My Noble Knight

by Cynthia Breeding

Gilead shook his head. “It just wouldn’t.” He untethered Malcolm, led him into the stall, and picked up a brush to curry him.

  His father stared at him for a moment and then turned to go. He stopped abruptly. “It’s that wench ye brought home, isn’t it?”

  Gilead felt his ears turn hot. He remembered her lips against his, warm and moist and soft like the light zephyr on the battlements that night. Yielding. Her hair had felt so silky in his hands and her skin so smooth beneath his fingertips. Even now, he could smell the subtle fragrance of heather soap that clung to her.

  “I told ye, lad. That is one wench ye’ll not be tupping.”

  He lifted his chin and looked into his father’s eyes. “I told ye I wouldn’t.”

  Angus held his gaze and then he snorted. “Bloody hell, son. There are plenty of women who would come to yer bed. Bonny Janet, for one. Ye have aught but to lift a finger and she’ll strip for ye before ye can take her to the floor.”

  No thanks. He’d made that mistake once, years ago when he barely knew what to do with his new erection. One of his mother’s older maids had seduced him, and, once he’d gotten over the wonderment of spilling his seed, he’d not been able to get rid of her. She trailed him like a mooncalf until Elen had finally sent her home to her father.

  Gilead shook his head. “What ails me, Da, is that I told Deidre I would talk to ye…make ye understand she has nae will to be handfasted to Niall.”

  “That again. Ye did what ye said ye’d do. Ye talked to me. I said ‘nae’.” When Gilead did not respond, he added, “It’s the way of things.” He turned to get his own horse. “She belongs to Niall, or she will. Ye keep yer hands off her.”

  Gilead clenched his jaw as he turned back to Malcolm. “It would be nice if he followed his own advice, wouldn’t it?” he asked his horse.

  The stallion nodded his head sagely.

  ◊♦◊

  Deidre took a deep breath and walked through the door to the kitchen. The big cook, whose name was Meara—Deidre had to chuckle at the irony of a name that meant “merry”—had her back to her. A tantalizing aroma of mutton stew and warm oatcakes filled the room.

  “That smells delicious,” Deidre said, causing one of the scullery maids to look up in panic.

  The cook turned around, meat cleaver in hand. “I thought I spoke with ye earlier about staying out of me kitchen.”

  It would be nice if she put that huge knife down. Deidre fought the impulse to turn and run. She forced a smile that made her face hurt. “I…I came to ask your help.”

  The woman eyed her suspiciously. “What kind of help? I’ll not be making something special for ye, not unless Lady Elen asks.”

  “Oh, no, it isn’t that,” Deidre hastened to say. “But it’s about Lady Elen.”

  Meara’s eyes narrowed. “Are ye complaining? Naught is right for the mistress?”

  Deidre shook her head quickly. By the saints, the woman was bristly. “No. The lady is fine. At least, she is now.”

  “Now?”

  “Yes.” Deidre let her glance slide over the still-panicked maid and the scullion boy who stood gaping at her. “Could we speak privately?”

  The cook waved the big knife at the two and they collided with each other, trying to get out the door. Deidre stifled a smile. Probably better not to laugh when the woman was brandishing a meat cleaver.

  “Well? Speak yer piece. I’ve work to do.”

  “Yes. Thank you. The night of the feast, Lady Elen became deathly ill—”

  “Are ye saying something be wrong with me food?” the cook roared.

  Deidre kept her eyes on the fist that yielded that weapon. “No! No. I didn’t mean that…I meant that I thought it might be poison—”

  The woman’s face mottled. The color grew from red to maroon and veins began to bulge at her temples. This was not going well. Deidre took a small step backward. “I didn’t mean you! I vow! Just listen.”

  Meara threw the cleaver down and the blade bit into the floor planks, leaving the wooden handle vibrating. Her fists clenched and unclenched and her mouth worked silently as a nasty storm brewed in her eyes.

  Deidre glanced toward the door. Two steps. Maybe three.

  “Ye wee bitch! Master Gilead is kind enough to bring ye here and feed ye—with my food—and ye accuse me—”

  “No! Not you.” Deidre swallowed hard. She had to know if Formorian had been in the kitchen that day. “Were you in the kitchen all day? Could someone have come in without your permission?”

  The scowl on the cook’s face became scudding thunderclouds. Now what had she done?

  “Only ye. I let no one in here, except the laird or Master Gilead.” She stooped to retrieve the knife. “Now get out and dare not to darken my door again!”

  Deidre nodded and backed away, only to collide with something soft.

  “Goodness! What is going on in here?” Elen asked. “I could hear the shouting up the stairs.”

  To Deidre’s utter amazement, the cook changed before her very eyes. The giant woman became a blubbering blob that puddled itself on the floor at Elen’s feet. “My lady,” she said in a shaky voice, tears streaming down her face, “this stranger—that ye have shown naught but kindness and mercy to—accuses me of poisoning ye! Me! I have been with ye since ye were a wee bairn—”

  “There, there.” Elen soothed her, stroking the older woman’s hair as she knelt. “I’m sure she didn’t mean it.” She lifted troubled eyes to Deidre. “Mayhap ye best leave us. We’ll speak later.”

  Deidre nodded and fled. Mon Dieu! Not only had she botched the whole thing and not gotten any information about Formorian, but now Elen was displeased with her. And somehow, that shamed her. Standing up to Angus, all six and a half feet of raw, domineering male that he was, was nothing. Let him rant and roar. Let Niall try to intimidate her. She could take it. But a softly spoken implied word of rebuke from Elen humiliated her. She stifled a sob. Could she make any more of a mess of things?

  ◊♦◊

  She found Angus a few minutes later in the stables, saddling his stallion. Better she get this over with before he found out about the fiasco in the kitchen. While she now knew that his lust lay with Formorian, Deidre still didn’t think he’d take kindly to her upsetting his wife.

  Good place for a meeting, the stables. Especially since she wanted a horse.

  The black tossed his head and stamped his forehooves as she approached. Angus gave him a smack on his withers and he calmed.

  “He’s beautiful,” Deidre said. “May I pet him?”

  Angus turned, surprised, and looked down at her. “Donal doesna like strangers. Careful there, lassie!”

  But Deidre had already offered the big horse an apple, one she’d pilfered from the sideboard of the Great Hall when Meara wasn’t around. Donal’s eyes rolled and he laid his ears back, but she didn’t move, her hand just inches away from those big teeth. Angus gave the horse a sharp reprimand and jerked Deidre out of harm’s way.

  “What the hell do ye think ye’re doing? One bite and yer bones be crushed.”

  Deidre gave him a wide-eyed look. “Don’t all horses like apples?”

  “Not this one. He’s war-trained and taught to obey only my hand.”

  “A destrier,” she breathed, her mind reeling back to descriptions of the horses the knights from The Book rode. Her cousin’s cavalry rode smaller horses. This stallion stood nearly seventeen hands at the withers, with a full chest and massive hindquarters. In her mind, a procession of heavily armored warriors rode, colorful standards held high in front of them, baldrics supporting swords at their backs. Knights off on a quest… She gave herself a shake. There she went again, letting her imagination take over. Hadn’t she realized yet that there was no Camelot?

  “What are ye doing here, anyway?” Angus asked. “Should ye not be with Elen?”

  “Ah…she gave me some free time.”

  He tightened the cinch and then wrapped an arm around the pommel, leaning against th
e horse, and gazed down at her. “And ye decided to come to the stable. Looking for anyone in particular?”

  “You,” Deidre said.

  Angus raised an eyebrow. “Ye surprise me, lass.”

  She flushed probably bright scarlet at the implication. Good Lord! Did he think she was throwing herself at him like Sheila did? “It’s not that.”

  He gave her a lopsided smile. Merde! Did he have to have the same smile Gilead did? Only with Gilead, it was a charmingly disarming smile, making her all warm and mushy inside. A teasing smile that hinted at pleasures to be shared.

  His father’s smile was purely carnal and left the impression that a woman was meant to be ravaged. Deidre shivered a little. No doubt, he and the warrior queen were well-matched.

  “Well?” he asked “What would ye be wanting me to do for ye?”

  Thank goodness he had not reached for her. She would have run screaming like a banshee. She stepped back a little, safe from any predatory move he might make, but he remained still, looking more amused than anything.

  “I…I would like to learn to ride.”

  “Why would ye be needing to ride? I cannot imagine my very fragile wife being up to such outings.”

  “Perhaps not, my lord.” Best to be as formal as possible. They were alone in this area of the barn. “But Queen Formorian rides—”

  “Aye. She’s ridden since she was a wee bairn. How does this matter to ye?”

  “Well.” Deidre lowered her eyes demurely, trying to look contrite. She really wasn’t good at conniving, but she was desperate. “I think it pleases her husband that she rides beside him.” When he was silent, she looked up to find him gazing absently into space. Mayhap she should not have mentioned Turius. “I mean…well, if I am to be wed, I would think it would please my husband to have me ride by his side.” Only that husband would never be Niall. Never.

  Angus looked surprised. “Ye’ll agree to the handfast then?”

  Only until she could find a way out. “What choice do I have, my lord?”

  He didn’t answer directly. “The idea of running yer own household, with servants of yer own, sets well?”

  “I suppose I could get used to that.” Deidre grasped one hand with the other to keep it from trembling. Here she was, merely evading the truth. She would never understand how anyone could be a bold-faced liar.

  “So ye’ve come to yer senses, then?”

  She supposed she had. Gilead let her down. She could only depend on herself. “Yes, my lord.”

  Angus nodded. “I knew ye would; it just took a mite to adjust to the idea. Niall is not so verra bad. If ye treat him well, he’ll do right by ye.”

  For a moment she was tempted to show him her wrist, but the swelling was not so bad that he’d believe her. She had no doubt that Niall would be a wife-beater, but she wasn’t going to be here to find out. She swallowed hard to keep the bile down. “Yes, my lord. Do you not think it would please him to find out I can ride?”

  “Aye. Ye can tell him tomorrow night; he’ll be coming for a meeting on sending our envoy north.”

  She nearly panicked. “Ah, no, my lord. I wish it to be a surprise. Please. Not a word until I’m good enough to show him.”

  Angus studied her silently. Finally, he nodded. “Give me a day or two. I’ll arrange it.”

  From behind her, she heard movement. Gilead appeared in the doorway of the stall to her right, a curry comb in one hand, an odd expression on his face.

  Her skin heated at the sight of him and then her blood ran chill. He had heard everything. For all practical purposes, she had just agreed to marry Niall.

  Merde. She didn’t think things could get worse after the kitchen mess. Apparently, they could. They just did.

  ◊♦◊

  This time, Gilead wanted to kick himself for being such a fool. He had actually believed Deidre. She had looked into his face that night on the battlements, her big blue eyes brimming with tears, silently begging to be rescued—a second time—or so he thought. And the kiss…what a clever little wench she was to reel him in like a spawned salmon! “Forever grateful,” she’d said, and he’d swelled with pride, thinking that once he’d protected her from Niall, they might share another kiss. Fool. He kicked the stairs to his mother’s room hard with his boot. Fool. This was what happened when he let his emotions get in the way of his good sense.

  Oh, he had no doubt Deidre had been scared witless on Beltane, but obviously the idea of wealth and title overcame that fear. She was penniless. She might still not think Niall desirable, but that hardly mattered. She was ambitious. She had probably thought to use him, too.

  Fool. Fool. Fool.

  Gilead planted a smile on his face and opened the door to his mother’s chambers. And then, froze in his tracks.

  Deidre sat beside his mother, weeping. His mother was comforting her, patting her on the shoulder. Bel’s fires! What, was the little minx trying to coerce his mother into believing her now?

  “There, now,” Elen said. “We’ll not speak of it again. ’Tis in the past.”

  “I’m just so sorry,” Deidre said as she wiped her eyes with a linen cloth that Elen handed her.

  He’d wager she was. Whatever it was. Convincing little vixen, just like Formorian. And look where that had landed his father, not to mention his poor mother. He should thank the Dagda for keeping him from such folly. He. Should. Thank. The. Gods.

  Strangely, though, he was not comforted.

  “Mother? Are ye all right?” he asked as he approached, ignoring Deidre, and gave his mother a kiss on her cheek.

  “Aye. Except for this potion.” Elen wrinkled her small nose and finished the thick brew that Brena provided. “Deidre had a wee problem, but it’s been taken care of.”

  Janet arrived then with the breakfast tray. As she set it down on the table, her ample bosom brushed Gilead’s shoulder. With a bit of annoyance, he noted that Deidre apparently did not notice the gesture.

  He considered Janet, thinking about what his father had said. She was comely enough and seemed eager to please. Certes, she touched him as often as she could. Mayhap his father was right, much as he hated to admit it. A good tupping might just be what he needed.

  He smiled at Janet, his hand brushing hers as he took the hot mug of tea and handed it to his mother. “Won’t ye join us this morn, lass?”

  Janet quickly flounced down beside him, giving Deidre a triumphant look, but Deidre seemed suddenly devoted to sprinkling just the right amount of sugar onto Elen’s porridge. She set the bowl down in front of Elen as Angus burst through the door in his usual brusque manner. Elen cringed slightly.

  “Good morn, husband.”

  Angus nodded and removed the mug of tea, replacing it with the wine goblet he’d brought. He looked at Gilead. “Adair will be wanting a rematch this morning. I hope ye’ll think with yer head today.”

  Gilead clenched his teeth. “Aye. I will.” His father no longer had to worry about which head he was thinking with. He was back in control of his emotions. It felt good, too. It really, really did. So good that he handed Janet a warm bannock, letting his fingers linger on hers for a moment.

  Angus’s mouth quirked at that, and he sat down between his wife and Deidre. “I’ve decided who could best teach ye to ride,” he said to Deidre.

  Elen looked surprised. “Ye want to learn to ride, child? Like a man? ’Tis not what a lady does.”

  “She wants to learn,” Angus replied with more than a bit of sarcasm, “because she wants to please her husband. Some wives do, ye know.”

  Elen looked down, a pink flush covering her face and neck. “Ye know I’m afraid of the big beasts.”

  “Aye. Ye’ve told me before.” Angus sighed and turned back to Deidre. “I think it best if a woman teach ye. I’ll send for Formorian.”

  Gilead stared at his father. That was a clever bit of maneuvering. Formorian without Turius. Here. For weeks. He wondered just how many minutes it had taken his father to formulate that plan.
Probably less than one.

  “Not a good choice,” he said.

  His father arched a brow. “Why not? Formorian has a way with horses.”

  Formorian had a way with everything. Gilead was not about to subject his mother to a prolonged visit. “I believe the discussion yesterday was that Mistress Deidre wished to surprise her…her fiancé,” he managed to say. “It would seem odd to have Queen Formorian here for any length of time.”

  Angus eyes darkened and Gilead caught something that looked like respect. His Da loved mind games; only Gilead wasn’t playing one. He plodded on. “We’ve enough fine horsemen here.”

  “Certes, we do.” Elen sat up, her voice surprisingly strong. “Ye, for one, Gilead.” She turned to Angus. “Does our son not always win the trials of horsemanship? Do ye not always brag on him?”

  Angus looked wary and Gilead silently groaned. He hadn’t wanted to push the issue this far. “In truth, I was thinking of Broderick.” Gilead flinched a little as Deidre looked at him steadily for a moment and then looked away. “He is our Master of Horse.”

  “As such, I need him to ready the troops for the march north,” Angus answered and then eyed his son thoughtfully. “Mayhap, ye would be best at that.”

  Now, what was his father crafting? He’d been told in no uncertain terms to leave Deidre alone…and then, he remembered. His father had wanted him to find out where she really came from. He had not done that. Now that Deidre had declared her intentions for Niall, his father knew she was safe from him.

  Absolutely, totally safe. Clever of his father. He nodded stiffly. “As ye wish, then.” But he didn’t have to make this easy for either of them. He turned to Deidre. “I’ll expect ye at the stables at dawn’s crack. We’ve both other things to do during the day.”

  He was somewhat gratified to see two rosy spots grow on her cheeks as she turned away. Fascinating, though, the way that pink glow spread all the way to the neckline of her dress...

  “Gilead!” he heard his mother exclaim. “Where are the manners I taught ye? Ye’ll certes do nothing of the sort. I can spare Deidre in the afternoon.” She folded her hands in her lap, looking more determined than he’d ever seen her. “I’ll not have it any other way.”