words than this. Not until she took a few steadying breaths and braced herself against a tall column supporting the rafters. “You need to leave and never speak of it again if you wish to remain under my roof. Good day, sir.”

“But it’s not your roof, and never will be if you do not wed a strong man to rule Domhnaill for you. Perhaps I will put my own name forward as your father’s successor to secure my shelter for the winter.” He stalked from the brew house, turning briefly at the door. “I trust you’ve found a time for me to meet with him?”

“Tomorrow.” She had hoped it would not be so soon, but perhaps a cold reception would send Duncan and his men on their way all the faster. “After we sup.”

With a clipped nod, he pushed open the door, allowing a gust of bracing cold air to rush inside.

“And no need to worry about your place here, Cristiana. When I become laird here, I’m sure I’ll still require a mistress of the mead. Or perhaps you wish to become my leman?”

The barb found its mark when she did not think he could hurt her any more.

“A wise man avoids making enemies with a woman who knows her herbs,” she warned, cursing herself for ever opening her gate to him, let alone her arms. But he was already disappearing into the white swirl of a fresh snowfall outside her door.

Of all the cursed arrogance. How dare he threaten to depose her? Yet she’d committed the gravest mistake of the day. What had she been thinking to allow him to kiss and touch her, knowing he was a man of dangerously seductive skill? Of course, that had been much of the allure. The past had been hounding her ever since Duncan had arrived. Memories of their stolen moments together five years ago. The kiss that had taken place in this very spot.

Duncan thought she sacrificed much to remain unwed. In truth, after experiencing his kiss the first time, it had not been difficult to turn away other suit ors. It had only been a hardship to know she would never wed him.

But he’d become her enemy that day her sister had returned home. She’d sworn then that no Culcanon would ever lay hands on the Domhnaill legacy. And no heated encounters with her former betrothed would sway her to forsake that vow.

At sup that eve, Cristiana would have been content to make excuses not to join her guests, except that the holidays were upon them and she had invited many of her father’s allies to Domhnaill in the hope one of them would prove a strong successor for her father.

She certainly had no desire to see Duncan again so soon after their earlier encounter.

But she had plotted many moons for this festive season with her father’s oldest counselor, Keane, whom she waited for just outside the great hall. Unlike her sire, Keane had not lost his wits, his mind sharp as ever even if his sword arm lacked the strength to take over the keep himself.

The counselor appeared now, striding through the corridor with his irregular gait from an old battle wound. His white hair stood on end, shorn close to his head. He carried a knife at his hip even though it had been many years since he’d ridden off to war. He knew more about what had happened at Domhnaill five years ago than most, but he did not know about Edwina’s child. Except for a midwife and her servant who had witnessed the birth, everyone else privy to little Leah’s presence believed the girl an orphaned noble child left at Cristiana’s door. A resemblance among clans and villages was not unusual, with many a laird spreading bastard children among his lands.

“Good eve, sir.” She hastened to greet the advisor, drawing him aside and quickly explaining the meeting she’d arranged between Duncan and her father. “So if you could just remind the laird of his hatred of the Culcanons right before the meeting, I believe it will help our cause to send Duncan and his men packing.”

The gnarled old knight folded his arms and cupped his jaw. Then shook his head furiously.

“Nay. ’Tis the last thing we want.” He peered to ward the great hall to ensure their privacy, then leaned closer to speak. “I know you girls broke off your marriage contracts after a quarrel with the young men, but do you think it wise to savor your spite for so long when Duncan is the most celebrated knight in the kingdom? What Domhnaill needs is a man like Duncan as laird.”

For a moment, Cristiana wondered if Keane had succumbed to whatever wasting sickness her father had, for his words made no sense. But the shrewdness was still there in his lively blue eyes.

“Never.” She did not need to explain herself. Still, something like cold fear gelled in her veins. “It is a family matter of the utmost delicacy, sir, but I cannot allow that.”

More guests were arriving to sup as the vigorous chatter of some of the villagers mingled with the more refined cadence of the noble families’ conversations. The scent of roast fowl and fish permeated the stone halls and beckoned revelers from all round.

“I may be an old man, missy, but I assure you, I can take a guess at what kinds of delicate matters go on that would offend a lady. I never thought it was right to break a contract the first time, but your father always had a soft heart for you girls. Now, I’m not saying you should marry the man. I’m just saying he would be the best possible choice for a successor.”

When she started to argue, he backed up a step, that uneven gait of his biting her conscience as he hobbled backward.

“No sense getting up in arms,” he protested, tugging on his tunic and smoothing it. “Just think about what’s best for Domhnaill. Your da always did.”

“Keane—” But she would have had to chase him to keep talking. The counselor hastened toward the hall.

“Look around at our other options this eve,” he called over his shoulder as he kept on stumping along. “You’ll see I’m right.”

Frustration twisted her insides. They were nowhere near done with this conversation. True, she had not discovered a strong prospect to lead Domhnaill among her guests. That did not mean she would settle for arrogant Duncan, who’d maneuvered his way into staying here with the cunning of a serpent. Just be cause a man had the sword prowess of a champion did not mean he deserved any part of her homeland.

“Do you appear this angry at every feast in your hall, Lady Cristiana?”

The unwelcome question came from just above her left shoulder, where Duncan suddenly stood. He had appeared from nowhere as she wove through the crowd toward her seat on the dais.

The man moved with the stealth of a hunter.

“Only when I must host arrogant, demanding men over the holidays,” she assured him, wishing his presence did not make her warm all over. She hoped her cheeks did not flush noticeably.

She would have hastened her step if there were not so many people nearby to see her indulge her temper. Hurrying away from her guests would hardly be considered good manners.

Instead, she forced a smile to her lips as Duncan looped her arm through his and escorted her to the dais table. She took the center seat when her father did not dine in the hall, which was most days now. Normally, she sat at her father’s left and Keane to his right, but during the holidays, the dais table was full of high ranking guests. All of those seated had traveled with their wives for the promised festivities of the season, making the number of guests even and leaving the seat beside Cristiana vacant once again. Keane would have normally accepted an invitation to dine with her as her father’s advisor, but he already sat with the knights. She had no choice but to pass another meal with Duncan.

“You think I demand too much?” He bent forward to grasp a handful of her skirts and lifted them slightly for her to slip one foot over the bench to take her seat. “You are free to make your own demands of me. In fact, I would welcome it.”

The unexpected slide of her skirts up her ankle—by his hand, no less—caught her utterly off guard. Whatever strange battle he waged against her, she was clearly the less experienced tactician.

Settling into her seat as quickly as possible, she tugged back her gown in a small skirmish for the velvet under the table. In the end, he relinquished the cloth, but not before his knuckle grazed her thigh in a contact she felt all too well through the layers of linen and velvet.

“Is that so? Then prepare yourself, sir.”

Before she could change her mind, Cristiana stood. She was the mistress of the hall in her father’s absence. She could address the folk of Domhnaill if it served her. The noisy chamber quieted instantly as heads turned her way.

“My good people,” she began, speaking to the high-ranking villagers mixed in the crowd as much as the lofty landowners from neighboring holdings. “I welcome Duncan of Culcanon again this night and have had more time to consider his request.”

Beside her, he stiffened. Good.

“You have generously offered me a portion of the some mysterious treasure at the end of your time with us.” There were a few gasps of surprise and a few cynical laughs. “But in the spirit of the holiday, good sir, we ask that you share some hint of what you seek before then? Your hunt can be our entertainment.”

She sought answers and hoped this would be a way to obtain them. At very least, she had made her court aware of his intentions. No doubt he would not be able to search in secret if everyone in attendance knew what he was about. Perhaps his work would be so hampered by interested attendees that he would leave, frustrated and empty-handed.

For a moment—judging by the dark expression in his gaze—she thought she had succeeded in outfoxing him. But as he rose to his feet, his visage cleared and the carefree courtier appeared again.

Ready to take up her challenge.

“Good mistress, I would not deny you.” Though he spoke to the assembled company, he stood close to her. Very close. As if they were lord and lady of this hall.

With an effort, she smiled up at him and wished she could tug herself away from him as strenuously as she had yanked her skirts from his fingers.

“Then how does your treasure hunting proceed? Tell us what you seek.”

She had put him under the whole court’s scrutiny. All eyes turned to him. Yet his gaze remained steadfastly upon her.

“For now, I can only tell these good people what I’ve found. Nay,” he said, breaking his gaze at her to grin at the assembled folk. “Each day, I will show them instead.”

Murmured interest rolled through the crowd as Duncan turned to her once more.

“Today, my friends, this is what I found.”

Like a bird of prey, he swooped toward her so quickly she could do naught but panic. Wrapping her in his arms in front of the entire company, Duncan of Culcanon drew her to him and kissed her full upon the mouth.

Chapter Four

It was a small victory and it wouldn’t last. But Duncan would never forget the sweetness in that moment he kissed Cristiana.

She’d been so surprised, her lips had parted in exclamation just before his mouth claimed hers. What man would not take advantage of such irresistible temptation? After what had transpired between them in the brew house earlier, he’d counted on the way her body stilled at his touch. He’d known she would not withdraw. Whatever awareness had sparked between them years ago became a potent force now.

When cheers and laughs erupted in the hall, he recognized it was time to retreat. With regret, he relinquished his hold on her.

Suspecting she would be angry all too soon, he savored a fleeting moment when her expression remained starry-eyed. For a moment, he could almost forget he attended her on a mission of deceit. That he’d come to wrest away her keep. Stuffing down those thoughts, he picked up his drinking horn to toast the company and deflect attention away from Cristiana.

“I am sure no other treasure I find will be half so rewarding.” He raised his cup to a hearty round of cheers from his knights. “To the health of your laird and his lovely daughter.”

Cristiana’s face remained bright pink, but she drank to her father’s health and motioned for the servers to start the meal. Upon taking his seat, Duncan noticed her hands shook slightly as she reached for the eating knife on the chain at her waist.

Not for a moment did he believe she trembled out of passion for him. Nay, he felt the anger emanating from her as surely as heat from the sun.

“You left me no choice.” He dipped his head to explain, needing to remain in her good graces for at least a little longer. He had tested her patience in the brew house earlier, but just now he may have worn out what scant welcome he’d had completely. Though he’d arrived at Domhnaill with a large retinue of men, they were unarmed and therefore easier to uproot from a stronghold where they were not wanted.

And it was imperative he remain under her roof. He did not have the forces to take the keep from without.

All around them, diners exclaimed over yet another lavish feast for the holidays. The mighty Yule log still burned brightly in the hearth, echoing the flickering of torches ringing the great chamber. The scent of fragrant pine and honeyed mead mingled with the gingered spices of rich sauces and savory tang of roasted meats.

“You could have simply shared your task with the assembled guests when I asked. Or made up some fanciful lie to distract us from the truth.” She did not look at him as she refilled his mead from a flagon left on the dais table. A fat silver ring set with rubies clanked against the hammered metal pitcher.

“I could not risk having the whole keep learn how deadly serious I am about my quest, lest every villager and guest alike would be tearing apart your lands and the structures upon it to join in the hunt.”

“You cannot be serious.” Frowning, she did not wait for him to serve her a morsel of spicy roasted duck, but speared a bit on the tip of her knife. She tested the heat of the dish by putting the bite close to her lip before nipping it off with her teeth.

“You have not guessed the object of my quest?”

Oddly, she seemed to pale at his words. What did she fear he sought? He tucked away that question to mull over another time. For now, he would share his full purpose with her, if only to draw her into the scheme and keep her quiet while he went about the task.

“I cannot possibly imagine—”

He withdrew her eating knife from her hand and set it aside, determined to serve her if only to maintain an appearance of goodwill between them.

“It is not a conversation for the hall, where anyone might overhear,” he confided, choosing a steaming bit of smoked fish for her.

“There is nothing on my family lands for which you could have any rightful claim.” She did not seem to see the bite of fish he waved in front of her.

There could be no doubt about it now. Her skin had lost all color.

Did she have some knowledge of the prize he sought?

“I have as much right to such a treasure as you.” He kept his voice low as he replaced the food on their trencher. “It belongs with the Culcanons as much as any Domhnaill.”

“It?”

He could not name the emotion behind that one incredulous word.

Cursing below his breath, he put his lips close to her ear and whispered the purpose of his quest.

“The old Viking treasure. I’ve discovered a reliable clue to its whereabouts.”

He expected her to be pleased. The rumored wealth of a long ago mutual ancestor had been buried be fore a Viking invasion to protect it. But he had not anticipated the obvious relief that sent a rush of color back into her cheeks and a burst of laughter from her lips.

“You’re searching for a box of trinkets no one has discovered for some two hundred years?” The news seemed to encourage her appetite for she reached to retrieve her knife.

He clamped the jeweled handle to the table and fed her his fish offering instead. She took it without hesitation, her spirits seemingly restored as much as her appetite. By the rood, what had worried her before? What treasure had she feared he would discover at Domhnaill?

“Aye.” One day he would confide how he came by the medallion with the map he wore about his neck. How his people would not make it through another winter without the spoils from such riches.

But if he could not locate the wealth of the crafty old ancestor who’d fathered both the Culcanon and Domhnaill clans long ago, claiming Cristiana’s lands became all the more crucial. She might laugh at the idea of the Viking treasure, but his finding it was her only possible hope of keeping her lands. And even then? He could not imagine walking away from the strength and resources of Domhnaill. If he did not take it now, what warmongering knight might steal it out from under her? Duncan could not afford an enemy lord so close to home.

“My lady.” A harried-looking young maid that Duncan had not seen before approached Cristiana in the hall.

The maid bit her lip and frowned. Her head scarf was askew and dark curls sprang from the side as if she’d been hard at work on a difficult task.

“Yes?” Cristiana stood immediately, perhaps sensing a matter of some import.

Since the meal was well underway, he could not imagine the woman came to report any problem in the kitchen. Could the maid be a nurse to the old laird?

Duncan tensed. Not only had he liked the lord of Domhnaill, but he also found himself resenting any news that would upset Cristiana. How strange that his world had become bound up in hers again so quickly.

“You said you wished me to fetch you any time—”

“Of course,” Cristiana murmured, seizing the girl’s arm as she attempted to withdraw from the table.

Duncan rose to help her, lifting her skirt to clear the bench and not receiving so much as an ill-favored look this time. But then her mind seemed elsewhere.

“I will come with you.” The distracted expression upon her face concerned him.

“No!” both women exclaimed at once. The maid’s eyes went to Cristiana’s as if to judge her expression.

What did they hide?

“A sick room is no place for a warrior whose strength depends upon good health,” Cristiana explained. “One of the children has a fever that could benefit from herbs and I’m the closest thing to a wise woman Domhnaill has. Please do enjoy the minstrels and the dancing.”

Not waiting for a response, she turned on her heel and hurriedly led the maid from the hall.

Something was not right.

Thinking she would surely lead him to the old laird so he could judge her father’s condition for himself, Duncan eased a narrow taper from its place on a hearthside altar and followed the women through the maze of the darkened keep.

“I think the lass sleeps, my lady,” the maid told Cristiana some hours later.

Cristiana held Leah’s delicate form across her lap, her niece’s head cradled to her shoulder as she sang her patient a third lullaby. Her forehead no longer felt as hot, but Cristiana had not fully recovered from the scare of seeing the girl sweating and pale when she’d entered the bedchamber earlier.

Leah had found some ease, however, from a hot broth with soothing herbs.

“I don’t mind holding her a bit longer,” Cristiana assured her, wiping an auburn curl from Leah’s forehead. “My guests have no need of me at this hour.”

“Yet I did not see the young Culcanon laird bedding down in the great hall.” The maid poured fresh water into a bowl by Leah’s bed and folded fresh linen strips to set beside it in case the girl’s skin needed more cooling in the night. “I mention it only because he seemed concerned for you earlier. Perhaps he awaits some word from you.”

Cristiana did not think that was the case. But what if Duncan roamed the keep at night while everyone else slept? Was he treasure-seeking even then? Or could he be searching for something else under cover of night?

A frightening thought occurred. What if his whole tale of seeking hidden riches was, in fact, a careful fabrication intended to conceal what he really sought?

She peered down at Leah, frightened to her toes.

“Very well.” Cristiana eased out from under the warm weight of the child she’d raised as her own. “I will leave her in your care, but please do have someone fetch me if the fever returns or if she seems uneasy.”

“Of course.” The maid rose to tuck the bed linen around Leah’s shoulders. “Good night, my lady.”

Fearing she’d find Duncan lurking just outside the door to the chamber, Leah shared with a nurse and two other children—an older girl who’d come to foster at Domhnaill and a boy some eight summers fathered by one of the knights, Cristiana was relieved to find the corridor clear. He had not followed her.

Unable to hasten her weary footsteps, she wound her way down the stairs of one tower and paused as she neared the great hall. All the torches had been extinguished for the night, but the hearth fire blazed as if recently stoked. Grunts and moans, giggles and sighs of couples in various stages of passion made Cristiana duck her head and hasten toward the staircase to the tower where her own bed awaited.

She nearly ran into a man and woman cavorting in the shadows outside the hall. Her feet tangled with another pair of feet, her skirts catching on the pant leg of a man who stood close to the tower stairs.

The broad, powerfully made form of the man was unmistakable even in silhouette.

“Duncan?” Righting herself, she heard a woman’s soft giggle and remembered the knight was not alone.

“Cristiana.” He disentwined himself from the female—a maid who worked in the kitchens—and straightened. “I’ve been waiting to speak with you.”

“It doesn’t appear to have been a hardship for you.” She edged around the pair and found the stairwell. “Good eve.”

“Wait.” He followed her up the steps as the sound of his companion’s soft footsteps disappeared into the night behind them. “We must talk privately.”

Turning, she paused on the steps, hoping she did not pitch forward onto him in the dark. Why had she not brought a more substantial torch? The taper she’d taken earlier was hardly enough light to see two steps ahead of her.

“Haven’t you had enough private encounters for one day?” She gripped the rough-hewn stone wall beside her, steadying herself as she recalled that Duncan’s carnal desires had never lurked far beneath the surface, even when he’d been courting her to wed. “You’ve made a spectacle of me already and I am not interested in your kisses, so by all means, return to a more willing partner.”

A surprising amount of anger swirled through her. At him. At her. At the hapless maid who had trysted with him in a darkened corner.

“I did not wish to meet with you to make advances.” His voice was harsh, guttural. Tired, perhaps? She recalled he had awakened early this day, too. “We were to discuss my quest. May I escort you to your solar? Or somewhere else that we will not be overheard?”

She’d forgotten about his treasure-hunting. In those moments in Leah’s room when she’d feared he knew of the little girl’s existence, she’d dismissed the quest as a pretense. Now, she wondered anew.

“My solar is no place for a male guest,” she told him coldly. “Especially one who treats a woman’s honor as lightly as you. Perhaps we may speak on the morrow, where our exchanges may be witnessed, if not overheard.”

Wishing only to seek the safe haven of her bed and escape the constant worried churn of her thoughts, she lifted the taper high and continued her ascent.

“Then at least tell me this much.” Duncan’s voice chased her through the dark even though his feet did not. “Who is the child you tended with such sweet compassion this eve?”

When she turned, Cristiana had the look of a beautiful ghost. Her eyes were wide and luminous, her skin drained of all color.

“I told you before—”

“Aye. But now I am asking who she really is. She wears the garb of a noble child. She speaks like a noble child. You held her in your arms as if—”

“You spied on us?” Oddly, her voice held more panic than anger. That, above all, stirred his suspicions.

If the girl were of no cause for concern, Cristiana would be more irritated than worried. And clearly, she was frightened.

“I had no desire to remain in the hall once you departed. By following you, I hoped to speak with you once you were free from your duties.” Yet instead of dispensing a few herbs to a sick wee one and departing, Cristiana had held the child for hours.

The sight—captured in the moments he peered into the door the maid had not fully shut—had roused a protective instinct within that he had never before experienced. Seeing the maternal side of Cristiana had reminded him of all that she’d robbed him of.

Not just lands, wealth and the increased prestige of ruling Domhnaill. He’d lost a woman who would make a strong yet tender mother.

He swore under his breath. He did not owe her any sympathy. If he was right about the little girl she hid, then Cristiana had deceived him as thoroughly as he tricked her with his pretense for entering her keep.

“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?

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.