It was disgraceful enough that the moment had taken place, but even more so that someone had seen. Without thought, she clenched his forearm, taking comfort in his strength, wishing to remain in his shadow, invisible to whomever had entered.
Cull stood strong and sure, and issued no words of rebuke to the man who’d entered. And why would he? Was she not merely a conquest? A peasant to be taken? Did not men congratulate each other for such things? But even now, in her shame, her heart could not grasp hold of such accusations.
Cull was different. She sensed that beneath his guarded, rigidly controlled exterior. However, that belief did nothing to lessen her regret.
The man spoke again, his voice deep and smooth. “Duncan said you had a woman here. To think, I did not believe him.”
“My lord Buchan,” said Cull, his voice deep and rich. “Welcome. I did not expect you for some hours yet.”
A ripple of shock coursed through Derryth’s limbs, as Cull spoke the reviled name.
The Wolf, here. Standing just feet away.
The man who threatened everything she loved … and who made Cull her enemy.
Fear and panic thundered in her chest and inside her head.
Her gaze fixed on Cull’s sword where it gleamed on its stand beside his armor. The weapon was nearly as tall as she was, and likely heavier. Even if she lunged, and took hold of it by the hilt, it was unlikely she’d even be able to lift it, let alone manage to slay the man. And yet she thought it. She wished it.
She kept her gaze lowered, but saw the earl’s rich leather boots take several steps inward, tracking mud on the carpet. She noticed that Cull shifted, turning by the slightest degree—shielding her still.
The earl chuckled. “Traveling with catapults is tediously slow. After I sent the courier with word I would arrive, I grew impatient. I and my personal retinue rode ahead.”
Catapults! Her stomach clenched with anxiety. If he had come with catapults, no doubt he had also brought more men, which meant more than Cull’s two hundred would move against the Kincaids. Her stomach pitched and roiled, and she felt nearly sick with trepidation.
“Sit here, where it is warm.” Cull extended a hand toward the brazier, and the pair of chairs beside it. He spoke in a low, even tone. Rather than sounding in awe of his visitor, he sounded at ease. “There is wine warming over the fire. May I pour you some?”
Unexpectedly, he did not order her to tend to the earl.
“I only came to greet you,” replied the earl. “To inform you I was here, and to extend an invitation for you to sup with me this night.”
“Of course. Yes. I will join you,” answered Cull.
“Until then.” She heard the brush of Buchan’s boots on the carpet as he turned to go. “Oh and Cull…”
“Yes, my lord?”
“Bring that lovely girl as well.” He laughed, low in his throat, amused. “The one you are trying so gallantly to hide from me. I do insist.”
Her heart stopped, hearing the words. No. She clasped her eyes shut, and clenched her teeth against the wave of terror that rose up inside her. At the same time … she felt the slightest change in Cull. The muscle in his arm, where she held it, grew hard and tight.
“Aye, Earl. I will.”
Of course he would agree. His loyalty was to Buchan. Not her. Not the Kincaids. Nothing was more clear to her in that moment.
The moment they were alone again, she broke away from him.
“Buchan,” she spat, feeling as if the name were a sour taste she had to expel from her mouth.
Aye, she’d known the earl’s sons were here in the camp, and that Cull was acting on orders that the Wolf had put into motion—but it had not occurred to her that Cull knew the hated nobleman on such intimate terms as to greet him as a friend, rather than with a subservient bow.
The realization made her feel sick. Sick to her soul.
“You know of him?” he asked, casting her a narrowed glance.
For a moment she feared he would see straight into her soul, and know she was a Kincaid. She banished all emotion from her face.
“Everyone in the Highlands knows him—and reviles him,” she hissed. “He has sown much havoc and unhappiness here, misusing his authority when he was Justiciar of the North. Now, surely he seeks to do the same again.”
He replied in a tight voice, “And everyone in Scotland knows the Highland clans despise royal interference in their affairs. They can’t even get along with one another. Someone must exert the law of the land over them, for they are plainly incapable of imposing order upon themselves.”
“’Tis not just that!” she countered, her anger rising. “He plots and kills those who displease him, without conscience.”
“Aye, name one noble in this land, one laird or chieftain, who does not. No man is a saint, Derryth,” he retorted, his voice deep and silencing. “In fact, I know not one.”
“There are good men still.” Niall and Faelan Braewick, to name two, but she could not declare them without revealing her loyalties. And yet she would not be silenced. “Buchan is the devil.”
Cull looked at her coldly, his nostrils flared, a stranger again. Clearly she had offended him, by offending his lord. “Then it seems you must sup with the devil tonight. He would not take kindly if his invitation was denied.”
“Even by a peasant?”
“Aye, peasant,” he growled. “Even by you.”
She had thought to strike a blow against him with her words, but he struck back in equal measure, and the words stung.
He stalked toward the water basin and almost angrily wrenched his tunic over his shoulders. Thrusting a cloth into the water, he washed his face, his neck, and his chest.
She stood silent, watching, her mouth gone dry at the sight of his bare skin and muscles, honed from years of warrioring. The scars … that, aye, most certainly looked like lashes, rather than battle scars.
Despite her anger … her understanding that he could only ever be her adversary, she wanted to know him. His secrets, and his past. How his life had brought him to this place. More than anything, she wanted him to turn around, and stride toward her and take her in his arms again, and kiss her with the same thrilling passion as before, and tell her he knew she was right about Buchan, but that he had no choice, that he was a warrior sworn to follow the orders of the monarchy, thereby making him almost as much a victim of Buchan’s plotting as she.
Instead, he stilled and spoke over his shoulder.
“You will stay by my side tonight, do you understand?” Gone was the warmth in his voice. Once again, he spoke to her as an inferior. “Do nothing to draw attention to yourself.”
Inside, she went cold. Perhaps he had desired her for a moment, here in the confines of his lonely warrior’s tent. But clearly his interest in her did not extend beyond that. Indeed, all the emotion that had so thickly filled the quarters before Buchan’s interruption was gone, only to be replaced by stark, cold emptiness.
Cull’s displeasure at being forced to take her to his lord’s table could not be more obvious. No doubt he was accustomed to sharing a trencher with much nobler and finer ladies. No doubt that was also where he had learned to kiss with such confidence and skill.
“You needn’t worry,” she responded, feeling as if her eyes had been opened once again, to the man who held her against her will, and who threatened everything she must protect. “This peasant understands her place. I will not speak a word.”
“Good. I hope you mean to start now,” he muttered.
She moved to the other side of the tent, and lowered herself onto her pallet where she pretended to organize the contents of her trunk, but the words and his manner stung. Though she kept her face averted, she knew he pulled on a clean tunic, and then a fitted leather jerkin that displayed his warrior’s physique to its finest. Without another word, he left her alone in the tent.
Tears blurred her eyes, but she dashed them away. She would not sit here, feeling defeated and inferior. Perhaps sh
e was a woman, and did not have armor to wear or a sword to hold, but she must be a warrior no less. She had her own strengths. Her own talents. She would gather herself and proceed into battle, as any warrior would.
Though she dreaded the thought of seeing Buchan again, she knew she must forget what had happened between herself and Cull. Their kiss. Her only thought must be of the Kincaids, and how she could help them. Mayhap tonight she might overhear something useful to their cause.
She was grateful for her plain, unadorned garments, and she spent extra time painstakingly sectioning and plaiting her hair. Her brilliant, almost white, unbound hair, had always been her greatest pride, and the feature that most often drew a man’s admiration. Perhaps if she presented herself as neat and dull, she would remain invisible to them all, and she could safely listen and watch.
“Derryth,” said Cull, from outside the door of the tent. “Come. It is time.”
Though he stood on the other side of the tent wall, he may as well have been just beside her. She reacted to his voice, and his presence, that strongly. She closed her eyes, and for a moment stood very still, gathering her courage—and hardening her heart. She would not allow him to weaken her. Taking deep breaths. She reached for her cloak, which she pulled over her shoulders and with its hood, she covered her head.
When she emerged, Cull did not look at her. He only touched her arm near her elbow, and led her away. Effric watched in silence where he stood beside the destrier, brushing the animal’s gleaming coat.
They walked in silence toward the edge of the camp, garnering the attention of all they passed. With each step, Derryth felt the tension in her rise. Inwardly, she exhorted herself to be brave. Perhaps there would be no more opportunities like this to observe Buchan, the Kincaid’s greatest enemy, firsthand. She must seize the opportunity and glean what she could.
Cull moved tall and masterful beside her, the ruler of his domain. Despite his silent scowl and his disregard for her, being with him made her feel safe. No voice called out a vulgar compliment now. Nay, each man held silent, stood rigid in a display of respect, and bowed his head as they passed.
Passing into a small copse of trees, they arrived at a black-and-gold-striped tent, at least three times larger than Cull’s quarters. Laughter—male and female—emitted from within, which gave Derryth some relief, because if ladies were present then at least some degree of manners would be upheld. There was also the music of a lute. Warriors guarded the tent, and when they grew nearer, one stepped forward and drew back a panel of embroidered velvet so they could pass through.
Derryth lifted her chin, squared her shoulders, and preceded Cull inside.
Chapter 9
Derryth braced herself as some ten or twelve faces turned toward them, Buchan, Robert, and Duncan among them. All richly dressed, and all, she realized, men of importance.
She also knew instantly that she had misunderstood what sort of ladies would be present.
They were beautiful, every one—their eyes, lips, and cheeks painted and wearing rich layers of shining silks, velvet, and brocade. They sat among the men, smiling broadly, their gazes bright and sharp. More than one bejeweled hand was pressed against a male thigh, more than one arm draped seductively across muscular shoulders. No doubt there was not a single wife among them. Several cast obvious glares of suspicion on her.
“Cull,” Buchan called out.
“And his prize,” added Duncan, his gaze striking dark and hot on her, above the gleaming head of a dark-haired woman who perched on the bench beside him. “Very different from what I expected, I must say. Tell us, Nameless, what is your woman’s name.”
Beneath her cloak, Derryth bristled at the words. His woman. She most certainly was not that.
“Derryth,” Cull replied in a low, even voice. “Her name is Derryth.”
She felt as if all eyes pinpointed on her then, dissecting her face, her hair, and her clothes.
“Derryth! What a pretty name!” exclaimed one of the women, a striking red-haired beauty who leapt up. She extended her arms in enthusiastic greeting, and rushed near, her forward movement clouding the air with the scent of flowers and spice.
“Come and sit,” she said extravagantly. To Derryth, she said, “I am Sorcha! Buchan’s favorite, at least for the moment.” Everyone laughed, including Buchan, whose dark gaze moved from his lover to Derryth.
Taking friendly hold of both of their arms, Sorcha led them inward. “Come and sit. Servant, take Derryth’s cloak, and see that their goblets are filled with wine.”
A glance at Cull’s face showed him to be at ease with these people.
He guided her into a seat at the long wooden table—actual chairs rather than benches, which seemed very impractical for an army camp—before taking the one beside her.
The next hour was a blur of wine and music. Coarse jests, and vulgar stories. For the first time in her life she felt dull and out of place in the midst of a celebration, whereas Cull, dignified and quietly spoken, seemed to easily belong, though she took some satisfaction that none of the offensive words came from his lips, nor did he laugh at the filthier jests.
Still, she felt alone and self-conscious. Though Cull sat beside her, tall and long-limbed, he did not speak to her, nor even glance her way. Sorcha, during this time, moved from one seat to another, talking to everyone, and ultimately returned to a seat beside Cull, to whom she spoke in a stream of flirtations, her hand often resting on his arm, which threw Derryth’s emotions into disarray. More than one couple drifted away, to kiss and grapple and laugh in the corners, their hands moving over each other’s bodies in ways that made Derryth’s cheeks burn.
However, it was Buchan, always, who remained the center of attention, as if everyone found his sly words and easy boasts the most charming and pleasing words they’d ever heard. She did not, and kept her face averted so that he would not see the gleam of hatred that most certainly resided in her eyes. She would not be dazzled by his wealth and importance. She would not forget that he was a murderer, whether by deed or intent.
On the other side of Cull, Sorcha yawned and stretched like a cat, then leaned forward to turn her green gaze upon her.
“You’re so pretty, Derryth, and I am so bored.” She smiled brightly. “Would you like to try on one of my gowns? I would love to see you in something besides that sackcloth you are wearing. Really, Sir Cull, can you provide no better for her than that?”
Cull’s gaze met Sorcha’s, his manner distant, and after moment, he replied, “Nay, Sorcha. I cannot, for she is not mine for which to provide.”
“Derryth. Truly?” She leaned forward, smiling, and again clasped his muscular arm. “I thought you were his prize! But no? I beg you, tell me all. Sir Cull remains such a mystery to all of us women, I would have you spill every one of his secrets.”
Cull narrowed his gaze upon Sorcha, but she only smiled effusively between the two of them.
“I don’t think Derryth knows how to speak,” said another of the ladies, her voice laced with unkindness.
It was enough to inspire her voice. With a hard look at the woman, Derryth replied, “Alas, there are no secrets to spill, as I likely know less about him than any of you.”
“Sir Cull, tell me that isn’t true.” Sorcha’s hand spread tight and claiming on Cull’s thigh. Derryth’s temper flared, seeing the familiarity, which he allowed.
It occurred to her that Sorcha was interested in Cull. That she wanted him. Or that they had previously been lovers. Her mind filled with images of the two of them, in a naked embrace, twisted in linens and furs. Her spirit grew dark at the thought. He could have been intimate with any of the wicked women in this room—or perhaps even all of them at once!
But what did it matter to her? She did not care for him. She did not want him for herself.
Duncan leaned forward from where he sat, his eyes glazed with drunkenness. “Are you saying Cull hasn’t claimed his prize?”
Everyone laughed, as Derryth’s cheeks f
illed with heat.
“No truly, I want to know,” he persisted cruelly. “Has Cull the Nameless, claimed Derryth, his prize? See how lovely she is? Is it not somehow against nature that they should share his quarters, but no lovemaking has occurred?” The dark-haired girl beside him glared at Derryth.
Derryth wanted to rise up and run from the tent. She wanted to flee.
Buchan watched silently, his eyes dark and piercing on her, from where he sat.
“Leave her alone, Duncan,” Cull warned, his expression gone utterly cold.
Duncan laughed, and looked at the faces around them, before scowling at Cull. “You do not give me orders.” His lip curled. “I don’t even know why you are here. You are not even one of us, not really.”
“Aye, Duncan. He is one of us, and he told you to leave her alone,” said Robert in a firm voice, surprising her with his intervention.
Sorcha cried out, “All of you men are behaving like unchivalrous beasts, and making Derryth uncomfortable. You’re going to ruin dinner before it is even served. There is also to be a special announcement, I am told by my own very knowledgeable Buchan-bird.” She winked at Buchan, to which he eased back in his chair, smiling indulgently in return. “A reason for celebration. Come now, Derryth. I’ve a blue gown that matches your eyes. I cannot have you wear garments so unworthy of the occasion, not when you are my guest of honor.”
Derryth could not tell if Sorcha was truly being friendly or making fun of her. She only knew that the woman was close to Buchan, and therefore she did not trust her. She could not trust anyone in this room.
Not even Cull.
Duncan still stared at her from across the table, his eyes gleaming. “Dearest Derryth, I did not mean to make you feel unwelcome. Indeed, I only wished you to know that if he does not wish to be your master, that I am happy to take his place.”
Her master. As if she was a servant, to be submissive—and claimed. Her hands curled into fists, and she buried her angry retort.
The Warrior of Clan Kincaid Page 10