Authors: Margaret Moore
LORD OF DUNKEATHE (22 page)
The other younger nobles had reacted as expected. Lavinia had
quietly
said a few words, then moved away. Priscilla had giggled, and Audric had bowed politely and said something about Scots' valor, which proved he was both wise and a gentleman. Joscelind
had been impressed by Adair, and less by Marianne, although she was careful not to show much on her beautiful face.
A pale Eleanor had said little.
Nicholas's glance darted between Eleanor and Joscelind. There was no reason he couldn't be happily married to either if he tried. Whatever the flaws in her
behaviour
, Joscelind had her beauty and her family's wealth and connections to recommend her. Eleanor was much the same, although she was also younger.
The priest started the blessing. Nicholas hurriedly and dutifully closed his eyes, and joined in thanking God for His mercy and His bounty. When Father Damon finished, the hum of the voices of the nobles, the soldiers and several servants filled the hall. In another moment, more servants started to come from the kitchen, bearing carafes of wine and baskets of bread.
"Where are the children?" Nicholas asked Marianne, thinking of his bold little nephew who leapt without looking. He was a lot like Henry that way, and Marianne.
As for Cellach, he had little experience with infants, yet she'd
nested
in his arms as if she felt completely safe. It was a heady compliment, and one that gave him a powerful yearning to have a child of his own.
"Polly's with them," Marianne replied. "Cellach is sleeping soundly and I hope Seamus soon will be, too, despite his nap. It
took a promise that you'll show him one of your many fighting tricks, as he calls them, to get him to stay with Polly."
"Where the devil's Roban?" Adair muttered as he scanned the hall.
"Perhaps he decided to eat at the tavern," Marianne calmly suggested.
Adair laughed. "Well then, I'll be making a jaunt into the village to fetch him later." He gave Nicholas a wry smile. "Maybe I'll have a bit to eat there myself, especially if you're serving tripe. Scots may use most of a cow, too, but I just can't get used to that."
Nicholas permitted himself a small smile of satisfaction as he prepared to reveal the culinary good news. "Roban's going to be sorry he missed this meal. We're having some Scots dishes tonight."
Adair stared at him in wide-eyed amazement.
"Alfred has left my employ, and the person currendy supervising my kitchen is a Scot," Nicholas explained.
"Well, thank God and it's about
time
! What's his name? Maybe I know of him or his clan."
"It's a woman, and her name is Riona. She's a lady from Glencleith. Her uncle is Fergus Mac Gordon. Do you know him?"
"I don't think so, but there's something a bit familiar about the name," Adair mused aloud.
"Does this mean you've made your choice for a bride?" Marianne asked.
Adair grinned. "And she's a Scot?"
"No, it doesn't," Nicholas coolly replied. "After it became necessary for Albert to leave, I decided to allow each of the remaining ladies to take a turn in that capacity. I want to make sure my bride is capable of running a household."
Marianne's expression was not one of approval. "You mean you're giving them a test?"
Why did women have such a difficult
time
grasping the value of his plan? "I prefer to think of it as making sure they can manage my household."
One of the servants arrived with a dish of fish in some sort of batter, mercifully interrupting the discussion. Another maidservant came with wine to fill their goblets, while Marianne delicately put some of the fish onto her trencher.
"Ach, herring in oats!" Adair cried, eagerly and
impatiently
serving himself a large portion. "Now this is food!" He slapped a helping onto Nicholas's trencher. "You'll enjoy this!"
Nicholas wasn't so sure, yet he decided to give it a try. To his surprise, it wasn't bad. Not wonderful, nor the best fish he'd ever eaten, but not bad.
Judging by their expressions, Lord Chesleigh, his daughter, Percival and D'Anglevoix had decided to abstain. Well, they could starve, if that's what they preferred.
"I didn't think you'd ever consider a Scot for a bride, Nicholas," Marianne remarked, clearly enjoying the fish.
"I can't really consider Lady Riona," he replied in French, speaking quickly so that Adair couldn't make out what he was saying. His brother-in-law knew the language, just as Nicholas had learned Gaelic, but if he spoke fast enough, he could hope Adair couldn't keep up. "Her family's too poor and have no connections at court. I'm letting her and her uncle stay until Lammas so that no Scot can claim I didn't seriously think about marrying her."
"Then your choice is a matter of money and influence?" Marianne asked.
"It's a matter of survival," Nicholas said, stabbing a piece of fish and switching to Gaelic so the Normans wouldn't be able to comprehend the conversation.
"So, brother-in-law, if it can't be the Scot, who's in the lead?" Adair asked, revealing that he'd understood Nicholas after all.
"At the moment, my preference runs to Lady Joscelind or Lady Eleanor. Both their families are rich. Lady Joscelind's father is very powerful at court, and Percival has several friends there, as well."
Marianne fixed her gaze on him. "But do you like them? Are they pleasant?"
Chewing his fish, Nicholas shrugged. "Pleasant enough."
"But Nicholas—"
Adair nudged his wife. "It's his choice, Marianne, not yours. Let the man go about it his own way, whether for good or ill." He gave his wife one of those looks he often did, the sort that suggested to Nicholas that there might indeed be such a thing as love. "You were anything but pleasant to me when we were first married and we couldn't claim to have been in love then, yet it seems to have come right after all."
Marianne smiled at her husband. "Aye, it did, m 'eudall. "
The doors to the hall burst open and two men came stumbling and staggering into the hall, their arms about one another's shoulders.
"Ooooooh," Roban and Fergus Mac Gordon sang in unison at the top of their lungs, "and that was the lass from Killamagroooooo!"
As they finished their song, Roban saluted the high table with the small wooden cask he held in his free hand. "Adair! Marianne! Look who I found—Fergus Mac Gordon!"
Like his companion, Roban was completely oblivious to the sensation they were making. Lord Chesleigh's expression was one of disgust and his daughter's delicate nose wrinkled with distaste. Sir Percival sneered, D'Anglevoix regarded them as if he'd never seen the like, and Lady Lavinia and Audric exchanged horrified looks. Lady Priscilla giggled, nervously. Lady Eleanor looked dismayed, while her maidservant's face was ashen.
Both Nicholas and Adair got to their feet as Mac Gordon staggered forward and bowed, grinning. "Greeting, chieftain of the Mac Tarans and his lovely wife!"
"Roban, you're drunk," Adair declared with amused patience. "Go sleep it off somewhere, and I suggest your new friend retire, too."
"I'm not drunk!" the big Scot roared. "I'm well watered!"
Her face red, clearly embarrassed, Riona came rushing out of the kitchen corridor and made straight for her inebriated uncle.
"You've had a merry time, I think, Uncle," she said when she reached him, putting her arm around him. "Now I think you ought to rest."
"Rest?" he cried, throwing up his hands as if that was the most ludicrous suggestion he'd heard in years. "Who needs rest? Roban wants to hear about the time I was on the boar hunt and there was that dog, and then my boot—"
"Have you eaten, Uncle?" Riona
interjected
with an undercurrent of desperation in her sweet voice. "We had herring in oats tonight. I'm sure there's some left. Why don't you and Roban come with me to the kitchen?"
Nicholas got to his feet. Riona didn't deserve to be humiliated this way, for it was clear she was both embarrassed and ashamed.
"Herring in oats, did she say?" Roban cried as Nicholas started around the high table, intending to escort the two men out himself if they didn't go with her willingly. "Why didn't you say there was such food awaiting us here? I was afraid it was going to be that tripe."
Roban made a face, shuddered and said in a loud whisper, "How those Normans stomach that stomach, I'll never know."
"We can eat later, Riona," her uncle declared. "These Normans don't know how to make music, either." He grinned at Roban. "Let's do that one about old Mac Tavish and his dog."
Prepared to drag them out of the hall if necessary, Nicholas strode toward them.
"I think you both should eat," he said when he reached them. He threw his arms around the two men and steered them toward the kitchen. "The herring was very good. I can vouch for that myself."
Her face flushed, but without so much as a glance in his direction, Riona hurried ahead of them.
"Of course it was good, boy!" Fergus bellowed. "Riona made it, didn't she? She's a wonder, isn't she?"
"Yes, she's a wonder," Nicholas replied, thinking that it had been a very, very long time since anyone had called him "boy," and wondering if Riona herself had prepared the fish.
"What did I tell ye, Roban, old son? She's all but promised to him already."
That got a reaction from Riona. She darted a look over her shoulder at her uncle that would have warned a sober man to keep quiet.
Nicholas hoped this wasn't going to ruin the relationship she had with her uncle, which was one to envy. It was probably Roban's fault they were drunk. He'd been to a tavern once or twice with Adair's friend himself, and knew how easy it was to lose track of time and how much you had to drink as Roban regaled you with stories of heroic deeds and great battles, all featuring amazing Scotsmen, of course.
Once in the kitchen, the servants, wary and curious, gave them a wide berth as he got the two men sitting on a bench beside the worktable.
"Ah, thank you, my son," Mac Gordon exclaimed. "Well, you're not my son and never will be. Nephew-in-law, though, eh?" he finished, laughing.
"I suggest you do as your niece proposes and have something to eat," he replied, ignoring Mac Gordon's comments and fighting to ignore Riona, who was dishing up some food at another table along the wall, her slender—and very tense—back to him. "I'll see you both in the morning."
"Or later in the hall," Mac Gordon declared, slapping Roban on the back and nearly knocking him over. "Roban and I will teach you how to sing."
Nicholas didn't reply as he turned to leave the kitchen. As he did, he couldn't help giving Riona one last look. When she realized he was watching her, she quickly turned away.
But not before he saw a tear upon her flushed cheek.
The sight of that single droplet stirred something deep within Nicholas—a tenderness, a longing to comfort, such as he'd never felt before.
Was this weakness?
He'd always thought so when he'd heard the minstrels singing of such a feeling.
Yet how could it be? he asked himself as he returned to his hall. Never in his life had he felt more keenly determined to protect and take care of another. He felt strong, not weak—stronger than he'd ever felt in his life, as if he could take on an army to protect Riona Mac Gordon, and see to it she never shed another tear.
AFTER RIONA had finally got Uncle Fergus and Roban fed and a little bit sober, she had to try to get them to retire, or at least persuade Uncle Fergus to go to bed.
"But my beauty, 'tis the shank o' the evening!" Uncle Fergus protested after she suggested it was getting late—again.
The servants stifled more grins and smiles.
Riona could appreciate that while this might be an amusing diversion for them, it most certainly wasn't for her. She'd rarely been so humiliated as when she'd heard Uncle Fergus singing and hurried into the hall to find him making such a scene. And then when the lord of Dunkeathe himself had felt called upon to escort him from the hall...
"Where's Fredella?" Uncle Fergus asked, looking around as if he thought she might be hiding in the corner.
"I daresay she's long abed," Riona replied, hoping this would encourage him to move.
"Who's Freerinella?" Roban asked with a sleepy grin.
"A lovely woman. Dee-lightful." Uncle Fergus winked. "And too old for you, my lad. She needs a mature man."
As her uncle roared with laughter at his own joke, Roban rose somewhat shakily. "Then I'm going to see what Adair's up to." He sat back down. "After I rest my eyes a wee bit," he mumbled as he folded his arms on the table and rested his head on them. In the next moment, he was snoring.
Uncle Fergus prodded him, but the man didn't move or stop snoring. "Wheest, young folks today! No stamina."
"If he's that
tired
, it must be late," Riona reasoned.
"Maybe you're right," Uncle Fergus finally conceded.
Riona sent up a quick prayer of thanks as her uncle hoisted himself up from the bench. She hurried forward to lend him her shoulder. "Let me help you, Uncle."
Mercifully he didn't protest.
"We'll go through the yard," she said. "It's faster."
Since their chambers were so far from the hall, it was quicker to go through the courtyard, and if that meant not having to endure the sneers and whispers of the Normans, so much the better.
"I told you about the time I went boar hunting, didn't I?" Uncle Fergus asked as they crossed the yard.
Mercifully, the sky was clear, the moon bright and the ground dry.
"And that dog got so excited?" her uncle continued loudly. "And then there was the hole in my boot where the pup bit me? And the boar came straight at the lad—?"
"Yes, Uncle, I've heard that story. Many times," she finished under her breath, trying not so sound impatient, but in truth, she could recite that story herself. How Uncle Fergus had been visiting a clan to the north. How the weather had been perfect, until the storm rolled in. How Uncle Fergus and "the lad" had brought the most untrained, unprepared young hunting dog on the venture. How the dog had bit Uncle Fergus's foot and put a hole in his boots—"And them brand-new the day before." And then the taking off of the ruined boot and the charge of the boar, its eyes fierce, its mouth frothing,
directly
for the lad. And finally, how Uncle Fergus had tossed the boot aside, drawn his dirk and thrown it, killing the beast instantly.
They passed the guards at the foot of the apartments and started up the stairs. Her uncle was so unsteady on his feet, it was slow going, but eventually they reached his chamber.
"Here we are, Uncle," she said as she shoved open the door with her shoulder and helped him inside.
"Thank you, my beauty," he said as he sat heavily on the bed. "You go on to bed yourself."
He lay on his side and in the next moment was fast asleep.
Sighing wearily, she tugged off his boots and covered him with the length of his feileadh that normally hung over his shoulder. She kissed him good night and went out, closing the door softly behind her. At last, this long, troublesome, confusing day was nearly at an end.
"Is he all right?"
She jumped and her heart raced at the sound of the familiar deep voice behind her.
What was the lord of Dunkeathe doing there? she thought as she faced him. A torch in the wall sconce nearby flickered in the slight breeze coming in through the narrow windows, simultaneously lighting his face and putting other parts in shadow, so that it was hard to make out his expression clearly.
"He should be fine come the morning," she replied. "He doesn't usually drink so much," she added, lest he think Uncle Fergus be prone to over
imbibing, like Sir George.
"Neither does Roban. I suspect they drank as much as they did because they were together. It's easy to lose track of how many you've had when you're with a fellow like Roban."
"I wouldn't know about that." She started sidling toward the stairs. She didn't want to be alone with the lord of Dunkeathe, especially standing in a corridor where anyone might see them. "I should ensure that everything that needs to be done in the kitchen has been done, and then I should retire, too. I'll have much to do tomorrow."
"The evening meal was excellent. My sister and brother-in-law were very impressed." He reached out and brushed her cheek with his knuckle, the tender
action
surprising her, and sending tremors of pleasure through her body. "Don't worry about what those others might think," he said
softy
. "I'm sure the men have all been at least as drunk as that once, if not several times. I've been that drunk myself on occasion."
Why did he have to look at her that way? Why couldn't he be arrogant and haughty, so that she could hate him? "I don't care what those Normans think."
"Yes, you do. I saw the look on your face when you came into the hall."
He sounded so sympathetic. So gende. So tender.
He cupped his hands on her shoulders.
So strong. So welcome.
She mustn't give in to this raging yearning inside her. She should walk away and leave him.
He kissed her lightly on the forehead. "Whatever happens, I'm glad you and your uncle came to Dunkeathe."
She twisted away from him. His touch, his kiss, were just his attempt to seduce her while he chose another.
"Of course you're glad," she charged. "My presence placates the Scots, and my uncle amuses you."
His gaze full of sincerity, he shook his head. "No, Riona, not just for that. Your uncle's teaching me many things about livestock, things I've never considered." He reached out and pulled her into his arms. "And you're teaching me how much is missing from my life."
He kissed her tenderly on her cheek. Then her eyelids. Then her nose. And then, at last, her mouth.
It was like sinking into a warm bath. Not this time the fiery passion, or fervent embrace. This
time
, it was languid longing, lazy yearning, as if they had all the
time
in the world to love.
As if she was safe and secure, and would always be protected by his strong arms. As if she was not just desired, but cherished and beloved.
How could she not welcome his embrace and give herself over to the feelings he inspired?
Yet it was he who stopped first. He tucked a lock of hair that had come loose from her braid behind her ear and whispered, "Riona, I wish..."
She held her breath, waiting to hear what more he would say, half afraid, half hopeful.
A guard on the wall walk outside called a greeting and another answered it.
Nicholas let go of her. "It's getting late," he said brusquely. "Good night."
Then he hurried away and down the stairs as if he was being chased.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
NOT SURE WHETHER her uncle was awake or not, Riona gingerly pushed open the door to his chamber early the next morning.
Uncle Fergus was
sitting
on his bed, holding his head in his hands. For the first time since she could remember, he looked old and weary, as well as forlorn and unwell, and she immediately rushed to his side. Her own troubles, particularly her tumultuous feelings for the lord of Dunkeathe, paled beside the notion that Uncle Fergus might be sick.
"Oh, Uncle," she cried
softy
, sitting beside him and
putting
her arm around him. "Are you ill?"
He wearily raised his head. "If I'm sick, it's not from the uisge beatha, although that Roban must have a hollow leg, the way he drinks. Not that I'm blaming him, mind, for I could have stopped any time."
He sighed and rubbed his eyes, then rose shakily and went to the table bearing a basin and ewer. He splashed cold water over his face before he spoke again. Riona tried to be patient and control her worry, but she was going to have to ask questions if he didn't
"Fredella's already been to see me," he said grimly as he dried his face with a square of linen. He returned to the bed and sat heavily. "I guess I made quite a spectacle of myself." He slid Riona a questioning glance. "Did I make a rare spectacle of myself?"
"You and Roban were both rather loud," she admitted. "But you don't usually drink so much."
He covered his face with his hands and moaned softly. "Yet I did yesterday—to my shame. Fredella told me she's that ashamed of me. Expected better. Thought I was a finer man. Her dead husband was a sot, you see, and she won't have anything to do with a drunkard."
"But you're not a drunkard!" Riona protested. "I could count on the fingers of one hand the times I've seen you in your cups, and I'll gladly tell her so."
"Thank you, my beauty, but this is my trouble, Riona, not yours, and so mine to mend. Leave it to me to talk to her and try to convince her I made a rare mistake."
He gave Riona a weak smile as he patted her hand. "It's like you to want to help. You're always helping. Now tell me how it's going with Sir Nicholas. He's got to be pleased about the meal last night."
"Excuse me. I'm so sorry, but may I...?"
They both turned, to see an obviously distraught Eleanor standing on the threshold, wringing her hands, her eyes red- rimmed. "Riona, please, may I speak with you a moment?"
"If it's about Fredella—" Uncle Fergus began as he got to his feet.
"No, no," Eleanor answered. "Well, she's upset, I'm sorry to say, but there's something.. .that is.. .something else has happened...."
Riona hurried to her friend. "We can speak in my chamber."
Before they left, she turned back to her uncle. "Will you be at mass?"
"Aye, I can manage that. I think I'd better manage that. It could be I'll need divine intervention. And yours, too, Eleanor."
The young woman nodded absendy, and Riona realized that whatever had happened, her uncle's woes and anyone else's weren't uppermost in her mind.
Once inside Riona's chamber, and before Riona could ask her what was wrong, Eleanor started to cry—great, wrenching sobs, as if she'd been holding them inside and now they simply had to burst free.
Worried and wondering what this meant, Riona gently hugged Eleanor and stroked her hair until the girl quieted.
"What's wrong?" she asked
softy
as Eleanor drew back, wiping her eyes with the cuff of her fine gown.
"Oh, Riona, I don't know what else to do or who to turn to. I didn't sleep at all last night."
The dark circles under her eyes and her pale cheeks were evidence of that. "Please, tell me what's happened," Riona gently prompted.
Eleanor began to weep again. "It's so shameful. So.. .so disgusting. I couldn't even bring myself to tell Fredella. If only I'd been stronger. I should have stopped him somehow."
A cold shaft of fear pierced Riona. "Eleanor, has someone...?"
She hesitated, trying to think of a way to put her question so that Eleanor wouldn't feel even more ashamed if the truth was what she feared. "Has anyone.. .any man.. .hurt you?"
Understanding dawned in Eleanor's eyes and she shook her head. "No." Then she started to sob again, and her voice caught when she said, "Not yet."
Not
yet
?
"It's Percival," she said, sitting on Riona's bed. As tears slid down her cheeks, she explained, her voice halting, her anguish obvious. "He's afraid Sir Nicholas won't choose me, so he wants me to.. .to seduce him."
As Riona stared at her, aghast, she learned there was yet more.
"When I'm with him.. .in his bedchamber.. .Percival is going to find us together and make Sir Nicholas marry me. I tried to refuse but..." Eleanor took a deep, shuddering breath. "He said that if I don't do what he wants, he'll send me to a convent, but first he'll.. .he'll take.. .he'll rape me."
She broke down completely, covering her face with her hands, her shoulders shaking as more sobs racked her slender body.
Feeling sick, Riona sat beside the distraught girl and held her close, silently cursing Percival and his horrible, evil, despicable scheme, while trying to think of some way to help.
"Oh, Riona," Eleanor sobbed. "To whore myself into marriage! To trick a man that way—any man! But I can't even bear Percival's touch! I'd rather die than let him—"
"He won't," Riona said firmly, her dismay and distress overruled by her determination to protect the helpless girl who clung to her. "And Percival is a fool if he thinks Sir Nicholas could be forced into marriage, for any reason, by anyone."
Eleanor drew back, regarding Riona piteously as she sniffled. "Then what am I to do? Should I run away? I thought of that last night, but I was so afraid Percival would discover me trying to flee, or come after me and catch me and... and..."
"No, don't do that," Riona assured her. On her own, young, pretty, innocent Eleanor would surely fall prey to men as terrible as Percival. "You should go to Sir Nicholas and tell him of this terrible scheme. As a knight, he must protect you, and he will."
Eleanor's voice trembled as another tear rolled down her cheek. "If I did, Percival would surely claim I was lying, or didn't understand him properly. It would be my word against his, and even if charges could be brought against him, he's got too many powerful friends who would vouch for him. He would be free, and then he'd come after me, or anyone who tried to help me. You don't know Percival, Riona. He's vicious and vindictive. He'd never rest without punishing me, or anyone who tried to help me."
A desperate look on her face, she started to stand. "I shouldn't have come to you. If Percival finds out, he might try to hurt you, too. I should just do what Percival wants, and if Sir Nicholas won't marry me, I'll.. .I'll go to the convent."
Riona rose and took Eleanor firmly by the shoulders. "You mustn't even think of dis
honour
ing yourself. Even if I'm wrong, and Nicholas could be compelled to marry you, how happy do you think you would be, knowing your marriage came about by trickery and deceit? How long before your husband came to resent you?"