In the Laird's Bed

by Joanne Rock

  “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 clos
e. 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?

  “Then when did it happen?” His chest was tight with fury. He would have never guessed proud Cristiana would defile herself that way. And yet, he’d seen the girl. The cinnamon curls and delicate shape of her face mirrored the Domhnaill women exactly.

  “It was that summer after you and your brother departed. I—I was devastated.” Her voice lowered. Softened. “I did not ever wish to wed after what happened.”

  The thought of her touching another man so soon after he’d kissed her sent a maelstrom of violent emotion through him. His breathing possessed the ragged harshness of a man who’d fought a days-long battle.

  It should not affect him so much. But by all that was holy, the child she tended should have been his. Anger and possessiveness tightened around him, choking him.

  “Yet you could not deny yourself passion. Passion that I introduced you to. Passion that should have been mine to claim.” He couldn’t have hidden the fierceness in his voice if he tried.

  She backed up a step, but she must have caught her heel on her hem for she stumbled and pitched forward. Her flickering taper fell from her hand and tumbled down the stairs, the light extinguishing as the beeswax column rolled away.

  “Oh!”

  Catching her in his arms, Duncan was in no mood to tread lightly around her anymore. She was no maid to deny his kiss and deny herself womanly pleasure. She had run to another man and gladly tasted passion after she’d cast him aside.

  He would not let her rebuff him again.

  Wrapping an arm about her back, he sealed her breasts to his chest. Her rapidly beating heart aligned with the thunderous throb of his. Not giving her any quarter, he picked up where they’d left off in the brew house. Threading a hand through her hair, he tipped her head back and found her mouth with his.

  Darkness enveloped them, cocooning them in a world lit only by fiery need. He backed her against the wall, protecting her back from the hard stone by sacrificing his knuckles to the unforgiving granite. While one hand cradled her head, his other pressed her hips into his.

  She made a muffled cry that could have been pleasure or pain, but she did not attempt to free herself. If anything, her mouth relaxed under the pressure of his, her back arching so that her breasts tested the neckline of her dress. He could feel velvet and linen shifting beneath his onslaught, the beaded crests of her womanly curves an undeniable sign that she was not just a curious maid anymore, but a woman in need of his touch.

  With a tug and a yank, he wrenched free the tie that laced her gown up one side. Velvet slithered from her shoulders, leaving her warm, creamy skin protected by naught but frail linen that was no match for him.

  He kissed his way down her neck, savoring stolen tastes of her fragrant skin as he neared her collarbone. Her shoulder. The swell of her breast.

  As his mouth closed around one tight bud, she cried out. Her fingers closed around his tunic, clenching and opening again and again as he drew her deep into his mouth. Had her first lover given her such pleasure?

  Protest shuddered through him and his only defense was to pleasure her better. More. Drive the bastard who’d stolen her innocence from her head forever.

  He released her flesh and lifted her off her feet, careful of her head near the stone wall. His heart thundered in his ears as their breathing echoed in the winding tower.

  “I’m taking you to your bed.” He climbed the steps, cradling her close to his body. And while he could not see her features clearly in the shadowed tower with only a few arrow slits to spill scant winter moon light, he could picture the way she looked right now. Her auburn hair spilling over his arm to cloak his shoulder. Her skin pink and damp from his kisses.

  Her calves exposed by her skirts, waiting for more thorough exploration.

  “Nay.” Her whispered word was all but drowned out by his pounding footfalls up the steps. “We must not.”

  “You. Belonged. To. Me.” Each word coincided with the hard stomp of a boot impressing his will as he reached the gallery at last. “I never betrayed you. I did nothing to earn your enmity.”

  The full import of her perfidy—denying his marriage contract while offering herself freely to another man—was a newly ripped wound that would not heal without some concession on her part. An admission of how wrong she’d been. A confession that it had been him she’d wanted and not some black-hearted knave who gave her nothing.

  “You allowed us to think your half brother was as much a Culcanon as you.”

  The cold words slowed his step as he reached a door that he could only assume led to her chamber. The outer towers of Domhnaill were narrow, each housing naught but storage for arms and a chamber.

  “He is my father’s son.” Duncan had never be grudged his half brother his rightful share of the legacy that would be theirs. “Half of Culcanon be longs to Malcolm.”

  “But I have heard he has tried to steal the whole of it for himself while you did your king’s bidding in foreign lands. No Culcanon worthy of the name would undermine his own blood. I cannot believe you did not know that a traitorous heart beat within him when you came to Domhnaill in search of brides.”

  The icy venom in her voice reached through his anger. The fury was still there, but he had to put it aside long enough to make sense of this new accusation.

  “It is true Malcolm tried to seize control while I was away. He has changed since your sister refused him. Bitterness can ruin a man.” He gazed down into Cristiana’s eyes, now visible by the small torch someone had left alight at her door. “Indeed, I know its sting tonight more strongly than ever before.”

  The powerful emotions that burned inside him clamored for release. Demanded an answer for her faithlessness.

  Yet when she twisted in his arms, he knew he would never find satisfaction in imposing his will upon a woman he’d once vowed to honor. No matter that the oath had not been sworn in front of a priest. He had promised as much to her in the kisses they’d shared.

  “Release me,” she demanded, perhaps not realizing how the urgent writhing of her body only reminded him how quickly he could turn her anger to something far more enjoyable for them both.

  With regret, he lowered her to her feet.

  “I will not take in anger what you won’t give freely,” he promised. But that did not mean he would let the matter drop. “Know this, however. I will not treat you like an innocent maid any longer. You are a woman with earthy experience and I will not forget it. The next time we meet in an abandoned corridor, have a care. When I touch you again, I will apply every last skill to make you beg me for more.”

  She opened her mouth to speak, then snapped it shut again. With a shaky little nod, she acknowledged his warning and fled into her chamber.

  He was not surprised to hear the bar lower across the door on the other side.

  Edwina of Domhnaill was no stranger to heartbreak.

  Although she had put hers firmly in her past, she lived through other people’s enough times that she had a good nose for sensing when trouble was on the horizon. Right now, listening to the careless whispers of rebellion on the villagers’ lips while she shopped in the small market at Evesburh, she could almost feel the inevitable despair of these poor souls foolish enough to rebel against the rule of her overlord, William the Bastard.

  Or, the Conqueror, as his biographers now preferred he be called. No matter the
name, Edwina respected the king’s indomitable strength. It was underestimated by the churls wolfing down meat pies near the empty village stocks at this small hamlet outside North umbria. But Edwina had not made the mistake of underestimating a strong man ever since Donegal the Crude—a name of her own making—had deceived her into thinking he would wed her and then seduced her.

  Brutalized her.

  “Edwina.”

  The deep male voice behind her was obvious enough to identify, but she pretended not to recognize it in order to draw out her latest suitor.

  “Who would speak my Christian name in public without regard to my reputation?” Closing her eyes, she tapped her finger to her lips thoughtfully.

  She’d been sent on a short errand for a local noblewoman, one of the countless fortunate Normans who had inherited the country since the debacle at Hastings. Edwina had been instructed to seek good herbs to make fresh dyes for the lady’s embroidery thread.

  “My lady.” The man behind her lowered his voice, bending closer to be heard. “I meant no offense.”

  “Yes, Henry, but I keep hoping one day you will,” she teased, spinning on her heel to face him. She opened her eyes and feigned delight at his young, pockmarked visage.

  Henry Osgood would have been a handsome enough youth, but childhood disease had not been kind to him. Edwina admired his warrior’s strength, however, even if he was not exceedingly clever. Actually, that thick wit of his worked in her favor, since he had no ear for the nuances of court gossip and resolutely refused to listen to anyone speak unkindly of her.

  A first.

  Since her arrival in King William’s court four years ago as an exile—and a ruined one at that—she had often been the subject of suggestive rumor. No one knew for certain about her past, but the fact that she kept it well hidden spoke volumes. Only Edwina knew of the child she bore. The child she’d given up so that the little girl would have a better life. Even thinking of it now caused her heart to tighten and ache.