The Countess (25 page)

Jacqueline rolled her eyes. “Perhaps Duncan will make
Maman
happy. In all honesty, Alienor, there are times when you might be as deaf as a stone. Now, hasten yourself. Your belongings are to be moved, that your tent might be granted for the pleasure of the king.”

Alienor laughed lightly, knowing that 'twould be more than her tent granted to that man's pleasure. Aye, she had erred in not seeing the matter completed afore with Duncan.

She would not make the same mistake again. She waved to the king when Jacqueline turned away, knowing full well that his gaze followed her departure. There was a bounce in her step as she dreamed of her pending life as Queen of the Isles.

There was a title with a fitting resonance for her.

* * *

Eglantine could not have imagined that a man clad in Gunther's best—though still well-worn—boots, an old tabard of Louis' that was too narrow through the shoulders for him and a pair of chausses cut for a man much greater in breadth could have made her heart pound.

But Duncan did. He looked as ruggedly masculine as ever, his borrowed garb doing naught to diminish his appeal. His belt and scabbard still hung around his hips, his hair was still wild. And his smile made Eglantine catch her breath. He would never be a courtier, even in the finest garb to be had, for there was an air of a renegade about him that could not be disguised.

She would be wise to be wary of his charms.

But Eglantine was surprised to realize that she preferred Duncan in his usual garments, however unfamiliar and barbaric she had once thought them to be. They suited him better. She felt denied the sight of his strong bare legs and that thought made her smile.

They would make an odd pair, she realized too late to make a difference, for she had donned her finest for this feast. 'Twas worth the effort to see the flame light in Duncan's eyes. He stood tall and straight as he waited for her, indifferent to the change of his garb, only a glimmer of doubt in his eyes when Eglantine took his hand.

“Do not tell me I have dressed in the wrong order,” he teased, his eyes twinkling. “I must look more a beggar than a bridegroom. Or a bard playing favor to the bride.”

“Nay, not so bad as that.”

“Not even beside such finery as this?” He bent and kissed her fingertips with a flair that few noblemen could match. His gaze was warm. “You look most elegant, Eglantine.”

Her intent to steel herself against him was failing miserably, though Eglantine fought to hide her response. She guessed that Duncan noted the flutter of her pulse at her throat and had no doubt he discerned that she had taken care with her appearance. He most assuredly concluded 'twas for his benefit.

He would not be far wrong if he did. Certainly he was responsible for the flush in her cheeks. “It seemed fitting for the company of a king.”

“Indeed.” He smiled. “Then I shall make my gratitude to the king known, for his presence has supplied me with a most winsome lady by my side.”

Eglantine pulled her hand from his. “I said nay, Duncan.”

His lips thinned, his gaze hardening. “And you have my pledge that I shall take naught which is not freely offered. I am a man of my word, Eglantine, whatever you might choose to believe to the contrary.” With that, he placed her hand upon his elbow with undue ceremony and led her to the board.

Eglantine could not help but feel she had been unfair.

'Twas not the finest wedding feast ever seen. Their meal was simple and they had only thin ale with which to celebrate. This King Dugall looked skeptical of the proceedings, but Eglantine did her best to act the besotted bride. Duncan ate stoically beside her, making no attempt to coax her smile. 'Twas unlike him to be surly and she knew she had pushed him too far. Indeed, she could fairly feel him simmering.

And what was she to believe? Was she to bed him simply for the pleasure of it, all other issues forgotten?

The idea had an alarming appeal. Eglantine's mouth went dry as she considered her circumstance. To be sure, she would never love a man again, for love brought only weakness and vulnerability to a woman. Look how she had erred by loving Theobald! And look how that love had faded, leaving her in a tepid marriage to an untrustworthy rogue.

'Twas clear that her desire for Duncan was lust alone and that 'twould not endure. But she was no virgin and she owed her chastity to no man—- and she had just pledged to share her household with Duncan for a year and a day.

Eglantine risked a glance his way to find his features set. She recalled how his eyes had lit when he suggested they might make a true match of this handfast and her pulse quickened. But nay, 'twould never happen, she knew love did not linger so long as that.

But what harm was there truly in letting Duncan share her bed? She was sorely tempted to feel him atop her once more, to indulge her desire to its fullest. Surely then, 'twould fade more quickly and this irksome ability of Duncan to muddle her thoughts would disappear.

Or was she merely trying to justify her weakness? Eglantine did not know and the truth of it was annoying. The skies darkened over the sea and isles, the fire leapt high and painted their faces with flickering shadows, the silence stretching long between the supposedly happy couple as all celebrated around them.

It seemed they did a poor job of persuading Dugall of the sincerity of this. Eglantine laid her hand on Duncan's knee and murmured as much, winning a dark glance for her words.

“
A cheud sgeul air, fear an taighe
,” Gillemore cried before Duncan could reply, lifting his mug high. “
Is sgeul gu lath' air an aoidh!”

“What does that mean?” she whispered to Duncan, taking the moment to lean her breast against his arm. He caught his breath and slanted a simmering glance her way.

“The first story from the host, and tales from the guest 'til morning.” Duncan shook a finger at Esmeraude, who nestled against Eglantine. “'Tis here you will have your fill of tales, Esmeraude.”

The child bounced with delight and Eglantine slipped an arm around her shoulders, feeling denied when Duncan said naught further to her. Duncan got to his feet, folded his hands behind his back and sang.

'Twas a moment before she realized he sang in French, but a heartbeat later before she wondered why.

Immediately she knew—'twas for Esmeraude. He was singing a lovely ballad about a woman who lived in the sea to delight her youngest daughter.

Esmeraude was not the only one enthralled by Duncan's song. Aye, Eglantine could have listened to his singing for an eternity. As Duncan held the last note, Eglantine imagined that it echoed long over the sea. He finished to resounding silence, then took his seat, his gaze fixed on the board before him. Applause broke suddenly and swelled beyond expectation, all beginning to chatter at once. Esmeraude sighed with satisfaction, then yawned sleepily, Célie quickly appearing to lift the child high.

Eglantine laid her hand upon Duncan's and he glanced up, no doubt noting the tears gathered in her gaze. “Your gift is rare, Duncan,” she admitted. “For your tales have a power to touch the heart.”

He studied her in silence, his expression unfathomable.

“Do you always sing of love?”

“Aye,” he admitted gruffly and took a deep draught of the ale.

“Why?”

“Because 'tis love that matters beyond all else.”

She recalled the other song he had sung for her and the poignancy of his singing. This time she did not have the same sense that he sang a tale he had lived. “Who was Mhairi?” she asked before she could think better of asking.

The question clearly startled Duncan for he failed to hide his response. “It matters not,” he said and frowned.

Eglantine laid a hand on his thigh and felt his muscles clench. “How can it not matter if 'tis the only subject you will not discuss?” she chided quietly. He flicked her a glance of such alarm that she might have laughed under other circumstances. Truly this man had no ability to lie. “Did you love her?”

Duncan heaved a sigh. “Nay, I never loved Mhairi, though there was a time when I heartily wished I did.”

Eglantine guessed. “She loved you.”

His lips tightened. “Aye, beyond belief and without encouragement.” He placed his hand over hers, his heat lingering there only a moment before he moved her hand back to her own lap. “Does that sate your curiosity?”

“Nay.”

He almost smiled, then shook his head. “I should have guessed 'twould not be so simple as that.” He slanted a silvery glance her way. “Matters seldom are, with you.”

“Nor with you.” Eglantine smiled and held his gaze, a sense of intimacy enfolding her despite the presence of the company. “Tell me of Mhairi, Duncan. Please. I should like to know.”

He held her gaze for so long that she grew certain he would refuse. Then he frowned, letting his voice drop as the celebration continued around them. “Mhairi was Cormac's daughter, though she was no more than a child when I came to this place. Cormac took me in as his foster son, though he had no obligation to do so, and in gratitude, I served him as well as I was able.”

“But what of your family?”

“I know not who they were.” He shrugged as though it did not matter, but Eglantine was not fooled. “I took the name MacLaren rather than be without a name at all. The MacLarens have no blood hereabouts, and who would know the truth of it? And I was always alone, traveling, learning songs, listening to tales. When Cormac claimed me as his foster son, I suddenly had a family, and I was proud to have both brother and sister.”

“Brother?”

“Ah, you may have noted Iain in my party, the tall fair man. He is Cormac's son, and for a time we were inseparable. See, there he is beside the king, complaining of all my failures and weaknesses.”

Eglantine frowned in confusion even as her gaze slipped over the man in question, but Duncan continued. “At any rate, it came time for Mhairi to wed. Cormac made the arrangements with another chieftain who desired both her and an alliance. Mhairi however refused to wed him.”

“Because she wanted you.”

“Aye, but I had naught to offer her—I did not even love her!—and Cormac insisted upon this alliance. Mhairi was the light of his days, he loved her as few men love their daughters, and he wanted every luxury for her. And I believed he was right in this, that this chieftain's affection and wealth would serve Mhairi well. But Mhairi would hear naught of it—she even tried to persuade me to her cause. So I left, for I thought to make matters more easy for all involved. I, like Cormac, thought she was but being willful.”

His expression was grim and Eglantine found herself recalling the tale he had recounted in song. “She refused him,” she guessed.

Duncan shook his head, then shoved one hand through his hair. “Worse. She refused, she and Cormac argued, and Cormac carried her bodily to priest and betrothed. She fought him every step of the way and 'twas said to have been quite a scene. But after the ceremony, Mhairi seemed to have calmed. All thought she had accepted her fate, now that 'twas done. She was sent to her chambers to prepare for her spouse, while the men drank his health.”

He swallowed. “She killed herself there, with the dagger her father had once given to her as a gift, rather than let the match be consummated.”

Eglantine felt her lips part in surprise. Duncan frowned and looked away, his distress at this recollection so evident that Eglantine's heart ached for him. “I returned but two days later, expecting all to be well and finding the opposite.”

“And Cormac?”

Duncan heaved a sigh. “Was never again the same. He faded and grew small. There are those who say he died of a heart broken in two.” He frowned and pushed to his feet, his tone brusque. “There, you have your tale, Eglantine, and I have need of more ale.”

Eglantine laid a hand upon his arm, her own heart stirring with compassion. “I see that you blame yourself for this, though the fault is not yours to bear.”

“How could I not blame myself!” Duncan snapped, his eyes flashing. “The man who sheltered me lost his sole daughter because of me! I should have spoken to her, I should have persuaded her.” Duncan sat down heavily and drained his cup though 'twas already empty. He cast it onto the board. “I should have loved her. 'Twould have been the least I could do for the man to whom I owed so much!”

Oh, Eglantine knew what 'twas to blame oneself overmuch for what had happened in the past. But Duncan had done naught wrong—he had been true to his heart—'twas Mhairi who had acted impulsively and Cormac who had seen naught but his own desire.

“You are no more to blame for Mhairi's foolish choices than I am for the course of Alienor.”

Duncan grimaced. “Let us not discuss Alienor again.”

Compassion flowed through Eglantine, his pain at his role in this tragedy showing her that she had judged him as harshly as he had judged himself. But Duncan had pledged himself to her and her goals, he had aided her with Esmeraude.

The least she could offer him was solace.

Eglantine cupped Duncan's face in her hand, then kissed his cheek, smiling at his astonishment. “Come to my bed, husband,” she said, her voice loud enough that all might hear. “I grow impatient for your heat.”

She made to tug him to his feet, but Duncan resisted, his scowl filled with uncertainty. “Eglantine, what is this that you do? I am in no mood to suffer games.”

She smiled for him alone, hoping he could see that she had no intent to cheat him. 'Twas not like Eglantine to make an impulsive choice, but she knew that this was the right one, just as fleeing Arnelaine had been the right choice despite her haste in choosing it. “I say aye, Duncan, though I never imagined I should have to say it twice.”

His eyes flashed and he was on his feet in a heartbeat, his haste making Eglantine laugh beneath her breath. The company hooted in approval, some lewd drinking song in Gael taken up by the company with vigor. Eglantine did not care.