The Countess (18 page)

He scowled and she knew she had insulted him. “Aye, me. I am the chieftain of Clan MacQuarrie, the closest equivalent to a lord of the manor in these parts.” His grip tightened ever so slightly upon her hand, as though he would emphasize his words with his touch. “I am eligible, I am of an age to wed, and I seek a bride.”

“You.” Still it made no sense. “But you declined Alienor this very day. Indeed, you were most insulted...” Eglantine's words faded, but Duncan lifted her hand to his lips. She shivered as he pressed a kiss to her palm, his gaze fixed upon her.

“I would not court Alienor.” His expression was determined, his gaze intense, as he closed her fingers deliberately over the heat of his kiss.

Eglantine had some difficulty marshaling her thoughts.

“You protested Alienor because of her age,” she managed to say.

Duncan smiled and folded her hand between his two larger ones, his touch warming her to her toes. “Among other attributes.” One brow rose roguishly. “Or lack of them.”

Eglantine shook her head, not seeing the humor. “But Jacqueline is yet younger.”

“I do not court Jacqueline either,” he said silkily, the movement of his thumbs dismissing all argument.

Eglantine could not draw a full breath into her chest and marveled at this man's ability to addle her thoughts. Suddenly she was all too aware that she had donned naught but her cloak this night, that the fur lining brushed directly against her skin.

And Duncan held her hand as though he would never let it go. Eglantine was sorely tempted to lean on him, to confide in him, to indulge her instinct that this man was most like her father of all the men she had known. The moonlight wrought illusions, persuading her that he would ensure his woman's safety, her health, her happiness.

But that was madness.

Was it not?

“Fret not, my lady,” Duncan smiled slowly, his voice low and reassuring. “I shall prove to you that I am the ilk of man you seek. I shall prove to you that I am a man who understands the fragile treasure of dreams.”

Aye, she more than half believed it, in this moment at least. Eglantine stared into the stormy grey of his eyes and feared she would lose what was left of her resistance.

“The song,” she whispered unevenly.

Duncan studied her before he turned away. He braced his elbows upon his knees and stared over the shimmer of the sea. Though he looked to have slipped away to another place and time, Eglantine was very aware of his heat beside her own.

Then he began to sing and Eglantine closed her eyes, deliberately pushing all from her awareness but the rich splendor of his voice.

“Ceinn-beithe is old and its stones remember all

Its circle in old days every handfast did call

But one mating these stones ne'er did see

And that was the pledge of the maiden Mhairi.

Mhairi was stubborn, stubborn and proud

And she refused to wed the man her father had chose

Instead she would decide whose bride she would be

She vowed to have only her love Ruaraidh.

Down came her father and he stood at the door

Saying “Mhairi, you are trying the tricks of a whore,

You care nothing for a man who cares so much for thee

You must marry my choice and leave Ruaraidh.”

For your Ruaraidh is barely but a man

Although he may be pretty but where are his lands?

Your betrothed's lands are broad and his towers they run high

You must marry my choice and leave Ruaraidh.”

Eglantine was glad her eyes were closed for she felt a measure of privacy from Duncan's perceptiveness. She felt her hands fold together, her fingers knotting tightly. Aye, she could sympathize with Mhairi well enough, though she had not been so fortunate as to have a true love when her own nuptials were called.

“Mhairi would not cede to her father's bidding

To Ceinn-beithe no man on the isle could her bring

The blessing of that place her own match denied

She swore 'twould show she was no willing bride.

“You who are my father may compel me to marry

But this betrothed I will ne'er bear his seed

To a son or a daughter I will ne'er bow my knee

For I will die if denied my love Ruaraidh.”

The sentiment made Eglantine's heart pound. This was what she desired for her daughters, after all. Perhaps she had misunderstood his intent, though she could not imagine how. She slanted a glance toward Duncan, noting the absorption revealed in his expression. Was that why he had chosen this song? Was it truly the same song he had sung before, or had he changed it once he had heard her tale?

How far could she trust him?

Indeed, could she trust him at all?

“‘Come to me, my Mhairi, my honey and my sweet

To stile you, my mistress, it would be so sweet'

So cried her husband when Mhairi missed their feast

But Mhairi had naught good in reply to his pleas.

“Be it mistress or Mhairi, 'tis all the same to me

But in your bed, my husband, I never will be.”

And down came her father and he spoke with a frown

Saying “You who are her maidens—go loosen up her gown.”

But Mhairi fell down to the floor

And lay pale before his knee

Saying “Father, look, I'm dying

For my love Ruaraidh.”

Eglantine raised one hand to her lips in horror, but Duncan did not so much as glance her way. His voice dropped lower, the words making her eyes prick with tears.

“The day that Mhairi married

was the day that Mhairi died

And the day that young Ruaraidh came home on the tide

And down came her maidens all wringing of their hands

Saying “Oh you were so long, so long upon the sands

They have married your Mhairi and now she lies dead.”

His heart struck cold, Ruaraidh bowed his head.

He kissed Mhairi's cold lips while he wept

And soon 'twas more than Mhairi who there lay dead.

Ceinn-beithe is old and its stones remember all

Its circle in old days every handfast did call

But one marriage these stones ne'er did see

And ill-fated was the match of maid Mhairi.”

Duncan held the last note, then slowly turned to face Eglantine beside him. “That is beautiful,” she whispered in wonder.

He shrugged, dull red creeping up his neck. “'Tis more lovely in the original Gael.”

“Then it must be a marvel indeed.”

His gaze brightened so that Eglantine could not hold it, not without knowing his thoughts. She turned and stared over the water, hugging her knees, haunted by the tune and her sense that 'twas more than a mere tale to him. But where was the key to understanding Duncan in this recounting? In the choice of tale itself?

Or had he known the star-crossed lovers?

Or was he but a bard, as he claimed, who dug into his trove of tales and presented the first one that came to hand? Eglantine did not know, and worse, she did not know how to find out.

“But a poor fellow can do no more than his best,” Duncan muttered. He smiled thinly when Eglantine glanced his way. “'Tis an old saying oft recounted by one of my men.”

“The song does sound better in your tongue, less dire and more melodic.” Eglantine nodded. “More passionate.”

“Aye. Each tongue has its own music, its own range.” Duncan frowned, as though he might say more, then slanted her an unexpected grin. Eglantine sensed that he deliberately changed the subject, but her heart lurched painfully all the same.

That dark hair hung unruly over his brow, the glint of mischief in his eyes hinting that he knew the turmoil of her thoughts, no less that he was responsible for it. He eased closer, his shoulder bumping hers companionably and Eglantine's mouth went dry.

“'Tis the way of the Gael to linger upon the price of love gone awry.” He surveyed her, that perceptiveness in his gaze. “And you seem to know much of that subject yourself. Why did you cede to this Theobald?”

“He was my husband and thus owed my dutiful agreement.”

Duncan laughed aloud, the merry sound making her own lips twitch. “That, I wager, would not have stopped your heated disagreement.”

Their gazes locked for a telling moment, then Eglantine shook her head and looked away. “I loved him. Have you never granted a loved one their desire, simply because 'twas within your power to do so?”

'Twas Duncan's turn to avert his gaze and frown. “Aye.” He slanted a quick glance her way. “But it seems that I am not the only one to have regretted such a course.”

Eglantine could not catch her breath, nor could she look away from his darkened gaze. Eglantine saw his hand rise and knew he meant to touch her, knew she would melt against him if he did so.

But the reminder of Theobald was too close. Surely she had enough evidence of her poor fortune with men?

She inched away quickly, not trusting herself to resist him if his hand landed upon her, and asked the first question that fell from her lips. “Why do you alone speak French of your men?”

Duncan's hand fell. The change in his expression revealed all too well that Eglantine had touched upon a subject he would prefer to avoid.

To her surprise, he answered. “Because I alone traveled south.”

“Where did you go?”

“South.” His lips flattened to a grim line.

“Where in the south?” He did not reply, so Eglantine suggested possibilities, intending only to prompt him. “Norman England? France? Spain?”

“South.” He gave her a look that was undoubtedly supposed to be a deterrent to further questioning.

Eglantine was not deterred. Here was something of import to him, and she meant to know the truth. “Why did you go?”

“'Twas time.”

“There must have been a specific reason...”

She got no further before Duncan pushed to his feet, effectively ending their conversation. “If you will excuse me, 'tis late.” He turned and left, his footsteps so fleet that Eglantine wondered whether he feared she would pursue him.

Or demand his honesty.

But that was madness. Duncan was afraid of naught, and he certainly was not afraid of her. Eglantine reluctantly wrung out her chemise one last time and looked after Duncan.

But he was gone. For the first time in recent encounters, he had not kissed her. Eglantine was honest enough with herself to admit she was disappointed.

The wolves howled in the distance, as foreign and unpredictable as the man who had just left her side. Eglantine shivered, then hastened back to her bed. Truly, she had to ensure she had more sleep. The deprivation was beginning to affect her good temper.

Not to mention her judgment.

* * *

The lady's timing had not been the best.

No sooner had Duncan realized that she was the one he sought, than Eglantine managed to awaken his unwelcome memories of Mhairi. Aye, there was a tale that would tempt a man to avoid nuptials for all his days and nights, a poor augury for marital bliss indeed.

He walked along the shore as had become his wont, savoring the sounds of wind and wave, the muted music of night, the distant warbling of the wolves. 'Twas a long time before he freed himself of the grip of guilt, so long that new clouds had obscured the moon and rain was promised by the wind.

But Eglantine was not like Mhairi. She was not an innocent maiden, she was not fragile of spirit and delicate of build, she was certainly not besotted with him without cause.

She certainly would never make the foolish choice Mhairi had made. Nay, not Eglantine. Duncan smiled to himself. The lady was wrought of sterner stuff than Mhairi had been.

Duncan heaved a sigh and returned to the broch, ducking into the passageway just as the rain began to patter on the stones overhead. Gillemore grunted and kicked the small fire back to life, the embers belching smoke into the small space before they began to flicker.

And 'twas only then, as the flames vied with the first fingers of dawn to cast light around the hut that Duncan realized something was amiss.

Aye, Iain was gone.

* * *

Eglantine awakened when Célie shook her shoulder. She had lain awake half the night, then slept badly, only falling into a deep slumber when the rain began to fall on the roof of the tent. 'Twas chill and damp again, and Eglantine was certain morning had come too soon.

Indeed, 'twas barely light.

“My lady, you must come.” Célie's voice was low and urgent. “Gunter and Gerhard are upset beyond all else.”

Eglantine pushed the weight of her hair from her face and sat up in confusion. “Gunter and Gerhard are the most tranquil souls in all the household. Are you certain of this?”

“Aye, my lady.” Célie nodded hastily. “Their stores have been plundered and all are certain 'tis the labor of the restless souls who desire us gone from this place.”

Eglantine swung her legs from the bed, wincing at the cold of the air for a moment before she hauled on her kirtle. She laced the sides with impatient fingers, her anger beginning to hum.

What nonsense did the moonlight make! Had Duncan deliberately distracted her while his men wreaked havoc? Or had he fled her side after enchanting her with his tale only to put her entire company's survival at risk?

Oh, she had been a fool to trust him, however briefly!

“There is but one soul who desires us gone from this place, Célie,” she said sharply. “And he is not dead.” She spared the startled girl an ominous glance. “But then, I have not finished with him as yet.”

Leaving the maid behind, Eglantine strode from the tent.

'Twas far worse than she had imagined.

The sacks of flour had been cut open, their contents scattered across the ground and already joined to the mud underfoot. Grain had been spilled similarly, a remaining trail indicating that much had been dumped into the sea. Pots and pans had been scattered in the woods, the tinder and firewood so painstakingly gathered had been cast into the rain and rendered useless.