Neither, he told himself brutally. She is too well defended to take without a cost that would turn brief victory into lifelong defeat.
Then what? Think!
The best way to take a stronghold is by treachery from within.
The thought rang within Dominic’s mind like thunder. As the last echoes of understanding faded, the noose that had been tightening around Dominic’s chest since the lord’s dying curse began to ease minutely.
Treachery.
From within.
Aye!
I felt her startled breath and saw the color rise to her cheeks. There is passion in the witch. I will use it for my own ends.
When Dominic took the remaining steps to Meg’s rooms, he was fully in control of himself once more. He was going into battle, and he knew it. The taming and eventual seduction of his Glendruid witch would be the most important and difficult victory of his life.
But first he had to get through her door.
Unlike many of the other chambers opening off the hall, Meg’s room had a stout door as well as a curtain that could be drawn across to cut drafts if the door were left open. The door, however, was shut. From the look of its heavy brass hinges, it would take a battle-ax and a stout yeoman to open the door short of the mistress’s agreement.
The sound of Dominic’s mail-encased fist striking the wood of the door was loud in the empty hallway. Grimacing, he knocked again, but more lightly.
“Who goes?” Eadith called.
“A husband looking for his bride,” Dominic retorted.
Inside the room, Meg flinched subtly, hearing the echoes of buried rage in Dominic’s voice.
“Open the door,” Meg said. “Then leave us.”
Eadith looked uncertain.
“It is a husband’s right to be with his wife,” Meg said with a serenity she was far from feeling. “Go.”
The handmaiden hesitated before she turned away. She opened the door, nodded to Dominic, and eased past him. The speed with which she retreated down the hall told Dominic that he wasn’t wearing his most reassuring expression.
“Do I frighten your maid?” he asked neutrally, stepping into the room.
“Yes.”
“But not you.”
Meg’s lips shaped an uncertain smile. Dressed in hauberk and sword, chain mail glittering as though alive with each movement of his powerful body, Dominic looked like a devil come to life. She glanced down at her hands. They rested with false calmness in her lap. The events of the day had almost numbed her ability to feel anything.
Almost, but not quite. She kept remembering Dominic’s exquisite restraint with the peregrine, and the warmth that had made his gray eyes smoky when he had whispered to her of his sword lying within her sheath.
Caught between John’s curse and Glendruid hope, the possibility of warmth in Dominic called irresistibly to Meg. She wanted him to seek that same warmth in her, to come to her without the calculation and cold self-control of a tactician planning a battle.
“Your guests have been seen to,” Meg said.
She spoke formally, reporting to her new lord about the state of his keep as she had once reported to John.
“My guests?” Dominic asked silkily. “I wasn’t the one who invited Reevers to my wedding.”
“The purser will have accounts for you to check on the morrow,” Meg continued, “unless you wish me to do it for you as I did for my fath—that is, for John.”
Dominic grunted. “I see you’ve managed quite nicely to quell your grief at his death.”
“There is little to grieve after. He has been in much pain since harvest. Now he is in pain no more.”
“Blackthorne’s people seem to feel as you do about their lord’s departure. Only Duncan was truly saddened.”
“Aye. Fath—John always was different with Duncan. More kind.” Meg shrugged tightly. “Now I know why.”
Dominic said nothing. For a few moments he simply watched his bride with the unflinching stare of an eagle.
Though Meg said nothing more, it was impossible for her to remain wholly still under her husband’s cool regard. Without realizing it, she reached for one of the smooth river pebbles she kept in a dish by her table. The shape and texture and gentle weight of the stone soothed her.
Silently Meg waited for Dominic to speak. As she waited, she let the pebble glide lightly from her palm to her fingertips and back, leaving in its wake cool memories of the hours she had spent listening to the river Blackthorne run clean and bright from its lake in the fells. Through forest and glen to Blackthorne Keep’s fields the water sang, and from there it ran on to the mysterious sea.
“What is the sea like, my lord?” Meg asked wistfully.
The unexpected question—and the poignancy of Meg’s smile—surprised Dominic.
“Restless,” he said simply. Then, remembering, “Wild. Beautiful. Dangerous.”
Breath came out of Meg in a long sigh. For the first time since Dominic had come into the room, she met his glance.
And for the first time, Dominic realized that Meg was afraid of him despite her brave appearance. He wondered why. There was nothing he could do to her that wouldn’t rebound doubly on himself, his dreams, his hopes. Like a wolf in a snare, no matter which way he turned, the snare only tightened more.
“Do you fear the Glendruid curse won’t protect you?” Dominic asked.
The edge in his voice couldn’t be entirely concealed.
“Protect me?”
“From rape,” Dominic said bluntly. “From me.”
Meg’s hand clenched around the pebble. It was no longer cool and soothing. Slowly she forced her fingers to relax.
“I know my duty as a wife,” she said in a low voice. “You’ll not have to beat me until I can’t run away.”
“Is that what you expected?”
Again, Meg shrugged tightly. “Yes.”
“Is that what John did to your mother?”
“Once.”
“But no more.”
“Aye. Just once.”
“What happened?” Dominic asked smoothly. “Did lightning cleave the keep in twain?”
“She went into the woods. Shortly afterward, a storm came. Hail destroyed the crops in the field and the forage in the pasture. Because the sheep were hungry, they ate a deadly weed, sickened, and died.”
Dominic grunted. “All because your mother had been soundly beaten for cuckholding her lord?”
Meg’s face drew into tight, unreadable lines. “The priest found no stench of the Devil on the land. Never once, no matter how many times my father paid for exorcism!”
“The storm was mere coincidence, then.”
“Some believe so.”
“But the simple people of the keep…they believe their fate is bound up in that of their lady, the Glendruid witch.”
“Aye,” Meg said.
“Do you?” Dominic pressed, curious about the girl who was now his wife.
She shrugged and threw back the silver hood of her mantle, feeling stifled by the past, by the present, by the future; and most of all by the man looming over her like a storm on the savage edge of breaking.
“It matters not what I believe,” she said tonelessly.
Dominic looked at the fiery cascade of Meg’s hair against the silver fabric of her tunic. Without meaning to, he reached out to touch a silky lock.
Meg flinched away before she could control herself.
“Did he beat you, too?” Dominic asked.
She said nothing. She didn’t have to. The tightness of her body as she waited for a blow to fall said all that was needed.
“God’s teeth,” Dominic muttered. “’Tis just as well he is dead. It saves me the trouble of sending him to Hell with my own hands.”
Silence expanded in the room while Dominic studied the girl who looked so fragile, and yet…
And yet, somehow this slender reed had managed to confound the hopes of a powerful Saxon lord. Though she had flinched at Dominic’s u
nexpected movement toward her, she had quickly controlled herself. The witch was far from cowed. She sat with spine straight and head high, measuring him even as he measured her.
Reluctantly Dominic found himself admiring Meg’s spirit, though he knew it would put him to much trouble as a husband.
This one will come willingly or not at all. God’s teeth, what a trial for a man who wants only peace!
Then, almost secretly, came another thought. I shall enjoy taming her even more than the peregrine. To hear soft cries of pleasure from her lips as I bathe every part of her in my breath, my touch…
And to know with each cry that I will have sons of the witch!
Deliberately Dominic pulled off first one mailed gauntlet, then the other, and tossed them to the table. They thumped heavily into place between the bowl of river pebbles and a box that held bright, fragile twists of floss used for embroidery. A quick glance around the room told him that there was no substantial chair save the one Meg was using.
“That will have to be remedied,” he muttered.
“I beg your pardon?”
Dominic looked at the wary green eyes that were watching him.
“There is no place for a man to sit,” he said.
Gracefully, Meg got to her feet and gestured to the empty chair.
“I’m not such a churl as to take a lady’s chair,” Dominic said.
“I’d rather stand than sit whilst you loom over me with your fists on your hips.”
Dominic’s mouth formed a wry twist as he realized Meg was correct. His fists were indeed on his hips as though he were about to upbraid a knight for abusing a war-horse or a squire for not taking suitable care of his knight’s armor.
“The day has been…” Dominic’s voice faded.
“Trying?” offered Meg.
“Aye. That and more. ’Tis like having to fight again a battle you were certain was already won.”
When Meg saw the soul-deep weariness beneath Dominic’s discipline, her heart turned over with the same compassion for him that she had for the people of Blackthorne Keep; for he was one of them now.
“Your hauberk is heavy, husband. May I help you out of it?”
Dominic gave her a startled look and nodded.
The fastenings were unfamiliar to Meg. While she fussed and tugged, Dominic watched her bent head. Scents of spice and roses floated up to him from her hair, reminding him of the soap he had been using since he had come to the keep.
“You smell like a garden,” Dominic said.
The change in his voice from weariness to velvet darkness startled Meg. She looked up so quickly that her hair shifted and shimmered like wind-blown flame.
“’Tis my soap.”
“Yes. Do I smell like a garden, too?” he asked.
The humor curling through Dominic’s voice was as unexpected as his question. Meg smiled and ducked her head.
“You smell of battle,” she said. “Chain mail and leather and urgency. And strength. That most of all.”
“Next time I shall use more of your soap.”
Meg looked up, curiosity plain in her green eyes. “More, lord?”
He made a rumbling sound of agreement. “When I bathe.”
“Ah, ’tis you who has left the bath such a mess! Here I was blaming poor Duncan.”
Beneath her hands, Dominic’s body tightened until his muscles stood hard against his hauberk. She felt as much as sensed the sharp return of his rage at the mention of Duncan’s name.
“Do you bathe often with the Scots Hammer?” Dominic asked.
The velvet seduction of Dominic’s voice was gone as though it had never existed. Meg’s hands tightened and jerked, scraping her knuckles across a stubborn buckle. It gave way suddenly.
“There,” she said. “’Tis free.”
She stood on tiptoe to peel one side of the hauberk from Dominic’s body. He turned suddenly, shrugging off the rest of the garment. The weight of it sent Meg staggering. Instantly Dominic reached out and lifted the hauberk from her arms, using only one hand.
Meg looked from the armor to the man who held its weight with such careless ease. She had known Dominic was large and certainly strong, but until that moment she hadn’t understood how much stronger he was than she. The muscular lines of his body were clear against the supple leather undergarments that were all he wore.
She felt an urge to test his strength with her fingertips, her nails…her teeth. The thought of it startled her even as it sent a curious frisson of heat shimmering through her core.
“Do you?” Dominic asked curtly.
“Do I?” Meg repeated, dragging her attention back to his words with an effort.
“Bathe with the Scots bastard.”
She frowned. “Why would I do that? We both have attendants.”
It was Dominic’s turn to frown.
“Why?” he asked. “For the pleasure of it, of course.”
Color climbed up Meg’s cheeks.
“I’m neither a handmaiden nor a leman to attend Duncan’s baths,” she said distinctly.
“’Tis not what I hear.”
“Then you are listening under the wrong eaves!”
Dominic grunted. “They are the same eaves where talk of Glendruid witches is heard.”
“The winter was long. There was little else to do but gossip and wait for the storms to pass.”
“Have you lain with Duncan of Maxwell?” Dominic asked bluntly.
“What a low opinion you have of your wife.”
“Your mother married when she was pregnant. You were betrothed to Duncan once. You knew Duncan’s treacherous plans and made no outcry. What opinion should I have of you, wife?”
10
MEG DREW A SHARP BREATH that made the chain of Glendruid crystals she wore flash and sparkle in the candlelight.
“If you had Glendruid eyes, you would not see me so badly,” she said.
“I have the eyes God gave me and they see quite clearly.”
“If you think so little of me, why did you agree to the match?” The instant the words left her mouth, Meg knew the answer.
“Land and keep,” she said before Dominic could.
“And heirs.”
“Ah, yes. Heirs.”
“Unlike John,” Dominic said curtly, “I have no wish to raise another man’s bastard, nor to scatter my own about the countryside like chaff on the wind.”
Meg turned away with a speed that made the fey cloth of her dress lift and swirl like mist. Dominic’s free hand shot out, catching her arm before she could get beyond reach.
“I ask you for a third time, wife. Are you breeding Duncan’s bastard?”
Meg opened her mouth to speak but no answer came. If she had been in Dominic’s place, and had lacked Glendruid eyes, she would have been as suspicious as he. But it galled her just the same.
“Nay,” Meg said, keeping her face turned away.
Her voice was low, trembling. The same tension vibrated through her.
When he remembered the rough treatment Meg had had at John’s hands, Dominic’s grip shifted subtly on her arm, becoming caressing, reassuring her even as his words did.
“Have no fear of me, small falcon,” he said. “I’ve never abused a horse, a squire, or a woman.”
Meg’s head snapped up. A single look at the green blaze of her eyes told Dominic that it wasn’t fear that had made her tremble.
It was fury.
“I am not a red-lipped leman to lie down on every man’s command,” Meg said through her teeth. “I stood beside you before God as pure as freshly fallen snow, yet I have heard nothing but insults from your lips.”
One black eyebrow lifted. With a casual strength that told its own tale, Dominic flipped the hauberk one-handed onto the back of Meg’s chair. Metal links flashed and rattled as the garment settled over the wood.
Then there was silence while Dominic studied his reluctant wife, a girl who stood close to him only because he held her arm within the iron grip of h
is right hand. His sword hand.
“You have heard nothing but truth from my lips, not insults,” Dominic said in a clipped voice. “Was your mother pregnant when she married?”
“Aye, but—”
“Were you once betrothed to Duncan of Maxwell?”
“Aye, but—”
Relentlessly Dominic overrode Meg’s words. “Did you warn me of the ambush in the church?”
A shudder ran the length of her slender body.
“No,” she whispered.
“Why? Was the affection between you and that bastard so great you couldn’t bring yourself to warn your betrothed of the murderous violence that had been planned?”
Meg’s captive hand moved in a gesture of helplessness that was stilled almost as soon as it began.
“You would have hanged Duncan,” she whispered.
“Aye, madam, from the stoutest oak in the forest!”
“I could not bear being the cause of his death.”
Dominic’s mouth hardened as he heard his fears confirmed: his wife did indeed have affection for Duncan of Maxwell.
“Hanging Duncan would have caused war,” Meg said, “a war the people of Blackthorne Keep would not have survived.”
Dominic grunted.
“My people…” Meg’s voice faded.
A slight shudder ran the length of her body. She was like a thong tautly drawn and then drawn tighter still, trembling on the point of breaking.
“My people must have a time of peace in which to raise crops and children,” Meg said, facing Dominic once more. “They simply must. Can you understand that?”
Silently Dominic looked at the uncanny green eyes of the girl who stood before him proudly pleading for her people’s lives. Not for her own life. Not for Duncan’s life.
For her people.
“Aye,” Dominic said finally. “That I can understand. Anyone who has suffered war can understand the balm of peace. ’Tis why I came back to England. To raise crops and children. Peace, not war.”
Air rushed out of Meg’s lips in a long sigh.
“God be praised,” she said. “When you touched the falcon so carefully, I felt hope…”
Her voice faded into the soft whispering of flames in the hearth. With battle-hardened fingers, Dominic turned Meg’s face up toward his.
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