LORD OF DUNKEATHE

by Margaret Moore

  She'd never been so stirred by the sight of a half-naked man— but then, he was like no man she'd ever seen. He had not an ounce of fat on his lean torso. His sinewy muscles bespoke hours of hard work, years of training, weeks of fighting. He was no pampered, spoiled, lazy nobleman who'd never worked for his wealth. He was a warrior—built like a warrior, fierce as a warrior, passionate as a warrior home from battle seeking the pleasures of peace.

  And then he saw her.

  She quickly looked away as she flushed with embarrassment and fought the urge to run away. It was like catching him bathing —or as if he had caught her naked. Only the thought of the poor spit boy kept her there as Nicholas ordered his men to continue, and walked toward her.

  Couldn't he at least put on some more clothes? she thought, feeling determined, but trapped, as he closed the distance between them. "Were you looking for me, my lady?" he asked evenly. "Or did you just want to watch my men at practice?"

  "I was looking for you, my lord," she said, pleased that her voice was calm and steady as she replied. "I've come to talk to you about your cook, Alfred."

  Nicholas frowned and crossed his arms, leaning his weight on one leg. "What about Alfred?"

  She kept her gaze on his face, away from his body. "You should find another cook."

  His dark brows rose. "You don't like the food?"

  "It's not that, my lord. It's the way he treats the kitchen servants. He's a bully and a tyrant, and he's been beating the spit boy until he's covered in bruises. I've seen them myself."

  "I see," Nicholas replied, his tone noncommittal as he turned back to his men and dismissed them. They gratefully hurried over to some buckets of water along the wall and scrambled to drink.

  Not sure what he was thinking, she took a different tack. "If something isn't done to amend the situation, your servants could be driven to an act of desperation in attempt to either make Alfred leave of his own volition, or force you to send him away. They might use rancid meat, for instance, to sicken you and your guests, so that he's blamed. Or engage in other kinds of sabotage. There are a whole host of ways to get revenge on a cook, my lord."

  "There will be no need for that. I won't permit the beating of my servants, by anyone," Nicholas said. "Such treatment inspires

  anger and hatred and bitter resentment, as I well know. I was beaten every day by the man to whom I was first fostered for training."

  It seemed impossible Sir Nicholas of Dunkeathe had ever been anything but a mature man and the powerful overlord of a castle. Yet once, he had been a mistreated boy, and apparently with no one to help and come to his aid.

  His expression hardened, and his voice was cold when he spoke. "Spare yourself any pity you might be feeling for me, my lady. If I'd been taught music and poetry instead, I wouldn't be in possession of this estate. And I paid Yves Sansouci back for every bruise, every lash, every gash and cut." He pointed to a small scar on his temple. "The day he gave me this, I broke his arm and nearly crippled him. After that, my brother and I went elsewhere, to train with a better man."

  He picked up a leather jerkin that was lying on the ground nearby.

  As he tugged it over his head, she tried not to notice that was the same jerkin he'd been wearing that first day.

  The men, having had their fill, started to gather up their garments. They talked among themselves and cast glances at their commander and Riona, as they moved off toward the gates. Even as they left, however, she was well aware there were other soldiers up on the wall walk, watching them.

  "The servants should have come to me," he said, apparently oblivious to the curious looks from the men.

  "They didn't come to you because Alfred threatened to accuse anyone who told you with theft."

  Nicholas frowned. "I require proof before I punish anyone for a crime."

  "I don't think they know that, my lord." Neither had she, although once he said it, she believed him. "And you're..."

  "What?" he asked when she hesitated.

  Driven to it, she said, "You're very intimidating. If I were your servant, I'd think twice about coming to you with a complaint, about anything."

  "I am what I am, my lady, and what my life has made me. I cannot change."

  "Not even if it means your own household lives in fear of you? That isn't commanding their respect, my lord. That's tyranny and it also leads to anger and resentment."

  "A castle requires discipline, my lady. Or perhaps you'd like me to tuck my soldiers into bed at night and sing them a lullaby? Maybe you'd like me to weave daisy chains for the maidservants? Or declare every second day a holiday?"

  "Occasional praise can be as effective as correction."

  He leaned down to grab his sword belt and scabbard that had been beneath the jerkin. "When you are in command of a castle and garrison, I'll take your advice."

  Worried she'd angered him too much and that he wouldn't do anything about Alfred, she tried to lessen the tension between them. "You're right. I don't know much about commanding a garrison, especially one so large."

  "A man has to protect what is his."

  "I don't think there would be too many men willing to try to take Dunkeathe from you."

  "Because I have such a large garrison."

  "And because the king gave it to you."

  Although Nicholas's eyes still burned with indignation, he didn't sound quite so annoyed. "In spite of that, I know most Scots wish me gone."

  "My uncle doesn't."

  "Then he's an exception," Nicholas replied as he buckled his belt about his waist. He raised an inquisitive brow. "I suppose your uncle adheres to the notion that no Scot would betray another or try to take what is his by force?"

  "My uncle certainly thinks the Scots are the finest, most trustworthy people on earth, but we've heard of the betrayal of Lachlann Mac Taran, and how it nearly cost your sister her life."

  "And what about you, my lady?" Nicholas asked. "Do you have a similarly high opinion of your people?"

  "I think some people are greedy and ambitious and will stop at nothing to get what they want, no matter where they're born. Fortunately, my uncle's holding is too small and insignificant and rocky to be of interest to clever, scheming, ambitious men."

  "Do you think /am a clever, scheming, ambitious man?"

  She met his gaze squarely. "I believe you're ambitious, or you wouldn't have worked so hard for your success. And you aren't a fool, my lord, or again, you wouldn't be in possession of this land and this castle. As for scheming, your plan to find a bride seems rather heartless."

  "If I crave wealth and power, Riona," he grimly replied, "it's because I know what it is to lack them. If my method of choosing a bride seems cold and calculated, it's because I can't marry just to satisfy my desire."

  Why did he have to speak of desire?

  "Sir Nicholas!" a voice bellowed, one that Riona had recently heard raised in rage and frustration.

  The cook came marching toward them across the ward, his face red, his breathing heavy with the effort.

  Wondering what Nicholas was going to do, Riona slid him a wary glance. His face rarely betrayed any hint of what he was thinking, but unless she was very much mistaken, Alfred was about to discover that Nicholas of Dunkeathe had little use for men who beat defenceless boys.

  The cook seemed to realize something was amiss, for before he reached them, he pointed at Riona and declared, "My lord, this Scot is fdling your head with lies and false accusations. She even threatened me! Who does she think she is, anyway? She's not in charge of my kitchen."

  "Neither are you," Nicholas replied, his voice cold and his tone imperious. "I am in charge of Dunkeathe, Alfred, and therefore in charge of the kitchen."

  "But I am in your employ to run your kitchen, my lord," Alfred protested, his voice now more whining than defiant. "I haven't failed you in that. And my skills are without question."

  "It isn't your cooking that's at issue. I understand you beat the spit boy."

  After an
other malevolent glance at Riona, Alfred said, "He let the meat burn, my lord. Would you have me excuse him, or pat him on the head and say never mind? I had to beat him to teach him not to do it again, and by God, my lord, he won't."

  "Or what? You'll kill him?"

  Alfred sucked in his breath and regarded Riona as if she'd unfairly accused him of attempted murder. "I don't know what she's been saying, my lord—"

  "She told me that you beat the boy. She told me that the rest of the servants aren't pleased with your governance. She told me I could have serious trouble if something isn't done."

  Sweat trickled down the sides of the cook's reddening face. "What does it matter what the servants think, as long as they do their work—and by God, my lord, I see that they do!" Alfred retorted. "What sort of serious trouble is this woman—this Scot— talking about?"

  "The sort of trouble I've seen many times when a commander isn't fit to lead."

  "Not fit?" Alfred cried. "I'm not fit? I tell you, my lord, I've been cooking for noblemen since you were nothing more than a poor soldier in the pay of anybody who'd hire you and I won't be treated like this. Either she goes, or I do!"

  As Riona held her breath, Nicholas's brows lowered. "Since you must be unhappy working for a man who was once nothing more than a poor soldier in the pay of anyone who'd hire him, I'm sure you'd be happier somewhere else."

  The cook gulped and suddenly seemed to realize he'd said far too much, and to the wrong man. "Forgive my hasty words, my lord," he stammered. "She got me angry, that's all. You always let me have a free hand to run the kitchen as I see fit, so when she came and tried to take charge—"

  "Did you try to take charge of Alfred's kitchen, my lady?" Nicholas asked as he looked at Riona, and in his dark eyes, she saw a scepticism that told her who he believed.

  Her heart singing, she answered him with frank honesty. "I told him to stop beating the spit boy, my lord, and that I was going to tell you what was going on. If that's taking charge, I did—and I'd do it again."

  Nicholas turned back to the cook. "Alfred, you will leave Dunkeathe immediately."

  "But my lord, surely you don't mean that!"

  "I assure you, I do."

  "With so many noble guests and their servants? Who will supervise those lazy louts in the kitchen?"

  "That will be my concern, Alfred, not yours. Collect your things and be gone before sunset. Or would you prefer to spend the next week or two in the stocks alongside Burnley?"

  Alfred blanched and backed away. "All right, my lord, I'll go," he said, his whole body shaking, "and good riddance to you and your lazy servants and this damned country! I hope you all rot!"

  Riona let her breath out slowly as she watched the cook run away as fast as his fat legs could take him.

  As Nicholas came to stand beside her, he said, "He's right about one thing. Now I have no cook and thus no one to supervise my kitchen."

  His expression speculative, he turned to her. "While I appreciate that you acted out of sympathy for the spit boy, I also recall that your uncle claims you are a wonder at the management of a household. Would it be too much to ask that you take command of my kitchen in the interim? I assure you, I'll have Robert do his utmost to hire another cook as quickly as possible."

  He made that sound like a perfectly reasonable request, and there was flattery and respect in it, too. Happiness bloomed within her, at least for a moment, until certain realities intruded. "I don't know the sort of dishes Normans like."

  "The servants ought to have learned something from Alfred," he countered. "All they need is someone to oversee the meals and ensure that there's enough for everyone to eat, and at the appropriate time—although given that I'm expecting my sister and her family, perhaps you could show them how to prepare a few Scots dishes."

  How could she refuse to oblige him when his proposal sounded so reasonable, and she would have the chance to make something her uncle would like? "Very well, my lord."

  His eyes suddenly seemed to glow, and his lips curved up in a satisfied smile. "Maybe I should even thank you, for it occurs to me that I now have a way to determine which of the ladies remaining are best able to run my household. Each of them will take it in turn, with you to start."

  Riona frowned. "I didn't complain about your cook so that you could have a contest to find the most competent bride."

  "Yet it gives me that opportunity just the same," he replied without so much as a hint of shame. "If you'd rather not participate, I suppose Lady Joscelind could take the first—"

  "I'll do it," Riona said. "Now if you'll excuse me, I'd best get to the kitchen and see what remains to be done for tonight's meal."

  As she marched away, determined to show Nicholas, Lady Joscelind and anybody else that if she wasn't pretty or young or rich or from a powerful family, she wasn't completely useless, Nicholas went to the buckets by the wall. He found one that wasn't empty and dumped what was left of the cold water on his head.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  A SHORT TIME LATER, Robert stared at his master seated in the solar.

  "Alfred has gone?" he repeated with a combination of shock, dismay and concern, "and you've asked Lady Riona to take charge of the kitchen?"

  "Yes," Nicholas replied, trying to make it sound as if this was something not at all odd or out of the ordinary, although it was certainly both.

  Yet what else could he do, with Alfred gone and guests still in Dunkeathe? He needed someone to supervise the kitchen, and it couldn't be him, or Robert, either. His steward had enough to do without that additional burden. Instead, he'd immediately turned to Riona, as he would ask a trusted comrade to take over command of his men in battle. Perhaps he should have taken more time to think about this decision, but he didn't regret it.

  "I must point out, my lord, that Alfred's a most excellent cook. I've had many compliments on your behalf for the fine table and he keeps a tight rein on the costs and now that he knows you don't approve of his methods—"

  "He beat the spit boy," Nicholas reiterated, in a tone intended to convey, once and for all, that there would be no second chances after that.

  Robert flushed and shuffled his feet. "My lord, if I had known, I assure you, I would have—"

  "You knew nothing of what was going on in the kitchen?"

  Robert's blush deepened and he didn't meet Nicholas's gaze. "No, I didn't, my lord, to my shame. I should have paid more heed to the way Alfred was treating his underlings."

  Nicholas nodded. "Yes, you should—and so should I. It should not have fallen to a guest to inform us of Alfred's brutality. I want you to make it clear, Robert, that from now on, I will not countenance such treatment of any servant in my household, no matter how humble he or she may be."

  "Yes, my lord." Robert cleared his throat. "Unfortunately, some of the other guests might wonder about this, um, selection of Lady Riona. They'll surely think that's a mark of your favour and take it as a sign of your intention to give her that place permanently, as your wife."

  "Since Lady Riona's uncle claims she has many years experience in that regard, I thought I would give her a chance to prove it. I'll also give the other ladies the same opportunity to demonstrate that they're capable of running my household."

  Robert eyes widened. "As a sort of test, my lord?"

  "Exactly." He rubbed his chin. "And I've asked Lady Riona to supervise the preparation of something Marianne's husband will like. He's always complaining about Norman dishes."

  Robert looked shocked. "He's never said a word to me about that, my lord."

  "It's nothing," Nicholas said, waving his hand dismissively. "I think Adair enjoys trying to annoy me. If it wasn't the food, it'd be something else." Nicholas gave his steward a hint of a smile. "So this time, I'll provide him with food he should enjoy and see if I'm right."

  A relieved Robert grinned, then sobered. "I do hope Lady Riona's abilities haven't been overestimated by her uncle."

  From what he had already seen of her relations
hip with the servants and even his soldiers, Nicholas didn't think they had. In some ways, she reminded him of Sir Leonard, who'd trained him after he'd left the vicious Yves's command. Sir Leonard could drink and wench and tell stories with the men he trained, yet none ever forgot who was the master, and who the student.

  He'd never expected to find that quality in a woman.

  As for her comments on his methods of training his men, he didn't need her advice about that.

  Yet Sir Leonard sometimes gave out praise. Nicholas particularly remembered one rainy day, when he was cold and wet and miserable and despairing he would ever be able to wield a lance. Sir Leonard had taken him aside and told him that although he would probably never be as good as some of the others— something it had galled him to hear—he was doing better every time.

  "You can't expect to be the best at everything," Sir Leonard had said. "Settle for being the best at one, and adequate at the others. Your strength is in your sword arm, not aiming a lance or swinging a mace. All you have to do is get your man to the ground, where you can use your sword." Then he'd given Nicholas one of his rare, sardonic smiles. "Just don't let your opponent kill you first."

  The door to the solar burst open, and a very irate Lord Chesleigh strode into the room, followed by a scowling Sir Percival and an equally annoyed D'Anglevoix. Audric came last, although he looked less angry and more puzzled than the others.

  "Is this true, my lord?" Lord Chesleigh demanded as he came to a halt, arms akimbo, utterly ignoring Robert. "Have you set that woman.. .that Scot.. .Fiona or Rianne or whatever her name is.. .in charge of your household?"

  Nicholas rose as courtesy required, yet in a way that should have instantly told Lady Joscelind's father that his host wasn't inclined to look with favour on a man who stormed into his solar. Meanwhile, Robert sidled back into a corner.

  "Lady Riona is temporarily in charge of my kitchen," Nicholas replied evenly as he came around his table.

  "What, will we have to eat that stuff those Scots make out of oats?" D'Anglevoix asked in his frostiest, most patrician manner. "God, it's perfectly vile."