Claimed

by Tarah Scott

  Rhoslyn couldn’t believe her ears. “Ye sound as if you agree with him.”

  “I agree with putting someone on the throne in Edinburgh. Not Edward,” he said quickly. “You underestimate our leaders, Rhoslyn. Do ye think they will let Edward dictate to them any more than I did when he ordered me to marry you to St. Claire?”

  “Lot of good your rebellion did,” she muttered.

  “Luck was not with us. Though how St. Claire knew ye were on your way I canna’ say. Did he say how he knew?”

  She shook her head. “Nay. I would like to know that, as well.”

  Her grandfather grunted. “I wouldna’ be surprised to learn he made a pact with the devil.”

  “Just as you did with Edward,” Rhoslyn said.

  “Dinna’ fash yourself over Edward, Granddaughter. Once he has settled the matter of the true successor to the crown, we will deal with him.”

  “And how will you deal with my English husband?” she demanded.

  “You really dinna’ know?” he asked.

  Her pulse jumped. Was he in league with Duncan? “Ye cannot mean murder?” she said in a low voice.

  He laughed. “I would consider it, but, nay. There is a simpler way.”

  “And that is?”

  “Fire up his Scottish blood.”

  Rhoslyn stared. “That is your plan?”

  “Scotland is a siren, and no Scot can resist her song.”

  “God save us,” she muttered.

  Before Rhoslyn could say more, she spied St. Claire. He stood now, casually looking down at Lady Isobel Herbert, and still managed to radiate danger. Rhoslyn wondered if it was the shoulders that filled out the mid-thigh length surcoat he wore, but realized it wouldn’t matter whether he wore chainmail or lawn. St. Claire didn’t look dangerous. He was dangerous.

  Isobel laughed at something he said and laid a hand on his arm. Rhoslyn’s gaze riveted onto her fingers, small and elegant on the sleeve of his shirt. St. Claire seemed not to notice her touch, but Rhoslyn knew he did. He noticed everything. Yet he didn’t step away.

  “Ye had best beware, Granddaughter,” her grandfather said. “Women like Lady Isobel have no compunctions about warming a married man’s bed.”

  “I never had to worry about such things with Alec.” She silently cursed the tremble in her voice. What was wrong with her?

  “Alec was no young man,” her grandfather said.

  Neither was Isobel’s husband, which was one reason she had no qualms about seeking her pleasure elsewhere.

  “I would no’ give St. Claire a reason to bed another woman,” her grandfather said.

  “Men like him do no’ need a reason.”

  “Ye canna’ condemn a man for being a man, nor can you condemn him before he has committed the crime.”

  “He is not rejecting her advances,” Rhoslyn said.

  He unexpectedly looked up from Isobel and met Rhoslyn’s gaze. He said something to Isobel, then started toward Rhoslyn. Her heart pounded. She felt Isobel’s eyes on her and returned the woman’s bold appraisal. Rhoslyn thought she discerned a slight smile on her face and was startled when jealousy stabbed at her. St. Claire approached and Rhoslyn caught sight of his stare.

  Her grandfather leaned close and whispered. “Does the man ever simply look at a body?”

  Rhoslyn wondered the same thing. It seemed as if his eyes pierced to her very soul.

  He stopped in front of Rhoslyn. “Seward.” He nodded at her grandfather, then said to her, “I am pleased to finally see you, Lady Rhoslyn.”

  “I have been here all evening,” she said.

  “Aye, but you have been so busy with the guests, we have had no time together.”

  That had been her plan.

  “You look beautiful.”

  From the corner of her eye, she saw her grandfather’s brows raise. Warmth crept up her cheeks. Alec had told her she was beautiful. No, not beautiful. Lovely.

  “Thank ye,” she said.

  “Will you sit with me?” He didn’t wait for an answer, but said to her grandfather, “Forgive me, Seward, but I have had no time with my wife.”

  “I can remedy that problem.” Her grandfather grasped Rhoslyn’s arm. “Come along, St. Claire.”

  Her heart jumped at the thought that he meant to announce that they were leaving the party to consummate the marriage. “Grandfather.” She choked out the word, then nearly sagged when he started away from the staircase that led to the upper floors. Seconds later, he veered around a group of women with St. Claire at his side, and she realized he was headed toward the musicians.

  “Grandfather,” she said under her breath. “Ye will make a spectacle of St. Claire.”

  They reached the musicians and Rhoslyn pulled free of him. “I am too busy for this nonsense.”

  Her grandfather nodded to the man playing the lute, then leaned close to him and whispered something. The musician continued to play, then nodded when her grandfather straightened.

  He turned to them and said over the music. “Do ye dance the reel, St. Claire?”

  “Of course, he doesna’ dance the reel,” Rhoslyn cut in. “He is not a Scot.”

  “We do dance the reel in England,” St. Claire said.

  Rhoslyn looked at him in horror. “Do you realize what ye are saying? My grandfather intends us to dance.”

  “‘Tis tradition for the newlyweds to dance during the wedding celebration,” her grandfather said. “And St. Claire said he hasna’ had any time with ye.”

  “Dancing is not spending time together,” she snapped.

  Her grandfather lifted a brow. “Ye prefer to retire to your husband’s bedchambers?”

  “Mind your own business, Grandfather.”

  The music ended and the musicians struck up a reel.

  “There is no sense in fighting,” St. Claire said. “It is best we follow tradition.” He extended his right arm and Rhoslyn wanted to box his ears.

  “We canna’ dance just the two of us,” she said.

  “Others will join once you begin,” her grandfather said.

  She shot him a fulminating glance before placing her hand on St. Claire’s arm. He led her forward, and the guests parted. He stopped, took two steps away from her, then bowed as if he truly was in King Edward’s court. Rhoslyn curtsied, then rose as he grasped her fingers in time with the music. He surprised her by turning in a tight circle, then gliding gracefully to the left. St. Claire released her and they danced several steps right as if skirting other dancers. Guests took the hint and three couples joined them, Lady Isobel being one of the ladies.

  Rhoslyn stepped back from St. Claire and the women fell into line alongside her with the men opposite. Lady Isobel, Rhoslyn noticed, had placed herself at the far end where, Rhoslyn estimated she would pair with St. Claire for a dance down the center of the other dancers.

  They all danced forward to within inches of one another, then back. Rhoslyn glided to the middle where the man to her opposite left met her and grasped her fingers as they turned a tight circle. The ladies faced one another and bobbed around each other, back to back in a circle, then fell back into line. The men did the same and Rhoslyn caught St. Claire’s eye. A corner of his mouth ticked up and he shrugged. She couldn’t help a laugh and the smile reached his eyes.

  A nervous flutter skittered across the inside of her stomach. This man was the Dragon. The dragon Duncan said would aid his king in bleeding Scotland dry. The same dragon who only this afternoon chased a goat and rescued a peasant’s wedding dress. Rhoslyn startled at the unexpected memory of his hips between her thighs when she’d straddled him.

  Her stomach flipped as the men fell into line. St. Claire and Lady Isobel stepped back on opposite sides when the rest of the dancers clasped hands and began circling. From the corner of her eye, Rhoslyn glimpsed Isobel’s gaze pinned on St. Claire. Ire whipped through her. She took a step too wide, causing the dancer to her right to stumble. The woman righted herself, and they came to a stop full circ
le, then separated into two lines.

  St. Claire grasped Isobel’s hand and they skipped down the center of the aisle formed by the other dancers. Isobel looked up at him from beneath her lashes as they separated in front of Rhoslyn and the man opposite her. Isobel’s gaze remained on him. Rhoslyn stuck out her foot beneath Isobel’s swirling skirts. Isobel pitched forward with a cry. St. Claire whirled amidst screams and scooped her up before she hit the floor. The other dancers rushed to surround them as Isobel wilted against him. St. Claire started toward the nearest table.

  “Are ye all right?” one woman asked.

  “Poor thing,” Margery Kincaid said. “That was well done, Sir Talbot. She would have had a nasty fall if no’ for ye.”

  Rhoslyn stared, stunned at her actions, and furious with Isobel—and St. Claire—all in one. What had gotten into her? A woman brushed past her and hurried after the group. Rhoslyn forced her legs into motion and followed. St. Claire stopped at one of the tables. Isobel looked like a small, fragile bundle in his arms. Her sky blue dress a soft contrast against his frame. He surely couldn’t help but notice the dainty fingers that fisted his shirt.

  He lowered her into a chair, but she shook her head and clung to him. Rhoslyn rolled her eyes. Isobel was acting as if he had saved her from falling off a cliff instead of a tumble to the floor. He settled her on the chair, but she didn’t release his surcoat and he was forced to crouch beside her. He pulled back and she looked at him with tear stained eyes.

  Rhoslyn hurried to the far end of the table where sat pitchers of ale. She filled a mug, then pushed through the crowd gathered around Isobel and St. Claire.

  Rhoslyn wanted nothing more than to splash the ale in Isobel’s face, but instead, thrust the mug toward the hand that gripped her husband’s shirt.

  “Drink,” she ordered.

  As expected, Isobel released St. Claire and reflexively grasped the mug with both hands. St Claire rose and Isobel’s gaze jerked up to Rhoslyn, eyes stormy. Recognition flickered and the pique vanished.

  “Thank ye, Lady Rhoslyn.” She took a tiny sip of ale and Rhoslyn had to refrain from rolling her eyes.

  St. Claire stepped back and the ladies closed ranks around Isobel, cooing as if she’d been snatched from death’s door. Rhoslyn turned and found St. Claire beside her. He slid an arm around her waist and started walking. Rhoslyn hoped he couldn’t hear the pounding of her heart.

  “Are ye sure Lady Isobel will be all right?” Rhoslyn asked.

  “She is well tended by the ladies,” he replied.

  Rhoslyn snorted. “The ladies’ attention isna’ what she wants.”

  “What does she want?” he asked.

  “Dinna’ be naive,” Rhoslyn said.

  “She does like the attention of men,” he commented.

  “And they do no’ mind,” she shot back.

  “Lady Rhoslyn, you sound jealous.”

  “Jealous? Bah! I am sickened by such behavior. This is our wedding celebration, yet she fawned over ye as if you were a stable boy for the taking.”

  “I would not go that far. Though I am pleased you remember this is our wedding celebration.” He navigated around a cluster of men. “Did your cousin remember that as well?”

  Rhoslyn snapped her head up to meet his gaze. “What?”

  St. Claire looked down at her. “Did he wish you well in your marriage?”

  “He isna’ happy with the match.” There was no use denying the obvious.

  “He was not happy when I forced him to vacate Glenbarr Castle,” St. Claire replied.

  Rhoslyn stopped walking. “Ye forced him to leave? This has been his home for twenty years.”

  “Would you have me keep an adder in my home?”

  What had Duncan done to reveal his true feelings to St. Claire?

  “You are very free with calling my home yours,” she said.

  “Our home, then. Would you rather he lived here at Castle Glenbarr?”

  The truth was, she wouldn’t. She had never been overly pleased to have Duncan living with them when Alec was alive. But, as he’d said, he’d helped manage Alec’s affairs. Given his hostility toward St. Claire, she would have send him on his way if St. Claire hadn’t.

  “He would no’ be happy,” she said.

  St. Claire started forward again. He pulled Rhoslyn close and squeezed between two groups of men. “I imagine he would like to kill me.”

  Rhoslyn stumbled. His hold around her waist tightened and she caught herself.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “Aye.”

  “I hit the mark, then?” he said.

  “Hit the mark?”

  “Duncan wants to kill me.”

  It wasn’t a question. The man was too discerning. “If ye suddenly died, he would no’ shed a tear.” Rhoslyn caught sight of Andreana seated at the main trestle table and surrounded by several of St. Claire’s men. “I told ye that I didna’ want your men taking up with my women. That includes Andreana. A pack of your dogs have her cornered.”

  He slowed and his gaze shifted to the group. Rhoslyn expected him to shrug off her concerns, but his eyes darkened and he steered them toward the group.

  They reached her, and the men stepped back.

  St. Claire released Rhoslyn, and said to the men, “You have better things to do than speak with Lady Andreana. Remember that in the future.”

  The men scattered. Rhoslyn sat on the bench beside Andreana. St. Claire sat beside Rhoslyn. She glanced sharply at him, then turned her attention to Andreana.

  “You should no’ be spending time with St. Claire’s men.”

  St. Claire began pouring ale into three mugs. Discomfort sent a ripple of awareness along Rhoslyn’s arm when his arm brushed hers.

  “They were only talking to me,” Andreana said. “We sat in plain sight of all your guests.”

  St. Claire set ale in front of Rhoslyn, then Andreana. “Your mother is right.”

  Andreana frowned. “They did nothing untoward.”

  “Aye, they did,” he said. “They know it is improper to approach you. Not a one of them is in a position to win your affections.”

  “Because they are mere knights?” she asked.

  He laughed. “Most are not even knights, Lady. They are simple men-at-arms. They should not deign to look in your direction.”

  “There are some who say the same of you and Lady Rhoslyn.”

  “Andreana,” Rhoslyn cut in, but St. Claire interrupted.

  “When a king bestows land upon one of them and then betroths him to you, I will agree he is worthy.”

  Andreana frowned.

  “You will not encourage them,” Rhoslyn said. “Do you understand?”

  “I gave them no encouragement.”

  “A smile is encouragement enough for any man,” St Claire said.

  His mouth twitched with amusement and he looked at Rhoslyn. She smiled before realizing the reaction and his smile broadened.

  He returned his attention to Andreana. “A simple smile, my lady. Nothing more is needed.”

  Chapter Twelve

  It was true. A woman’s smile was enough to encourage a man to commit even murder. Tonight, however, Talbot was fortunate that Lady Rhoslyn’s smile had simply haunted him, which was enough to make him once again curse his brother to hell. If Talbot knew where Dayton was, he would ride an entire month to lay hands on him, then kill him. Talbot gave a private laugh. It would seem her smile had incited him to murder after all.

  The reverie showed no signs of abating as Rhoslyn disappeared into the kitchen. She remained animated and busy, clearly intent upon staying up until the very last guest retired. But Talbot recognized the fatigue in the corners of her eyes and knew he was the reason she hadn’t sought her bedchambers.

  He wondered if she might try to avoid the hunt tomorrow and sleep while he hunted with the guests. That he wouldn’t allow. Neither would he allow her to be so exhausted she fell from her horse.

  Talbot fi
nished the last of the wine he was drinking, then rose. He skirted the guests until he reached the kitchen, and went inside. The bustle in the room came to a halt and Rhoslyn looked up from the platter she was filling with meat.

  Her brow furrowed. “Is there something ye need, St. Claire?”

  “Aye.” He came to her side and cupped her elbow. “It is time we retired, Lady Rhoslyn.”

  Her eyes widened, then her brows dove down in ire. Talbot easily guessed she wanted to tell him to go to the devil, but she was a highborn lady, and such ladies didn’t bare their feelings before servants...feelings that included the memory of a man who had violated her days before.

  Mistress Muira entered from the pantry. She took the room in at a glance, then said in a clipped voice, “Back to work, lasses.”

  The room jumped to life and Talbot plucked a piece of pork off the plate Rhoslyn had been filling and popped it into his mouth.

  “Are ye hungry, St. Claire?” she asked.

  “Nay. It just smelled too good to resist.” He shifted his gaze onto her. “Like you, my lady.”

  To his surprise—and satisfaction—a pretty blush crept up her cheeks.

  “Ye may go to your bedchambers, if you like,” she said. “I will join you there later. We have many guests still celebrating. I must see to them.”

  Talbot poured a cup of wine from a pitcher. “You must see to them?”

  “Of course. It is my duty.”

  He emptied the glass and sat it on the counter. Then he pulled her close. Her head snapped up and Talbot bent and brushed his lips across hers in a gentle kiss. When he pulled back her eyes smoldered with fury.

  “Come along, Lady Rhoslyn. Mistress Muira is capable of handling kitchen tasks.” He looked at the older woman.

  “Aye, laird. I have things in hand.”

  “Please send up wine to my chambers, Mistress.” Arm still around Rhoslyn, he led her across the room to the servants’ stairs.