The Countess

by Claire Delacroix

  “Aye, now she is a young woman, but once she was a little girl, just like you.” Eglantine smiled. “And she loved both milk and breast as much as you do. Each night, I held the cup for her, too.” She patted her upper arm. “If you lean back here, I will aid you. ‘Twill work, you will see, just as it worked for Jacqueline.”

  Esmeraude looked to Célie, who nodded. “Your maman knows.”

  The toddler wriggled backward, settling herself uncertainly against Eglantine’s arm. Eglantine pretended she did not note her daughter’s wariness, and curled her arm around Esmeraude.

  Eglantine smiled at her. “Ease back just thus, aye, there ‘tis. Now, you hold the cup and I shall steady it. ‘Tis still warm.” She ensured there was no bump against the lip this time and felt Esmeraude sag in relief as the warm milk crossed her lips. Eglantine forced her own posture to be at ease, knowing that the child would sense her tension.

  Esmeraude sipped, her blue eyes bright as she studied her mother. After a long draw of milk, she pulled slightly back from the cup. “Tell a Papa story,” she demanded.

  Eglantine looked to the maid in confusion.

  “My lord Theobald used to tell her tales while she nursed.”

  Eglantine blinked. A tale? She was no storyteller, that much was certain. Indeed, she seldom remembered fanciful tales, though she enjoyed listening to them. She knew but one, the one she was living.

  ‘Twould have to do.

  Eglantine settled back on her pallet. “Once upon a time, there was a very pretty demoiselle, who had two older sisters.”

  “Esmeraude,” the toddler insisted, nestling closer. She sipped the milk diligently, her gaze fixed intently on her mother.

  Eglantine smiled. “Aye, her name was Esmeraude. How did you guess as much?”

  Esmeraude chortled, blowing a few bubbles in her milk. “Tell it!” Her fingers caught Eglantine’s hair and she stared at the lock of blond hair for a long moment before resolutely closing her fist around it.

  ‘Twas a start. “Well, this Esmeraude also had a maman and a papa...”

  “And they lived in a castle.”

  “Who tells this tale?” Eglantine asked with mock indignation, as Theobald might have done at his most charming. Esmeraude giggled again, looking unrepentant. “Indeed, you seem to know all of the tale already.”

  When Eglantine related a tale about the pretty demoiselle Esmeraude who lost her beloved father at a young age but went on to find happiness in life and win the heart of a valiant knight, she felt her daughter snuggle more closely in her arms.

  As Eglantine concluded her tale she tickled her daughter’s chin and asked, “Do you know the ending?”

  Esmeraude smiled proudly. “They lived happily ever after.”

  “Aye, they did.” Eglantine bent and kissed her daughter’s brow, using the ending her mother had always given to a tale. “And if I am not mistaken, they are happy together still.”

  “And he was never a toad,” Esmeraude added as her own embellishment, the reminder of Duncan’s tale making Célie laugh aloud.

  “Would you not wed a toad?”

  “Nay, not me!”

  “Or kiss him?”

  Esmeraude made a face, then dimpled as they laughed together. Oh, this was a rare gift! Eglantine eyed her happy daughter and could not believe she had made such progress already.

  But victory was to be short-lived. The toddler poked Eglantine, her expression a quelling one.

  “Another story,” she insisted, and Eglantine’s worries returned.

  “But I do not know another story.” Fear clutched her heart. Would she lose what progress had been made?

  “A song.” Esmeraude nodded at her own suggestion.

  Eglantine grimaced, her gaze flying to Célie. “I cannot believe, Esmeraude, that any song that might pass my lips would please you.” She met her daughter’s gaze steadily. “I cannot sing, child, and if I tried, ‘twould pain us all.”

  Esmeraude sucked her thumb as she regarded her mother. She patted Eglantine’s breast, as though just discovering it, and her eyes widened hopefully. “Milk?” she asked around her thumb, and Eglantine hated that she could not offer that either.

  Just when matters had been proceeding so well. There was no chance of milk filling her breast, nor of another tale appearing in her practical thoughts. If only she had the gift of song!

  But before Eglantine could reply, a familiar male voice began to hum. ‘Twas Duncan, she knew it well, and he was not far away. Eglantine frowned, for he must have entered the camp to have come so very close.

  The cheek of him! His very proximity made her tingle in a most unwelcome way. Was he close enough to have heard her tale? Eglantine did not doubt it.

  Then he began to sing softly, the words obviously Gael as they were incomprehensible to Eglantine. But the tune was familiar. ‘Twas the ballad he had sung before and ‘twas clear he meant to sing it again.

  For her child. Eglantine sagged in relief. She could not imagine what Duncan’s motivation for this gift must be, but as much as she would prefer to avoid him, she would have to see him thanked.

  Her cheeks heated with a sudden certainty of what a man like Duncan would demand in trade.

  His voice grew louder, the melody filling their ears, the words wrapping around their hearts. ‘Twas an achingly beautiful tune, sung by a man with an achingly beautiful voice.

  Eglantine wondered what ‘twas about. Again she noted the yearning in Duncan’s voice that could not be ignored. Did he sing for a child? A lost child? A lost love?

  Did he yearn for a woman compelled to wed another?

  The very idea made a lump rise in Eglantine’s throat. Had Duncan found and lost a great love? He was not a man who would take such a loss in stride, she would guess, and she wondered if that lay at the root of his determination to woo the woman of his choice.

  She would not speculate on how well Duncan might woo a woman.

  But she would savor this gift. Eglantine and Célie rearranged the pillows on Eglantine’s pallet. She leaned back, Esmeraude cradled against her chest, the toddler sucking less diligently on that thumb as her eyelids drooped. The maid snuffed the lantern and curled on her own pallet as Esmeraude’s eyes closed.

  Eglantine’s heart skipped as Duncan’s voice rose and fell, like the rhythm of the sea, his song spinning a colorful tapestry that enfolded Eglantine and her child.

  Her child feared her no longer, at least on this night. Eglantine held Esmeraude close, treasuring the child’s warmth.

  Finally, something went aright.

  Perhaps this place was not so dreadful, after all. Eglantine noted how the last colors of the sunset tinged the sheer silk over her head, and watched the silk billow in the wind from the sea. Aye, when the weather was fair, Kinbeath was pretty enough. ‘Twas wild, to be sure, but splendid in a way that neatly cultivated fields could never be.

  Much as an unpredictable man with eyes as changeable as the sea could be splendid in a way that a nobleman could not be. Eglantine closed her eyes and found the image of Duncan, eyes ablaze, as he demanded her aye or nay.

  Neither Robert nor Theobald had ever asked her permission to take what was their marital due. Was it merely the lack of vows between them that prompted Duncan’s courtesy?

  Eglantine could not imagine so. Perhaps he was a barbarian in some ways - but in others, he had a rare grace. Had she ever been pleasured so thoroughly? In his absence, Eglantine could admit the truth. And she knew she had never seen such reverence in a man’s expression when he touched her flesh.

  ‘Twas only human to yearn for more. Eglantine heaved a sigh and let the sound of the waves mingle with Duncan’s voice to ease the last of the tension from her shoulders.

  God in heaven, but the man could sing.

  Eglantine smiled as her feet began to warm. ‘Twas almost civilized here, in this moment, though no doubt it would soon rain in chilly torrents again. Her thumb stroked Esmeraude’s soft curls and she thought of an
gels, strong angels with stormy eyes, deep voices and broad shoulders.

  Angels singing sad ballads.

  When Duncan’s song faded, along with the last glimmer of the sunset, ‘twas not only Esmeraude who had fallen asleep.

  And ‘twas not only the toddler who smiled at her dreams.

  * * *

  In the dark of the night, Eglantine had a reminder of the lesser joys of sleeping with a small child. Her eyes flew open as her daughter grunted and began to snore softly.

  ‘Twas then she realized that child and bed and mother were all wet and not with water. Her cherub had somewhat earthly demands, after all.

  * * *

  Chapter Nine

  Duncan sat on the rocks long after Eglantine’s tale ended, knowing sleep would elude him this night, and watched the moon rise high. Far behind him, her camp slumbered. Far ahead of him, the broch was a shadow against the blackness of the night, his own company slumbering there.

  A thousand stars were scattered across the sky, looking close enough to be plucked. The dark waves lapped at his feet, lulling him with their rhythm.

  ‘Twas a night made for magic, a night upon which any dream might come true, a night befitting of a tale. He watched a star shoot across the heavens, wondering what wish he should make, and knew it involved Eglantine and her fur-lined cloak.

  And her teeth against his flesh.

  Duncan had long believed that Mhairi haunted him, but Cormac’s lost daughter could not come close to Eglantine’s power to torment. He had never met a woman who blazed like Eglantine, never met a woman who could sear his soul with her touch.

  But Eglantine had avoided him the rest of this day. He had caught but one glimpse of her, earlier this evening, with her hair unbound and her expression oddly vulnerable. He had been nigh felled by a desire to hold her close, to fight her dragons, to assail whatever stood in her path.

  He did not want her to shun him. He wanted to touch her again. He wanted to talk to her. He wanted to finish that argument, if need be, then reconcile abed.

  Eglantine, however, insisted upon slaying her dragons alone. Still her tale echoed through his thoughts, explaining so much, while the words she did not utter explained so more.

  He wanted to injure the man who had sired Esmeraude and found himself disappointed that the man was already dead.

  ‘Twas then he heard a faint splash.

  He turned, expecting to see naught, and froze. A vision wrought of moonlight and unaware of his presence, Eglantine eased to the lip of the sea. Her hair was unfurled around her shoulders and shimmering silver beneath the moon’s caressing light. A heavy cloak was wrapped around her, the collar high against the chill. She bent hesitantly, as though not trusting the sea, and Duncan smiled at the caution of Eglantine.

  She dipped something into the inky waves. Duncan dared to turn fully, moving silently, half afraid she would flee, half afraid she was naught but a vision wrought by his restless thoughts.

  But ‘twas Eglantine, not surprisingly immune to his fanciful mood. Aye, she scrubbed a length of pale cloth with purpose, holding it periodically up to the light then bending to rinse it again.

  Ever pragmatic, that was his countess.

  Duncan smiled.

  “If ‘tis a stain left by the fey, ‘twill not come out so readily as that,” he called softly. The lady started despite his low tone, spun, then caught her breath when she spied him.

  Their gazes held for a long moment, though her features were half-shadowed. She held the dripping cloth before herself, as though ‘twould protect her, and spoke formally.

  “I would thank you for the ballad this night, for ‘twas most fortuitously timed.”

  Duncan inclined his head in acknowledgement, then frowned, wishing he could melt the chill in her tone. “I would speak with you, after this day.”

  Eglantine ignored his entreaty and did not move. “Is it the same song you sang last eve?”

  “Aye.” Duncan noted that she did not draw near to him. “Were you injured this day? ‘Twas not my intent, Eglantine...”

  “I was not hurt,” she retorted, then lifted her chin as she changed the topic. “What is the song about? I did not understand the words.”

  Duncan shrugged dismissively. “’Tis naught but an old tale.” He stood, relieved when she lingered. “Eglantine, I would speak with you this night...”

  Eglantine shook her head. “I doubt ‘tis merely an old song. ‘Tis sad, I would wager, a tale of love and loss. ’Tis a tale that lies too close to your heart to be merely some old tale, Duncan. You do not fool me.”

  Duncan looked away, wanting her to stay but not wanting to share the truth of this. “’Tis naught. I but prefer old tales.”

  “Liar,” she charged softly.

  Duncan scowled, disliking the charge no less than the fact that in this case, ‘twas true. “What of the tale you told this night? Was it a lie, or a fiction concocted to ease a child?”

  Eglantine’s defiance crumbled, vulnerability making a fleeting appearance. “You heard?”

  “Aye.”

  She caught her breath and tried to hide her dismay. “’Twas not your right.”

  “Nay, ‘twas not,” he acknowledged, then took a step closer. “Is it true?”

  Eglantine heaved a sigh and looked across the water in turn. Her admission was so low that ‘twould have been lost in the lap of the sea if Duncan had not been listening so closely. “Aye. More or less.” She rubbed her brow and might have turned away, but Duncan lunged forward and caught at her elbow.

  “How did he ensure the babe loved him best?” He was surprised to hear the thrum of anger in his words. “ ’Twas what you said in your tale and I heard the ache in your words. How dare he treat you with such disregard, after you had borne him a child?”

  Eglantine also appeared surprised by his response. She met his gaze questioningly.

  “Theobald indulged Esmeraude overmuch, ‘tis all.” She sighed. “And like all children, she preferred the sweet to the stern.”

  “Tell me more of it.”

  “I am tired,” she insisted, then frowned and would have abandoned him there.

  The offer came so impulsively to Duncan’s lips that ‘twas uttered before he considered it. “I will translate the song for you first.”

  “Why should I indulge you again?”

  Duncan spared her his most winning smile. “Because I truly want to know. I confessed to you already, Eglantine, that I have a rare passion for the truth.”

  Their gazes held and he tingled at the heat that lit her gaze. Then she shook her head and glanced back toward her tent. “You are a man of rare persistence, Duncan MacLaren,” she charged, though there was no recrimination in her tone.

  He grinned. “Stubborn, Cormac called it, but then he was not a man to gild either rose or a thorn.” A wistful smile touched Eglantine’s lips and Duncan was encouraged that she did not hasten away.

  “You were fond of this Cormac.”

  Duncan nodded, unashamed of this. “Aye. He was uncommonly good to me.”

  “You heard how the child fought me,” she said softly. “I suppose I owe you some due for your aid.”

  Unspeakably relieved, Duncan gestured to his smooth seating as though ‘twas a fine throne. Eglantine hovered as she considered the spot, poised like a doe prepared to flee.

  “‘Tis cold. Perhaps the morrow would be better for such tales.”

  “Now or not at all.” Duncan held her gaze steadily, wishing he knew how to reassure her. “My tale is long. You had best be seated.”

  She sat abruptly as though ‘twas a trial to be endured. She averted her features from Duncan and folded her hands tightly together. “You must not think poorly of Theobald,” she said, the words falling in a breathless rush and he was astounded that she would defend the man.

  Was this her guilt speaking? Duncan could not guess.

  “Theobald had long wanted a child of his own blood. Esmeraude was his first and his only. He
saw the closeness I had with Jacqueline and wanted a measure of that himself.”

  “But surely she had to be nursed?”

  Eglantine’s words were flat. “He preferred that she should have nursemaids, as they could be changed at frequent intervals.” She pleated her cloak hastily, frowning down at her busy fingers as though unaware of what they did. “He insisted that she be granted every frippery, but ‘tis not good for a child to be undisciplined, to be so spoiled.”

  Duncan’s anger gained new vigor at more signs of the man’s selfishness. “And so ‘twas left to you to decline the child.”

  Eglantine nodded, her head bowed. “Someone had to say no. ‘Tis only human nature that Esmeraude preferred her papa, he who granted her all, to everyone else.”

  “And so Esmeraude was devastated when he died.”

  Eglantine smiled softly. “Who could hold a candle to such an indulgent parent?”

  Duncan’s heart clenched. He placed one hand on Eglantine’s shoulder, unable to stop himself from offering sympathy where ‘twas clearly due. Eglantine had felt as much pain from this as Esmeraude, of that Duncan had no doubt. “You take the blame for another’s crime, Eglantine.”

  “Nay. I should have known better.”

  “’Twas his fault,” he argued heatedly. “No father should have asked as much. ‘Twas wrong of him, and the wrong of you blaming yourself does not make it right.”

  She looked up, clearly surprised by his defense of her.

  “Love is not a commodity to be hoarded, Eglantine, though I suspect you know as much.” Duncan smiled for her, shaken by the uncertainty lingering in her eyes. “You took great strides this night in making your repair.”

  Eglantine’s smile did not light her eyes. “’Twould have all been lost without your song. I thank you again for your aid.”

  He studied her, watching the moonlight play over her features. “Why did you come to Ceinn-beithe?” he asked quietly, sensing that she would not deny him the truth on this night. The moonlight seemed to have softened her formidable defenses, or perhaps it had been Esmeraude’s acceptance that had done as much.

  Eglantine sighed. “For my daughters. I came to grant Alienor, Jacqueline and Esmeraude the chance to each find a man who loved her with all his heart and soul. I would have them wed for love, not obligation, I would have them find happiness in marriage, even as I did not.”