The Countess (23 page)

“But Ceinn-beithe is known for granting uncommon fortune and longevity upon the matches pledged there,” Duncan argued. “Who can say what a year and a day might bring?”

“Nonsense!” Iain drove his fist into his palm, his voice rising as he stepped further into the light. “We must move immediately to secure our right to this ancestral land! We must make amends for Duncan's errors, we must make war as the men we are. If she has lost her treasury and stores, good! Let us complete what has begun! William plots shrewdly in sending a woman to do a man's task, but he plots to steal our land all the same. We must eliminate her party before 'tis too late.”

“'Twas Cormac MacQuarrie who signed the deed she holds,” Duncan declared and the company gasped as one.

“What?” Iain cried. “Why? You lie, for he would not do such a thing!”

Duncan shrugged, choosing to hold his own counsel on that document's authenticity. “I saw the deed and I saw his name upon it.” He looked to the king. “Is it so unlikely that Cormac had a similar vision for Ceinn-beithe?”

“He was clearly one filled with surprises.” The king's words were wryly spoken, and Duncan guessed he referred to more than the deed itself. A whisper of new endorsement made its way around the room, for Cormac had been respected by his fellows.

The king frowned and drank deeply of his ale. The woman hastened to fill his cup as he drummed his fingers upon the arm of his chair and watched Duncan. The assembly held their collective breath as the king set his cup aside and pushed to his feet. He surveyed his company sternly before he spoke.

“I am not persuaded of the wisdom of this course,” he declared and Duncan's heart sank to his toes. What of Eglantine?

“But, my lord king...”

The king held up one hand. “You have said more than your share, Duncan MacLaren, though the truth of it is that I cannot surmise the truth without the evidence of my own eyes. We depart with the dawn for Ceinn-beithe. Prepare for battle.”

He granted Duncan a sharp look. “You will have one chance and one chance only to see your way in this. Should the woman refuse your suit or refuse to pledge all she has to me, then we shall take Ceinn-beithe by force. She can only remain if she willingly cedes all to you.”

He placed one hand on Iain's shoulder. “And with your failure, Duncan, now or a year hence, the chieftainship of Clan MacQuarrie shall pass to Cormac's blood son.” The king lifted his hands to the company. “This is my decision, before the witness of all of you. Let it be so.”

Duncan bowed his head, his thoughts flying like quicksilver. There was not a doubt within him that Eglantine would never surrender all she held to him, particularly now when she blamed him—however wrongly—for so much. Yet he knew he would have no chance to make a case, much less to persuade her of how much was at stake.

He would have to deceive her, for her own survival. 'Twould not be readily done and 'twas a poor way to begin a marriage, but Duncan had no choice. He could not let the people beneath her hand be wounded, he could not see her lose all she had struggled to build. He could not let his lady be killed, whatever the price.

She was the one who heralded the honor of serving the greater good.

* * *

Duncan had been gone a fortnight but much to Eglantine's dismay, the passing of time did not diminish how large he loomed in her thoughts. He might as well have remained, for she felt his presence so often and thought of him so much—and looked for his return more frequently than she should

The man was not one to make matters simple, after all.

The weather had improved, the sun showing its face for more of the days and longer each day, the air warmed and the wind lost some of its bite. The first part of the manor had been completed the previous day, and though 'twas somewhat crooked and the thatch more uneven where they had begun than where they finished, all had given a hearty cheer.

They had celebrated heartily the night before, all sharing in the last cask of wine and gathering around the manor's first fire. It had begun to rain, and the water had leaked through the thatch in more than one place, but naught so small as that could diminish their merriment.

They made a home here and all knew it well. Eglantine was fiercely proud of her vassals and their accomplishments.

Her daughters fared equally well. Jacqueline positively bloomed in this new place; she was more cheerful and outgoing with every passing day. Esmeraude toddled here and there, winding her way through knees as though 'twas all a game of hide and seek. She slept with Eglantine more nights than not, the two sharing a quiet time together each night while Esmeraude drank her milk. Eglantine looked forward to those moments, and found she knew more tales than she had believed. Or else Esmeraude was less harsh a critic than she had expected. Both girls had color in their cheeks and stars in their eyes as they never had before.

It seemed that Kinbeath suited them.

And though she might never have expected as much, it suited Eglantine. She had abandoned her veils completely, fastening her hair in a sturdy braid each morn. She had simplified her garb, choosing sturdy plain kirtles exclusively over those with any embroidery, and wore her heavy boots all the time.

She found herself laboring beside her villeins, for 'twas foolery to not lend a hand when there was so much to be done. And indeed, Eglantine learned more of the people beneath her hand than ever she had before. To be sure, they still regarded her as their lady, but she and her daughters mingled more readily with the company and the line betwixt noble and vassal was oft blurred.

Eglantine found that she preferred the affection and camaraderie to the stiffness of ceremony that had once characterized their relations. She would never have known this sense of community had she remained in Arnelaine, and indeed, the awareness that all were reliant upon each other lessened her own burden of responsibility.

For the first time in all her days, the backs of her hands turned a pale golden hue and Eglantine, contrary to all she had been taught, was not ashamed. Indeed, the tan had a look of vitality to it that she welcomed. She felt more vigorous than she had ever before and Jacqueline's was not the only laughter that rang out more frequently than previously. They all labored hard, they ate heartily and they slept well, each day showing more progress in wringing a home from this corner of wilderness.

And each day, Duncan's words echoed in Eglantine's thoughts. He had been right to claim that there was no place for nobles here, that all must labor together to survive. A part of Eglantine wanted him to witness that she was not the frivolous noblewoman he had first thought her to be—though she told herself that ‘twas only to show him wrong in that.

Her heart called her a liar. There was more reason than that to desire to see Duncan again. Aye, she would see him to prove to her errant heart that he had no hold over her, that any affection she felt for any man was doomed to fade like a flower plucked and left to wilt. That was the truth of it.

That sunny morn after their celebration, when Eglantine was re-thatching the weaknesses of the roof, someone cried of ships. Her cursed heart leapt to her throat at the sight of a dozen small boats bobbing across the silver sheen of the sea. She shaded her eyes, the men no more than silhouettes against the brightness of the water, and tried to discern Duncan's broad shoulders before she could halt herself.

There were so many men, so many boats, so many glints of metal in the sunlight that for a moment she feared another party came, and one with warlike intent.

But then a man who could only be Duncan charged into the sea, the sunlight lighting his ebony hair with blue, his manner characteristically impatient to be at his destination. He hauled the boat to the shore, Louis' prim posture in that vessel clearly recognizable. Duncan strode over the rocks as though they were no obstacle at all, and headed directly for her. He grinned, full aware that she watched him, and quickened his pace.

God in heaven, but absence had only increased his allure. Eglantine's heart hammered and it seemed she could not move. Her gaze slipped over him, greedily devouring details she had not forgotten. His shoulders were as broad, his leg as muscled, there was more of a tan upon his flesh.

His dark hair lifted in the wind and he halted below her, propping his hands upon his hips. He grinned up at her, as cocky and irresistible as only Duncan could be, his eyes glinting with that wild light of unpredictability.

Her mouth went dry. There was not a word upon her tongue, and she stared at him like some witless child.

'Twas only because she had been proven wrong, of course.

“I never thought I should see the day that my countess Eglantine was struck speechless,” he teased. “She must indeed have missed me.”

“I thought you would not return,” she said, hating how the words tumbled together. “You were so loathe to do the honorable deed of wedding Alienor.”

“Alienor lies and you know it well,” he said so firmly that she could not doubt him. He reached for her, his smile warming her to her toes. “Come here, my Eglantine, come and give me a welcome.” His voice fell so low that she knew 'twas no salutary handshake he would offer in greeting.

“I will not!”

“Eglantine, this is no jest,” he growled, his warning most unexpected.

Eglantine's gaze flicked over the men who trailed behind him and she noted that they were indeed fiercely attired. “Where is Louis?”

“He follows anon. He caught a chill and that was the reason for our delay—the healer at Dugall's court would not suffer him to leave until the phlegm had cleared.” Duncan braced a hand against the low edge of the roof, those fingers close to Eglantine's ankle. His eyes gleamed. “Did you miss me, Eglantine?”

She caught her breath and moved her foot further away. “What news of the king?”

Duncan moved his hand quickly and caught her ankle in his gentle grip. He grinned up at her as he tugged, evidently well aware of the thunder of her pulse. “The king arrives with us, for he would ensure his will is done.”

She slipped further down the sloped roof, closer to his embrace, her skirts catching on the thatch. Duncan, to her amazement, did not savor the view, but pulled the cloth hastily over her legs. “What will?”

“He would have you and me make an agreement.” Eglantine's skepticism must have shown, for Duncan chuckled before she could protest. “A treaty of a year and a day, Eglantine, no more than that and a pledge of goodwill to see our differences of opinion resolved.”

'Twas an odd period of time, and Eglantine knew she had heard it mentioned once before in the recent past. Was it that these Gaels had a preference for it, over a year? She could not recall, not with Duncan gazing at her as though she was the most marvelous creature in all of Christendom. She suspected 'twas unimportant, but her failure to remember niggled at her.

How odd that a king would not merely grant the holding to Duncan and banish her.

“Aye?” she asked. “And what happens at the end of that time? I have little expectation that we shall agree on anything, be it today, tomorrow or in a year and a day.”

“I would argue that view.” Duncan's grin widened with confidence that made her own certainty waver. Aye, the man could charm the moon from the heavens, that much was certain. “But the pledge must be made without delay.”

“What if we do not agree?” Eglantine demanded, sensing that he was avoiding something of import.

Duncan glared at her, his eyes suddenly bright. “We will agree, upon that you have my pledge.” His thumb moved leisurely across the tender flesh inside her ankle and Eglantine nigh forgot the course of her own thoughts.

The unpredictable light appeared once more in his eyes and her heart skipped a beat. “I would have my kiss now, Eglantine,” he suggested softly, even as a company of men drew close.

Curse the man! He knew his effect upon her all too well. Eglantine folded her arms across her chest and strove to look indifferent. Her gaze flicked between Duncan and those men arriving. One man stood taller than the others, the gestures of the others revealing his status as his garb did not.

“Why on earth would we make such a treaty?” she asked, suspicion in her tone. “And why would you believe that we might ever agree upon anything of import? You will not even admit to what you took from Alienor.”

Duncan swore. He caught at her ankles and fairly hauled her from the roof despite her squeal of protest, setting her down before himself before he glowered down at her. “I did not touch Alienor, though indeed she touched me. I have pledged this to you, Eglantine, and 'tis irksome indeed that you continue to question my word.” His gaze bored into hers. “'Tis not the time for such matters.”

Eglantine lifted her chin. “I say 'tis. And still Alienor insists of your deed.”

“Alienor lies, and I shall prove the truth of it to you.” His brow darkened ominously. “
After
we make this pledge of treaty. Eglantine, it must be done, and it must be done now.”

She folded her arms across her chest. “I fail to see the reason for such haste. What decision was made regarding compensation for the destroyed stores?”

Duncan's lips quirked. “I think you will have few complaints of the gifts brought from the King of the Isles in recompense. Eglantine, for the love of God, trust me in this and make this pledge now.”

He was so determined that Eglantine wondered what was at stake. She might have asked, but the tall man of regal bearing halted at Duncan's side. His hair was a ruddy gold, his features lined, his flesh tanned. He looked to be forty summers of age, and his cold gaze flicked assessingly over Eglantine.

Duncan gave her a sharp look, then took her hand, as though she were garbed in her finest. Gael rolled from his tongue, her own name and the appellation “countess” clear enough to Eglantine's ears.