In the Laird's Bed

by Joanne Rock

  “I will make a stronger case tomorrow morning, perhaps.”

  “You will be too enamored of my lovemaking tomorrow morning to argue.”

  Desire curled through her like the wisps of smoke spiraling off the torch flame as they moved through the deserted keep. Everyone but his men seemed to be fast asleep, and they’d left the knights behind in the great hall to bed down on the floor.

  “You do not command me,” she reminded him, feeling too helpless by half.

  “Lucky for me, no commands will be required.” His grip tightened on her thigh as he cradled her to his chest.

  With his other hand, he spanned the side of her rib cage, his fingers straying close to the softness of her breast. Because she held the torch aloft, she had no defense against the subtle roaming of his palms.

  Heaven help her, her whole body hummed with anticipation of more of that touch. As he hurried his pace up the squat, dark tower’s steps, a medallion at his neck slid free of his tunic, the metalwork intricate and heavy.

  “I have seen you wear this often,” she remarked, her face still burning from his blatant sensual threat. She was not sure if she wished to distract him from touching her tonight, but she did not think she could discuss what they were about to do in the open manner that he could. “Is it a family piece?”

  “It is the map to the Viking treasure. I have been meaning to show it to you.” He told her, his expression utterly solemn as he reached a huge door at the top of the stairwell. Even here, the ironwork had been removed from the door, as had the torch well. Rough-hewn planks served as reinforcements to the entry now.

  “You’re serious.” She did not try to hide her surprise. “You honestly believe an ancient treasure hides at Domhnaill?”

  She lowered the torch as he kicked open the door and brought her through the archway. Vaguely, she noticed the stark emptiness of the chamber that might have been lush at one time. Rough linens and a woolen coverlet had been thrown over the bed.

  He settled her on the center of the pallet carefully, mindful of the torch in her hand. He took it from her and deposited the base into crudely fashioned iron ring that appeared newly installed. A low fire had been laid in the hearth, but with the walls robbed of tapestries, the chill in the chamber was fierce.

  “Of course there is a treasure. Were you not raised on the same tales that I was told?” He opened a trunk at the end of the pallet and pulled a heavy fur cloak from within. Wrapping it about her shoulders, he bent close, his cheek next to hers as he drew the excess over her legs.

  “An ancient laird hid his riches in the forest after a lookout spotted invader ships on the horizon.”

  “Aye. He was the last laird to rule both Domhnaill and Culcanon lands, but he fled the larger Domhnaill keep and retreated to this fortress, which he kept manned until the end Danes were so intermarried they were as much native as pagan.” Satisfied that he’d swathed her sufficiently in the fur, Duncan set to work tugging Cristiana’s hair out from under the cloak to flow over her shoulders and down her back. “In truth, I am more Domhnaill than you since my forebears were the original Saxon overlords while your ancestors were the heathen Norse.”

  She smiled at his teasing words, grateful for the momentary distraction from the scent of him surrounding her in the folds of his cloak.

  “Not too heathen.” Lifting a lock of her red-gold hair, she waved it for emphasis. “It seems the Scots left their stamp upon me.”

  He took up the lock of hair and twined it about his finger.

  “There is red there, true. But ’tis mingled with Danish gold.”

  His gaze dipped to her mouth. For a moment, she thought he would kiss her. Indeed, she wanted the taste of him upon her lips. But then he released her hair and edged back from her again.

  Her heart beat so rapidly she feared he would see the erratic pulse at her neck. She burrowed her chin into the fur collar to hide her response.

  “But you asked about this,” he continued, easing the chain over his head before he handed the heavy ornament to her. “I found it when I returned to Culcanon to gather my forces. I had heard Donegal let the men’s training lapse and that he used the resources of the keep to fight his own battles. I did not realize how grave the situation was until I returned to see the riches of the keep sold off and the people starving. I had been away too long, serving the king, putting my faith in a man who shared my blood.”

  The dark glower upon his brow told her he still did not fathom the defection. But then, how could a man of honor understand the heart of one so traitorous?

  She bent her head close to his, warmed inside that he would take this time to speak with her rather than drawing her straight into his bed. Could they develop some bond beyond the heat that sparked between them?

  “But the king rewards you well by entrusting you with Domhnaill.” She knew her keep was worth far more than his. If outside forces had not set them at odds, it would have been a wise match.

  His expression shifted. Inscrutable green eyes met hers. Looked away.

  “The king did not give me anything I did not already plan to take.”

  She was not sure why he felt the need to make the distinction. Did he hope to remind her of his traitorous entry with his request for Christian mercy?

  “But you have admitted you had no resources and your people went hungry. How do you think you could have beaten our defenses when—”

  “It is over.” He cut her off abruptly, his tone hard and unyielding. “We spoke of the medallion.”

  “Did we?” Cristiana tried to refocus her attention, but old anger still simmered. Perhaps another woman could have bit back her pride with ease, but Cristiana had run Domhnaill long enough to know their battle strength. Did Duncan think her naive enough to believe he could have stormed those gates successfully?

  “Yes.” He bit off the word and busied himself with removing his boots, almost as if he wrestled with a frustration as great as hers. “I found it when I inspected some of the damage done to the metalwork above the hearth in the great hall. Donegal had sold the hammered metal frontispiece proclaiming the family name. Behind it, the stonework crumbled and I ordered mortar to fix it. But as the workers cleared the debris, they discovered this hidden behind the fallen stones.”

  Intrigued, Cristiana took a closer look at the heavy silver ornament he’d handed her. It had been designed in an ancient style, with the exotic knots and endless interweaving of animal’s bodies that sometimes appeared on old gravestones or upon church decoration. “It is obviously very old.” She ran her fingers over a series of notched markings. “Is this damage from the workers’ axes?”

  Duncan watched with relief as the artifact absorbed her attention. He did not wish to dwell on the matter of Malcolm’s ruling on Domhnaill, which had not been a decree that Cristiana wed him so much as an offering of royal support to aid Culcanon’s recovery from the damage done under his brother’s stewardship. The news that Duncan had used the letter as leverage to press marriage would not be happily met by his betrothed, especially in light of his takeover of the keep through intrigue.

  One day, he would help her to see the merit of a bloodless coup. But he planned to delay that day until her heart had softened toward him. Or at least until their wedding vows had been issued before the priest.

  “Those are not new marks,” he answered her, enclosing his hand about hers to guide her finger over the notches she’d noticed. “They are ancient letters. Rune markings. They say ‘Look east when Domhnaill finds his way home.’”

  Cristiana moved her finger off the time-worn markings to peer at the runes. Duncan kept his hand about hers, however, savoring the soft feel of her skin against his palm. His chest pressed against her back as he leaned close. The sweet scent of her mead-making had not left her, not even this far from the home where her brews awaited her. Unable to resist, he lowered his nose to her hair and inhaled the cinnamon and ginger spice that clung to her.

  “Look east?” She peered back
at him, brow furrowed. “I do not understand. Are you suggesting the treasure is in the sea?”

  “Nay.” He closed her hand about the medallion again and turned it. “You see these headings about the perimeter?”

  He turned her shoulders with his to help the hearth light reach the silver piece. His heartbeat surged with the want of her. He could not understand how his desire for her grew each time he was with her—until it increased to a sharp, persistent longing.

  “Yes!” She turned to him, excitement plain in her animated gaze. “The fur and feathers of the animals contain the directions of the map.”

  “You know Latin?”

  The letter for east was not a rune but a Latin notation. Not even Duncan had been educated in the language.

  “Nay.” She shook her head even though she had deciphered the letter clearly enough. “Only what I have learned at Mass.”

  Clearly, he needed to pay more attention to the priest.

  “All of this is Latin, as well.” He pointed to the small fins on a fish that appeared to be decorative markings unless you studied it carefully. “It suggests the design is a map of a Domhnaill landmark and the words end with—”

  “Culcanon.” Cristiana nodded. “I have seen the name written before. Culcanon of Domhnaill would have been the laird who hid the treasure before fleeing here.”

  “Aye.” Gently, he pried the medallion from her fingers and set it aside. “But you may study it tomorrow. You must be weary from the ride.”

  Seeing her face down his enemies today had left him more shaken than he could have ever guessed. Part of it was because he would be left with a child to raise when he had hardly gotten to know Leah. But there was more to it than that. He’d felt a strong urge to hack down any man who neared Cristiana of Domhnaill, and it was an impulse that went deeper than possessiveness.

  He needed to be careful of her affect on him.

  “I am.” She nodded, but did not make any move to lie down.

  “You will sleep here tonight,” he warned, unwilling to indulge her on this.

  She nodded. “I was just thinking how grateful I am that you were not lying about the treasure at least. It has been difficult to put my faith in you after what took place between our families. So I am pleased to learn you did not invent the story of the treasure hunt merely as an entertainment for my court.”

  Ah, the arrow of her gratitude stung his conscience. Tomorrow, he would call his priest and secure the marriage. Tomorrow, he would untwine the lies that remained between them.

  But for tonight, he could do naught but guide her sleep form down to the soft pallet and provide his arm for her pillow.

  “Come. You are too weary for me to touch you as I would like. Rest now.”

  She was asleep almost instantly, leaving him with a confusion of thoughts as he watched the measured rise and fall of her breasts. He loosened her surcoat, but only to make her more comfortable while she slept.

  He had ignored his desires for her sake. And while he’d like to think that was a bit of noble restraint on his part, he feared the larger part of his reason for holding back was the growing tenderness he felt for her. And no matter how much he admired her, he would now allow himself to care about a woman who could turn off her feelings for him at a moment’s notice. She had done so five years ago after they’d shared kisses and she’d made sweet promises to him.

  She could do it again.

  This time, Duncan would not feel the sting of betrayal. Because this time, he had no intention of losing his heart to the enemy.

  She played a dangerous game.

  Edwina hastened her pace to keep up with Henry as his boots thundered through the courtyard of a rugged coastal fortress far south of Domhnaill. Three days had passed since she’d convinced him to bring her north under the pretense of a marriage she had no intention of making. But now that she was out of Evesburh and could claim no protection, save this young knight’s, she had renewed appreciation for how utterly dependent upon him she would be until they reached Domhnaill.

  “Henry, wait.” Her hands were raw from guiding the reins on a horse too spirited for a woman who hadn’t ridden in years. Her clothes were mud-spattered, the cloak torn in two places from tree branches they’d encountered during the ride. She’d insisted on riding her own mount so they could make better time, but since winning that battle, Henry had not been easily managed for days.

  Now, he either ignored her or did not hear her as he was so far ahead. Dropping all pretense of dignity as she neared the rich, stone fortress alive with light and activity, Edwina pulled up her skirts and ran to catch up.

  “Henry, please.” Out of breath, she inserted herself between him and the door to the keep.

  They’d been admitted to the courtyard by a surly guard at a watchtower, the bridge to the main keep open even though they’d been warned it would be closed for the night in another hour.

  “Edwina, we must hurry unless we want to spend the night, and I do not welcome the prospect of so many hours in a Scots’ stronghold while I bear William’s standard.”

  “Scots?” She peered around the courtyard at the scurrying grooms and maids, the swaybacked farm horses plodding past well-dressed destriers on their way to and from the stables. “We have crossed the border?”

  She had seen no change in landscape, no boundary marking. Somehow, she’d always imagined she would sense a change in the air when she returned to her homeland. In her memory, the air had been far sweeter in the land of the Scots.

  “Aye.” He gripped her shoulders and eased her aside, taking advantage of his surprise. “I wish to obtain a safe passage from the king before we travel any farther.”

  Edwina was not sure why Malcolm would be in residence here, far from his family seat, but then she had not kept abreast of foreign politics while at William’s court.

  Following Henry into the entry, she was treated to an immediate view of the hall, where the king’s shield rested against the dais.

  By the saints.

  The man with more power than any to punish Donegal the Foul was present this night. Her thoughts racing for how to approach him—how to make an appeal for punishment—she stood frozen. Now that she’d spent time among William’s court, she knew anyone could at least ask the king for his justice. She was no innocent country maid content to abide her father’s rulings anymore. She could obtain justice here. Now.

  “Come, Edwina.” Henry urged her forward, sliding an arm about her waist. “We will obtain safe passage at the same time we receive his blessing for our marriage. We can be on our way to Domhnaill this very night.”

  “No.” She halted again, the potential disaster of the situation finally revealing itself. “Nay, Henry, we cannot.”

  This time she caught him off guard, yanking him into the shadows of the corridor outside the open hall.

  His frown did not dissuade her. If ever there had been a time for honesty, this was it. She did not have enough time to think through an elaborate scheme. Besides, Henry deserved better than more pretty lies.

  “We cannot wed. I have been more wronged than you can imagine by someone who was once close to me and my heart is too filled with bitterness to love.”

  His frown deepened. “I brought you all this way. You promised—”

  “I made no promise, Henry.” The depth of her wretchedness pained her as she watched his face twist in confusion. “You are too good of a man to hurt this way, yet I could not have trusted any other to deliver me safely home.”

  “We are not at Domhnaill yet. You are tired. You are not thinking clearly.”

  “No. I have deceived you most unkindly because life has made me an exile and an outcast. My heart has hardened—” She gasped, her hand moving to cover the vital organ she had just dismissed as toughened beyond penetration.

  “What is it?” Henry peered over his shoulder to see what had caught her attention.

  How could he possibly understand? Even she did not believe what she spied with
her own eyes.

  Cullen of Blackstone had just risen from a seat somewhere in the great hall to pass into her view. He approached the king’s table, tall and lean with the uncanny grace of a forest creature that would make him appear young long after his hair turned gray.

  “I—” Her voice cracked before she could form an answer. Heaven help her, she had never expected to see Cullen again. “There are so many ghosts of my past here.” She needed to retreat. She could not face the king with Cullen there, reminding her of long-forgotten dreams and piercing her heart with all that could never be. Overcome with emotion, she gripped Henry’s arms. “You have been too kind and, I swear, if you will attend me on my journey north, I will find you the most dazzling bride you’ve ever seen. A young, innocent lass—”

  “It is you that I want, Edwina.” In the half-light of the corridor, with the torches flickering shadows across his face, Henry did not appear so youthful. The dark growth of a beard from days on the road hid the pockmarks of his cheek. Oh, he was a handsome one after all and would be more so with age.

  “I love another,” she confessed, unwilling to lead him astray even one more moment. She had not even admitted it to herself, but right now, she forced the truth from her lips in penance for what she’d done to a noble, upstanding man. “I can never be with him for he is a nobleman and I’m a ruined woman. There was a time when I was above him in station but loved him anyway. My father would not allow me to wed him, giving me instead to a brute that defiled me before the vows.” She blinked hard, hating that she sounded so young and foolish. Of course, she had been young and foolish. She had tried to make the best of her betrothal to Donegal, hoping that stolen kisses with him could compare to the secret trysts she’d once shared with Cullen.

  Never had she been more wrong about anything.

  A helpless cry of regret edged from her throat, echoing through the foyer. Henry shushed her, his expression half sympathetic and half horrified.

  Her eyes lingering on her long-ago love, Edwina allowed the old hurt to wash over her a moment longer before she willed it away. She had worked too hard to get here to fall apart now. The king sat so near.