Simon lifted the lid and sniffed.
“Spice. And a bit of rose, I believe.” He looked at Dominic, blandly, trying not to show his amusement.
“God save me,” Dominic said without heat. “I’ll smell like a sultan’s harem.”
Simon’s black eyes danced. He snickered behind his blond beard, but was careful not to laugh out loud.
With quick motions, Dominic laid aside the rest of his clothes, completing the burial of the small chest. In the wavering light, the long scar that cut diagonally across his muscular arm and torso had the nacreous shine of a pearl.
Dominic stepped into the bath and sat, threatening to send water overflowing out onto the floor. He made a sound of pleasure as the hot water lapped to his chin, easing the ache that came from his old injury when he was particularly tired.
“Soap?” Simon asked blandly.
Dominic held out his hand. A glob of soap plopped onto his palm. A fragrance that was almost familiar drifted up to his nostrils. Frowning, trying to remember where he had smelled that scent before, Dominic began working the soap into his hair and beard.
“Now,” he said through the lather, “explain this nonsense about the lord of Blackthorne Keep being cursed.”
“His wife was a witch.”
“The same could be said of many wives.”
Simon laughed curtly. “Aye, but Lady Anna was Glendruid.”
Dominic’s hands paused in their scrubbing of beard and hair. “Glendruid…Have I heard that name?”
“They’re a Celtic clan,” Simon explained. “A kind of matriarchy, from what I can discover.”
“Hell’s teeth, what foolishness,” Dominic muttered.
With that, he lowered himself completely beneath the water, rinsing out the fragrant lather. Moments later he emerged with a force that sent water flying. Cursing, Simon jumped aside.
“Go on,” Dominic said.
Shaking water from his tunic with one hand, Simon used the other to slap soap onto Dominic’s palm with enough force to draw a hard look.
“A man who takes a Glendruid wife will have fields that prosper,” Simon said, “lush pastures, ewes that give twins, industrious and obedient vassals, brimming fish ponds, and—”
“A staff like a war stallion and eternal life,” Dominic interrupted, impatient with the superstitious nonsense.
“Oh, has Sven talked to you already?”
Dominic gave his younger brother a glittering gray glance.
Simon grinned widely and his black eyes danced with amusement.
“Where is this benighted Glendruid place?” Dominic asked dryly. “To the south where the Celts run amok?”
“Some say so.” Simon shrugged. “Others say to the north. A few say east.”
“Or west? The sea, perhaps?”
“They are people, not fish,” retorted Simon.
“Ah, that is a relief. It would be arduous indeed to bed the daughter of a flounder. A man wouldn’t know how to grip the creature. Or precisely where.”
Laughing, Simon held out a large drying cloth to his brother. As Dominic stood, water ran off his big body in cascades, splashing and gathering until it reached the gutter and dropped unheard into the moat far below.
“This Glendruid nonsense will end within the year,” Dominic said, “when my son is born.”
Simon smiled slightly. He knew well his brother’s determination to found a dynasty. Simon had the same determination himself.
“Until your heir is born,” Simon said, “take care what you say in public about the Glendruid tale. It is a superstition dearly held by the local people.”
“In public I will believe. But the bedchamber is a private place. I will have my heirs.”
“’Tis a good thing the sultan’s harem nursed you back to health,” Simon said. “Your wife won’t have cause to complain of her treatment when it is time to make heirs. The harem girls were admirably trained.”
For an instant, Dominic thought of getting Meg in his bedchamber, of fanning her hair like soft fire across the pillows before he opened her thighs and sheathed himself in another kind of soft fire. His blood ignited like dry grass at the image.
“The trick is to get a girl into the bedchamber,” Dominic said irritably, trying to cool the heat in his blood.
“I doubt there is a female in this keep who wouldn’t be delighted to take your staff in hand.”
“There’s one,” Dominic said dryly.
“The elusive Margaret.”
Lady Margaret hadn’t been the woman Dominic had been thinking of at that moment, but he said nothing. Instead, he began drying himself vigorously.
“The lady will come to heel soon enough,” Simon said after a moment. “She is noble born. She may not like her duty, but she will do it. As for the rest, there are always the wenches around the keep. Or the gifted Marie.”
“A pretty whore, but a whore nonetheless. I brought her and her like for my knights, not for myself. I don’t want trouble with my vassals over their daughters.”
“I know. I’m the only one who believes it, however.”
Dominic grunted and continued rubbing himself dry rather forcefully. The thought of one of his knights catching the maid from the mews alone made cold rage uncoil in Dominic’s gut.
“I had better warm my knights once again,” he said flatly. “They will neither harry nor harrow unwilling girls. Particularly none with hair the color of fire, skin like fine cream, and eyes to equal a sultan’s most prized emeralds.”
Simon lifted his eyebrows in silent surprise. “I thought you didn’t care for ‘whey-faced wenches.’”
“There is a difference between cream and whey,” Dominic retorted.
“You sound quite taken with the wench. That is unlike you.”
Dominic shrugged. “She is an unusual maid. Cleaner by far than the average country lass, graceful of limb, and with delicate hands.”
“You always preferred the ripe and willing type, a rose full-blown and eager for the bee’s sweet sting.”
“Aye.”
“Is she willing?”
The smile Dominic gave his brother made Simon laugh.
“She will be,” Dominic said. “She was taken with me, though she was nervous of it. Ah, what a joy she will be to seduce. She was made for spring, the season of desire. There will be no winter for the man who sleeps within her warm sheath. She will—”
Abruptly Dominic stopped speaking and turned toward the sound of hurrying footsteps.
“Lord Dominic,” called the squire from beyond the drapery.
“What is it?” Dominic asked impatiently. “Have you found her?”
“Lady Margaret’s handmaiden wishes to speak with you. Most urgent it is, lord.”
“God’s blood,” muttered Dominic.
He wrapped the drying cloth around his hips, grabbed his cape, and whirled it around his shoulders to ward off the chilly drafts.
“Why is it the only women you can find are the ones you don’t wish to see at all?” he grumbled.
Simon opened his mouth to speak, but Dominic wasn’t finished.
“Whey-faced whelp of a temple whore…” he said beneath his breath. “God’s eyes, but she is a tiresome female.”
“Is that a yea or a nay to Eadith’s request for an audience?” Simon asked.
“Send the good widow in,” Dominic said in a normal tone.
Eadith must have been listening closely. The drapery shifted and she walked in. When she realized how little Dominic was wearing, her eyes widened into a stare.
“Speak,” he said irritably. “Where is your mistress?”
“Lady Margaret begs your understanding. She is indisposed,” Eadith said hurriedly.
Yet despite her unease, Simon noted that the widow’s pale blue eyes fairly ate every bit of the lord who stood unconcerned before her, fresh from his bath.
Dominic glanced at the handmaiden’s pale features, flaxen hair, and thin lips, and wished himself once more back
among the Saracen women. Their darkly golden skin had been as seductive as the sideways glances from lustrous black eyes. Next to them, the women of the northern marches seemed as pale and uninteresting as cotter’s cheese.
Except for one green-eyed girl, and she had fled him as quickly as her shapely legs could take her. The memory of it still angered Dominic.
God’s blood! Since when does a gentle caress send a wench running?
“Indisposed, is it?” Dominic said silkily. “Nothing serious, I trust.”
“Her father is ill. Surely that is serious?”
“I am her future husband.” Dominic’s teeth showed in a thin curve of white against his black beard. “Surely that is serious?”
The cold white gleam of his teeth made Eadith shift her feet uneasily. The motion sent ripples through the worn woolen folds of her tunic.
“Of course, lord.”
“Take my greetings to Lady Margaret, and my most urgent wish to meet my future wife,” Dominic said distinctly. “Simon, the gift.”
His brother hesitated.
Dominic raised his left eyebrow in a silent warning.
Simon nodded curtly, scooped aside Dominic’s discarded clothes, and opened the small chest. He picked out a piece of jewelry that rested on top of the gleaming heap, Dominic’s choice as a gift for his reluctant bride.
“Take that to her,” Dominic said. “A small token of my regard for my betrothed.”
At Dominic’s careless gesture, Simon stepped forward and dropped a brooch into Eadith’s hand. She gasped audibly as she felt the weight of the gold and saw the fine green gem that was larger than her thumbnail.
“Why, ’tis the exact color of Lady Margaret’s eyes!”
Instantly Dominic thought of the maid in the mews. His eyes narrowed in sudden speculation. Meg had been too proud and quick-spoken for a cotter’s child. He would have realized it sooner had he not been blinded by the sensuous curves of her lips and breasts.
“Is that common among Blackthorne vassals?” Dominic asked idly.
“Nay, lord. None but she and her mother before her had such green eyes. ’Tis the mark of Glendruid blood.”
Dominic’s eyes narrowed even more.
Simon watched his brother uneasily. He had seen that look of cold assessment many times before, in the instants before a battle was joined. Yet there were no armed enemies here, no war horns calling knights to defend God’s city.
“So heavy, my lord,” Eadith said. “’Tis a fine gift any lady would be proud to wear.”
The handmaiden’s fingers caressed the brooch with an envy she couldn’t quite conceal.
Dominic looked to Simon and nodded slightly.
Without a word Simon turned and went to the chest once more. For a moment or two he fished about in the contents. The faint, unmistakable sound of gold coins and chains rubbing over one another whispered musically in the silence.
Simon grunted as he found what he sought. He turned toward his brother and held up another brooch.
Impatiently Dominic nodded.
Simon stepped forward, took Eadith’s empty hand, and dropped the bit of jewelry onto her palm. There was no gemstone in this brooch, but its weight testified to its value. Startled, she looked up and met Dominic’s cold silver eyes.
“For you,” Dominic said.
Eadith’s jaw dropped.
“Plain enough to see that the keep and its people have not been blessed with plenty of late,” Dominic said as kindly as he could manage to the girl whose pale eyes and thin smile he had disliked on sight. “The widow of a brave knight should have a few bright bits of jewelry to please her vanity.”
Eadith closed her hand around her brooch so fiercely that one edge cut visibly into her flesh.
“Thank you, Lord Dominic.”
“It is nothing.”
He saw the direction of Eadith’s eyes as she bowed her head to him. Her pale blue glance was drawn to the chest like iron to a lodestone. Simon noticed too. He shut the chest with a casual gesture even as he gave his brother a hooded look of disapproval.
“Will there be anything else you require?” Eadith asked.
“No. Just take the brooch to Lady Margaret with my greetings. And send my squire in with supper.”
Simon watched the handmaiden hurry through the doorway as though afraid of being called back and forced to give up the brooch. When he was certain he couldn’t be overheard, Simon turned back to his brother.
“Now the whole countryside will know what was in those chests they watched being carried into the keep,” Simon said neutrally.
“It’s a good thing for vassals to know their new lord isn’t so poor he will have to wring blood from them to keep his knights well fed and better armed.”
“And for future brides?” Simon said. “Is it also a good thing for them to know?”
“Particularly for future brides,” Dominic said with harsh satisfaction. “I’ve yet to see a female whose eyes didn’t brighten at the sight of golden trinkets.”
“Always the tactician.”
Dominic smiled rather grimly as he thought of the emerald-eyed wench who had neatly outmaneuvered him in the mews.
“Not always, Simon. But I learn from my mistakes.”
4
A CRISP WIND BLEW THROUGH THE bailey, lifting skirts and short coats and sending smoke from the kitchen fires leaping up toward the gray sky. Although Meg usually enjoyed a brisk spring breeze scented by the first rush of growing plants, at the moment she was too irritated to notice anything but the gamekeeper who stood uneasily before her.
“What do you mean, there will be no venison?” Meg asked, her voice unusually sharp.
The gamekeeper looked away and twisted his hands nervously. “The pale, m’lady. ’Tis so fallen down in places a hare could leap it, much less a stag. The deer…they’re fled.”
“How long has the deer park been in such a state?”
Looking only at his feet, the gamekeeper mumbled something.
“Speak up,” she said. “And look at me while you speak.”
Meg rarely took such a tone with the keep’s vassals; but then, she was rarely lied to by them.
That wasn’t the case now. The gamekeeper’s falsehoods were so great they were sticking in his throat like chicken bones.
“I…the winds…uh…” he said.
Pale blue eyes beseeched Meg, stirring unwilling compassion in her.
“Good man, who told you to lie to me?” she asked gently.
Hands roughened by bowstrings, snares, and skinning knives pleaded silently for Meg’s kindness.
“The laird,” whispered the gamekeeper finally.
“He’s too weak to leave his bed. Have you been to his chamber, then, to receive your orders to lie to the mistress of the keep?”
The gamekeeper shook his head so hard his oily hair lifted. “Sir Duncan, mistress. He told me.”
Stillness came over Meg. “What did Duncan tell you?”
“No venison for the Norman.”
“I see.”
And she did.
It chilled Meg. She had been glad to see Duncan return from the Crusade, for his cousin Rufus wasn’t interested in keeping peace with Henry. No matter how little she liked the idea of being pawned to a strange Norman knight in order to keep peace in the northern marches, Meg liked the thought of bloodshed less. The constant chivvying and thrusting against the English king—and among ambitious Saxons while leaders such as Duncan were off pursuing a holy Crusade—had worn out Blackthorne Keep’s people, its fields, and its hope of a better future.
The vassals blamed their ill fortune on their lord and on the revenge of a Glendruid witch mated to the wrong man. Meg blamed the ruined fields on the inattention of her father, a man obsessed with stopping the advance of the English by marrying his daughter to a thane known as Duncan of Maxwell, the Scots Hammer.
Ah, Duncan. Don’t succumb to my father’s lures. They will lead to plague and starvation, bloody meadows
and an early grave.
“M’lady?”
The gamekeeper’s voice was uncertain. The lord’s daughter looked pinched and drawn, far too old for even an unmarried maid of nineteen.
“You may go,” Meg said tightly. “Thank you for the truth, though it nearly came too late. Make plans to kill a stag. There will be venison at this wedding feast, even though it will be tough for want of hanging.”
The gamekeeper’s dirty fingers touched his forelock, but he didn’t leave.
“Is there more?” she asked.
“Duncan,” he said simply.
“He is not the lord of Blackthorne Keep. Nor will he be. I, however, am the lady. And I will remain so.”
The gamekeeper took one look at the narrowed green eyes watching him and decided to let the lords and ladies fight it out among themselves. He was going hunting.
“Aye, m’lady.”
Meg watched the gamekeeper trot across the bailey to the gatehouse with gratifying speed. But the gratification, like the man’s speed, was short-lived.
This fighting must end, Meg told herself silently. There will be no one left to bury the dead, nor any food for the living. One more year of meager crops will be the end of Blackthorne Keep.
A sliding, changing pressure at Meg’s ankles distracted her. When she glanced down, Black Tom looked back up at her with feline intensity.
“Not yet, cat. First I must see Duncan.”
Black Tom stropped himself once more and walked off in the direction of the granary. Meg wished him luck. She doubted there was enough grain inside the structure to lure a mouse from the meadow stubble’s skimpy food.
Holding her simple head cloth and leather circlet against the searching wind, Meg started for the keep.
“THE church will agree to your marriage,” Lord John said hoarsely. “All you have to do is take the Norman’s gold. And his life with it!”
A savage smile transformed Duncan’s face, revealing the Viking ancestry that ran through Scots blood like lightning through a storm.
“Done,” he said.
And then Duncan laughed.
John’s pale lips shifted in a smile that was colder than the stones of the keep. His bastard son was much like him in ways that went beyond hazel eyes and hair the color of freshly turned loam; both men were warriors who gave no quarter and asked for none.
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