In the Laird's Bed

by Joanne Rock

  “Thank you for retrieving him.” She opened the door to ease their way out. “I hope he will be well enough to attend the nuptials.”

  In spite of Duncan’s vow to Leah, there had been no suggestion of tender feeling between them and no indication that their future would be tempered by the softer sentiments they’d once shared. How would she bear the day without at least one family member to stand beside her?

  Keane shook his head.

  “Not unless you want to risk accusations before the priest. He has ranted for days since he found out the girl is your daughter. I do not think he will come around until some new event claims his fractured attention.”

  Cristiana found herself nodding her understanding even though she didn’t understand at all. Why couldn’t Keane explain the truth to the old laird on the wedding day, just to get him through the ceremony quietly?

  Perhaps because Keane believed that she had betrayed them all—and Edwina most especially—as well.

  “Of course.” On impulse, she leaned to kiss her father’s cheek despite his growling protest and an unkind word. “I am sorry, my lord.”

  The two of them exited the chamber, leaving her more alone than she’d ever been since Edwina had departed. At least in those early days she’d had the company of a squalling, red-faced infant who had needed her for everything. Now, she’d lost her father’s respect and affection. She felt needed for very little here, other than to legitimize Duncan’s claim to a keep he’d been planning to take one way or another from the moment he’d set foot over her gate.

  Steeling herself for her sister’s reaction to the news of her wedding, Cristiana settled in to finish the letter to Edwina. No matter what the elder Domhnaill daughter thought of the nuptials, she was needed at home immediately. Her exile was over at last.

  Edwina dreamed of Cullen.

  The sweet innocence of her nighttime interlude with him—a fanciful garden flirtation that came from the heart and not from cold machinations—made it so much harder to rise from her bed to accomplish the task she’d set for herself this night. Curse her naive imaginings.

  But she had no choice. She’d just received a letter her sister posted a sennight ago. A Culcanon as laird? Over her dead body.

  Dressing in a softly worn surcoat that she strategically laced only partway, Edwina rubbed her hands together to warm them in the cold chamber she shared with three other ladies-in-waiting to their stern Norman mistress. Edwina had only been in this household since the previous spring, but she’d always travelled to points north with the court when William and his knights moved about. She’d stayed on in Evesburh, purposely proving extremely helpful to the lady who ran the keep that had last hosted the court.

  As Edwina loosened her plaited hair and pinched her nipples to make them stand stiff beneath her thin garb, she reminded herself how well she’d planned her little interlude tonight.

  Henry had guard duty and would be alone in the tower for another three hours. She’d ensured her chamber mates had drank their fill of good mead at mealtime, purposely choosing this night to educate the table on the finer points of mead-making that she recalled from Cristiana.

  The memory of her sister was yet another chink in her armor as she swept out of her chamber and rushed toward the west tower. Like her dream of Cullen, Cristiana was a spot of kindness in her past that she sometimes feared she was dishonoring through her behavior. Would Cristiana tease a good man with sexual favors to obtain revenge on another? Of course not. Cristiana was a mother now. A good, kind mother who would raise Leah the way Edwina’s sweet baby deserved.

  Her eyes burned at the thought while she climbed the drafty, narrow stairs toward the guard tower. But Cristiana had not been defiled by a brute, and so she could not know what decisions Edwina had been faced with since leaving Domhnaill. There were some choices no woman should have to make.

  Lifting her chin, she steeled her heart and flung open the guard-tower door, ready for the biggest performance of her life. Perhaps she could find a good woman for Henry when they got to Scotland. But for tonight, Edwina needed his strength and his sword arm, his stalwart honor and his absolute, undivided sexual attention.

  “Edwina.” He turned from his spot overlooking the drawbridge when she opened the door, his longbow quickly falling to his side.

  Only then, seeing the arrow dipped toward the stone floor, did it occur to her that he might have shot an intruder in the dark. A small swell of panic mingled with relief and fueled the worry in her voice.

  “Henry.” She breathed hard, all the better to press her breasts tight to her surcoat. She did not need the small torch burning on one wall to know his gaze dropped to the outline of stiff, swollen nipples visible through her worn linen surcoat and thinnest kirtle. “I cannot sleep. I’m so distraught.”

  He swallowed visibly. Gulped, actually. Her heart turned over in her chest. But had Donegal the Wretch ed felt any sympathy toward her when she’d been scared and crying? Nay. She could not relent now.

  “What’s wrong?” Henry’s voice was deep and masculine. If she’d not just had such a fond dream of Cullen, she might have been tempted to simply give Henry everything he wanted of her.

  “I have been too demanding of you when I should be so grateful for your generous offer. You have treat ed me so kindly and so honorably when my reputation does not warrant such kindness—”

  “Don’t say that.” He dropped the longbow on the rampart and took a step closer, but he did not touch her. “You have not been demanding. Every woman is entitled to have her family around her when she weds.”

  She shook her head, her half-plaited hair slipping loose even more. She’d visited the baths the day before, scrubbing her body with rose water and her hair with a pilfered bit of scented soap from her lady’s storeroom. Edwina knew she smelled like a floral field in springtime. Her partially laced surcoat slipped a bit down her shoulders with the motion, the heavier fabric tugging at her kirtle and bearing just a hint of her collarbone.

  “No. I am an outcast and I have no reason to think they’ve forgiven me for my sins.” She had not been clear with Henry about her past, although everyone knew she’d been a selective courtesan in the king’s court and a ruined woman from the moment she’d arrived. Still, he must wonder a little at the reputation, when she’d been with no man since arriving in Evesburh. Mostly, that was because the Norman woman ran a very moral household. But also because Edwina had been exceedingly careful not to stray anywhere alone with a man.

  Save Henry. She’d seen his goodness immediately.

  “You must not talk like that.” He did touch her now, his strong arm going about her waist before she dissolved in a heap of tears at his feet. “I see the sweetness in you. Whatever life has forced upon you, I know it was not deserved. You are a good woman.”

  Her distraught state gave her an excuse to lean heavily into him, her breasts pressed tight to his broad chest. But oh, his kind words tested her all over again. His staff was as rigid as a dagger against her belly, the weapon a formidable one. Lightly, she lay a hand upon his hip and swore she would find him the most pure and innocent virgin in all the Highlands as his reward for taking her home.

  Predictably, his sword lengthened and strained closer at her soft touch so near.

  “And you are the kindest man.” Were truer words ever spoken? “That is why I cannot see you any longer. No more long looks after sup. No stolen dances when the minstrels play. I am going to return to court and forget we ever met.”

  He cursed. He pleaded. And finally, before his shift was over, he agreed to take her home to be with her family when they wed. Edwina took no pride in a performance that would lead to heartbreak for Henry. But she had won the battle with the only weapons she’d known these past four years.

  She was going home to Domhnaill.

  And by the saints, she would wreak her vengeance on the Culcanons. First for Donegal the Worm’s brutal deflowering. Then for the disbelieving naysaying from Duncan and th
eir father. Cristiana might have trouble keeping the Culcanon traitors out of their home, but Edwina would use any means necessary to ensure the Culcanons rued the day they crossed her.

  Duncan had won.

  The keep. The woman. The resources to secure Culcanon in the wake of his brother’s draining reign.

  Yet the victory felt more hollow than any in memory. It was this hollowness that had brought him into the Domhnaill chapel to pray late one night after his men had bedded down in the great hall for the eve. The guilt of such a victory had brought him to his knees in front of a dour-looking saint that watched over the nave with grave eyes.

  Candles flickered at the statue’s feet, the flames blowing hard to the west thanks to the draft edging in below the main doors. Duncan searched for the right words to find forgiveness for the way he’d muscled Cristiana into marriage.

  Nay, he wanted forgiveness for seducing an innocent before her wedding day. He would not have resorted to such tactics if he’d realized she was untouched. Indeed, she would never have given herself to him so readily if she had not thought she was out of options. By allowing her to think he’d obtained the full backing of their king for his bid to take Domhnaill, he had pushed too hard for his own ends.

  Therefore, he took comfort in the aching of his knees as he bartered with the unmoving saint in the chapel nave. As long as he proved a strong mate to Cristiana, he need not feel the sting of guilt.

  And this he would do.

  Somehow, he would soften her toward him before she discovered all the ways he’d taken advantage of her father’s weakened rule. His terms meted out with the saint, Duncan rose to his feet and crossed himself before leaving the nave.

  It was fortunate that his prayers were so much on his mind as he left the chapel and returned to the main keep. Otherwise, he might not have been able to tamp down the surge of anger that came from spying Cristiana hurrying through the darkened hall, clinging to Rory the Lothian’s side.

  Hadn’t Rory offered for her himself? Clearly he coveted Duncan’s future bride. That much would have been apparent simply from the way he inclined his head toward her to hear her speak. The knight’s arm was wrapped protectively—possessively?—about her as they sneaked quietly around the sleeping figures in the great hall.

  Did they slip away to be together?

  “Remove your hands from her.” Duncan’s voice would have awoken half the hall if most of the inhabitants hadn’t been drunk, as well as sleeping.

  Rory and Cristiana stilled together.

  Frozen by guilt?

  But then Cristiana launched through the dark shapes prone on the floor, hurrying toward him with her skirts in one hand and what appeared to be a rolled parchment in the other.

  “We have been searching for you,” she whispered, her eyes wide. “A messenger arrived from the king. He would not rest until he gave you this, but he appeared half dead from a hard ride and I insisted he eat and rest while I found you.”

  She thrust the parchment under his nose, her hair in pleasing disarray. Because she’d risen from her bed to see a messenger? He knew that must be the case, but he could not rid the memory of Rory’s arm about her. What tenderness lay between them?

  Duncan took the message and pulled her close, heedless of decorum.

  “I will read it and speak with him immediately. Await me in your solar and I will be there shortly.”

  He needed to talk to her about whatever the message contained, of course, and he wanted to warn her about Rory’s feelings for her. Perhaps he also wanted an opportunity to reassure himself that she did not return those feelings.

  But as soon as he’d spoken, he realized how the command sounded. As if they already shared a bedchamber.

  True, not many were awake enough to have heard the exchange. But he had not lowered his voice, and the news of it would still fill the keep by the morrow.

  Her cheeks burned hot, the pink flush of color obvious even by the flickering light of a hearth fire across the hall.

  “As you wish,” she told him shortly, glaring daggers at him as she attempted to disentangle herself from his arm.

  Reluctantly he freed her, knowing he needed to give his undivided attention to the missive. After she stormed away, he broke the seal on the parchment and neared the great hall fire, the only blaze casting enough light by which to read.

  “You do her injustice to mistrust her.” Rory’s voice followed him, taunting him with what he already knew.

  He turned on his friend, fists tightening at his sides.

  “And you do me injury to touch my betrothed.”

  “By the saints, Duncan. She’s seen what a man’s temper can do to a woman. Do you really think it wise to fling your temper around like a caged bear when she has only just barely agreed to wed?”

  Belatedly, he realized he’d crumpled a royal missive in his clenched hand. Curse the Lothian for being such a voice of reason. The memory of Cristiana’s crestfallen expression bit his conscience.

  “Is it wise for you to put a hand on a woman I lost once already?”

  Until he spoke the words, he had not fully appreciated how much the loss of Cristiana had hurt the first time. He’d told himself back then that there were many other smart, sensual women that would make good wives. But in truth, he’d wanted no one but Cristiana.

  “If you cannot trust your second in command to protect those you care for, who will you put your faith in?” Rory did not await an answer, turning on his boot heel and stalking out.

  With a frustrated snarl, Duncan kicked an oversized log into the flames. The scent of hickory and pine wafted up from the hearth, sending sparks showering over the leg of his braies. Nearby, a sleeping old woman snorted and turned away from the rising blaze.

  Shoving aside his mistakes with Cristiana, he unfurled the parchment and read:

  Your brother’s men have attacked mine under your banner. If you cannot put down the rebel factions in your clan, I will march on Culcanon in three days’ time.

  Three days.

  He had not even planned his nuptials for another sennight. How would he secure Domhnaill, his bride and Culcanon in that time? Had his time abroad in battle and diplomacy bought him so little from Malcolm?

  Once again, he would pay for his brother’s sins.

  Casting the missive into the flames with an oath, he watched it blaze into nothingness. He had not come so far to lose everything. With or without the bonds of marriage, he would leave Domhnaill at once with Cristiana at his side.

  Chapter Nine

  “T his is madness.” Cristiana’s hoarse whisper was lost in the frenzy of sleepy-eyed servants taking over her chamber and packing her belongings.

  Duncan had appeared in her solar, just as he’d promised, but he had brought her far more than news. He’d arrived with four maids to pack her things for a journey to his family seat.

  “Nay. ’Tis madness to allow Donegal’s greed to ruin a future I’ve sacrificed everything to secure.” He pulled her out of the chamber and into the corridor, away from the din of servants’ chatter and the sounds of packing.

  Distracted by his words, she wondered what sacrifices he spoke of. Marriage to her? Had he bedded her for expedience’s sake? She knew the answer to that, yet some long-buried part of her that had fallen for him five years ago had kept some hope alive that he would nurture some tender feeling for her. Hearing him speak of his sacrifices now dulled that hope still more.

  “I cannot leave.” She peered back at her solar door. “Leah sleeps in my bedchamber this night. I thought to accustom her to her new quarters before she had to move into them by herself.”

  She’d worried that a child used to sleeping with chamber full of her peers would feel alone and abandoned in this move intended to elevate her household status.

  “The maids will not waken her. And if they do, they will be there to comfort any childish fears.” He led her toward the stairs. “Come. You will find more rest this night in my chamber. We must leave a
t dawn.”

  She halted at the top step, unwilling to indulge this flight of fancy any further.

  “I will not leave Domhnaill without the bonds of marriage. And there has been no talk of living at Culcanon. I have not prepared Leah for such a move. Indeed, I want her to know the security of life under this roof. She has not been raised under the most typical of circumstances.”

  “What child is?” Duncan turned her to hold her by the waist, inciting a riot of feeling within her from just a touch. “She will remain with us and that is as it should be.”

  No sooner had he dispensed with that argument than ten others arose in her mind to take its place.

  “What of the danger? Don’t forget your whole purpose in leaving is to make war on your brother. Why can you not do battle alone and retrieve us when it is safe?”

  The line of his mouth flattened.

  “And risk you using the time to make other marriage arrangements? I think not. It would be different if the priest could speak our vows in front of the whole keep before I departed, but there is not time.”

  Cold worry battled with the warm feelings his touch inspired even as he drew her nearer. She was not ready to leave her life behind. Besides, she did not want Leah anywhere near Donegal. She cast about wildly for another solution.

  “We could speak the handfast vow before wit nesses.” A handfast union, while not permanently binding, was at least recognized by all the High lands. “No man would dare touch me if we are hand-fasted.”

  “Neither will any man touch you if you are at my side every night and day.” He splayed his hands along her spine, a few of his fingers sliding meaningfully between the laces of her surcoat.

  And just that quickly, the fire from the night before blazed up, reminding her precisely what his hands felt like on her bare skin. The few hours they’d spent in one another’s arms had outshone any idle daydream of him from her youth.

  But while she trusted that Duncan would never harm her person, she did not trust that he could keep her heart safe. He’d expressed little enough interest in her wishes or her feelings on marriage. Was she no wiser than her sister to wander off into the woods with a man who was not her husband?