The Countess (17 page)

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 angels, 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.

D
uncan 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.”

Duncan blinked. 'Twas a noble quest fitting of an old tale, an objective so selfless that it snared Duncan's heart as surely as the lady's clear green gaze.

'Twas a goal that appealed deeply to him that he could not summon an agreement to his lips, so surprised was he to hear such frivolity fall from the lips of practical Eglantine.

“I know 'tis madness,” she said forcefully, obviously misinterpreting his silence as censure. “I know it defies convention, but surely there is naught amiss in a mother wanting to ensure her children's happiness?” Eglantine took a deep breath and folded her arms across her chest.

“And 'tis not so foolish as that,” she insisted, as though fully expecting him to argue with her. “Some people are so fortunate as to wed for love. My own brother is smitten with his bride. And his friend pursued his love to the ends of the earth, for the image of that lady was burned so deeply upon his heart that he could not be happy with another.”

“This sounds like an old tale,” Duncan ventured.

“Aye.” A smile touched Eglantine's lips, then was gone. “'Tis a stirring tale and mine own inspiration.” To Duncan's surprise, the lady's eyes clouded with tears. She raised a clenched fist to her heart. “My daughters deserve that manner of love, that manner of marriage. I have brought them to the ends of Christendom to grant them that opportunity.

“You may mock my intent to launch a bride quest from Kinbeath.” She struggled to pronounce the “-th”, the effort clearly vexing her, and Duncan cursed himself for his earlier teasing. “You may even mock my foolishness in having such a dream for my daughters. But I have lived the alternative, and I shall see them happily wed to deserving men, if 'tis the last deed I achieve in this life.”

Duncan surveyed her in silence, humbled by her selflessness. There was no doubt in his mind that she shared the truth with him, no doubt that this was her real objective.

“You ask naught for yourself.”

Eglantine stared at him steadily. “I have no dreams for myself any longer.”

'Twas the saddest claim that Duncan had ever heard.

“Whyever not?”

“I am too aged for dreams.” Eglantine blinked quickly as though clearing her eyes of tears and continued hastily. “I have said too much this night and 'tis clear I have need of sleep. If you do not mean to share your tale with me, then I shall retire.” She made to rise, but Duncan halted her with a touch.

He knew he had no right to keep his tale from her, not after eavesdropping on her own tale and winning this further confession from her. And he did not want to. Nay, Eglantine's choice was fitting of a bard's tale—and 'twas a choice that could only snare the heart of the bard Duncan was.

His intuition told him what he must do, though the boldness of the idea made his heart pound. Not only was Eglantine passionate, but she professed to having a poet's heart, just like his own. Eglantine never stepped away from a fight. She had no fear of stating her mind, she was clever, she was romantic and she did not fear him.

'Twas just like an old tale—once what is sought is forgotten, 'tis always found. Duncan had long ago ceased to search for a bride and partner—and he had found the woman of his heart in the most unlikely of places.

He did not intend to let her go. Her heart was wounded, but Duncan knew that he held the perfect balm.

'Twas time he began to woo Eglantine.

* * *

Eglantine thought Duncan would share his song with her, but instead he laid claim her hand. He held it gently within his own, and she could not help but note the contrast between his broad roughened palm, his tanned skin, and the smallness of her own hand.

'Twas better than thinking of the shiver his touch launched over her flesh.

He stroked her hand with his thumb, frowning as though he sought the words, looking so concerned that she did not have it within her to draw away. Then Duncan looked up suddenly.

“My lady Eglantine, I would ask that you consider me to be the first suitor to call at your court.”

Whatever Eglantine had expected him to say, 'twas not that. She stared at him but Duncan appeared to be as earnest as she had ever seen him. “You?”