The Countess (4 page)

Duncan's smile faded abruptly. “A court? Why found a court here?”

“Because 'tis my right. 'Tis here at Kinbeath that I shall found a holding to rival the finest in Christendom.”

Duncan cast a dubious glance over the land, then back to her. Suddenly he threw back his head and laughed, the rich sound of his merriment echoing across the land.

Over
her
land. Eglantine fumed but her response made no impact on his laughter.

A madman, he could be naught else.

“I should like to witness that,” he declared when he had exhausted his amusement, though his lips still twitched.

“Then leave Kinbeath to me and return in a year.”

“Oh, nay. I should not wish to miss any of this triumph.” Duncan's eyes gleamed in a most disconcerting manner and he strode closer, his hand landing upon her bridle.

He grinned up at her, at once the most engaging and unpredictable man Eglantine had ever encountered. “I shall indeed remain to watch, my lady Eglantine.” Duncan tapped her knee boldly with a fingertip, his light touch sending sparks along her flesh. “Upon that you have my guarantee.”

His finger stopped, its weight boldly resting upon her knee. He stared up at her, his silver eyes dancing in challenge, as though he would dare her to move away. A glow spread from beneath the weight of his hand across Eglantine's flesh. It kindled a heat awakened in Eglantine's belly, a heat she could have comfortably been without. She stared into this man's eyes and remembered what 'twas like to claim pleasure herself.

“And my lady,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble of unwelcome intimacy. “The land is known as Ceinn-beithe.”

“Kinbeath, I was told,” she declared breathlessly.

“Then, Kin-beath, if you must,” he insisted, those silvery eyes twinkling. He emphasized the soft “-th”, the tip of his tongue pushing against his teeth, the sound slipping from his lips like a caress.

Eglantine felt her color rise, though 'twas not simply because she had mispronounced the name of her holding.

“Kinbeath,” she echoed, suddenly aware of the harsh “-t” of the ending when the name fell from her lips. The sparkle in his eyes made her cheeks heat in mortification. Eglantine tried again, and again, despite a dawning awareness that she could not make that soft “-th” sound.

And Duncan, curse him, knew the truth all too well. He grinned up at her, superior in his ability to properly say the name of a holding which Eglantine knew was her own.

“I could teach you to make the sound,” he suggested, easing closer. His palm joined his fingertip, the knowing glint in those silvery eyes revealing his awareness of his effect upon her.

Aye, she knew what he wanted of her! Eglantine drew the reins up short and her horse stepped back abruptly.

Duncan smiled, folding his arms across his chest to watch her.

“It matters little what barbarians call my holding,” she retorted. “Kinbeath is mine all the same.” Then she smiled primly, granting him no opportunity to reply before she turned to grant orders to her company.

Eglantine could feel his gaze burning into her back and her cursed knee was singing from his touch. Aye, she could hear the way her name slipped across his tongue like a caress, his accent lingering exotically on the vowels.

Kinbeath. She played the sound in her thoughts and tried to move her tongue as he had done. Curse him! She could not make the sound—and 'twas vulgar of him to point out the truth!

Aye, Duncan was no more than a barbarian knave, enamored of his own charm. A coarse creature, common and base—indeed, he had no right to touch her! And he had no right upon her land. She would succeed in driving him from Kinbeath, she would secure her holding, if only to prove him utterly wrong.

'Twould be good for him.

And good for her to be rid of such trouble, she admitted silently, for she had no need of earthly temptations. 'Twas her daughters' futures that were her concern, her own liaisons with men a matter of the past.

Desire burned bright in her belly despite her resolve, as though 'twould remind Eglantine that Theobald was dead, not she. She sniffed as she approached her company, her chin held high. One touch of a barbarian and she forgot all she had ever known.

'Twould not happen again.

C
einn-beithe was a headland jutting into the sea toward the isle of Mull. By legend, the point had once been thick with the birch trees for which it was named. There reputedly had once been a circle of stones here and all had gathered to mark the rituals of passage.

But time had eroded both the site and local memory. In these days, the point was devoid of trees and woad-painted priests, and but one of the great standing stones remained. 'Twas the largest, the eastern one, and it stood as a silent sentinel to the past of dimly recalled tales. Beyond, the trees still filled the space to the hills, a reminder that they had once grown thicker.

Duncan paced around the broch and considered his choices. The countess' arrival could have been his worst nightmare made flesh. A foreign noble not only held a title to Ceinn-beathe, but arrived to secure that claim and was intent on building a court.

He wished for the hundredth time that Cormac had not favored him with the responsibility of leading the clan. Cormac's choice made Duncan enemies among the very men he had to lead. More than one of them believed that Cormac's own blood son, Iain, should have been appointed chieftain, not the foster son who had come so late to the old chieftain's side.

And their support was critical if Duncan was to ensure the survival of Clan MacQuarrie. Dugall, King of the Isles, was a man disinclined to tolerate minor clans in his hegemony unless they could prove their military worth. Dugall wanted his perimeter secured and assigned the south to the men of Clan MacQuarrie—because Duncan alone had traveled south and knew much of this Anglo-Norman enemy.

Duncan had no choice but to succeed. He would not disservice Cormac's trust—but he had to make choices in his own way.

A bard, Duncan knew the value of tradition, language, rituals and the tales a community tells of themselves. Ceinn-beithe was emblematic of their traditional way of life, a place valued for taking pledges. 'Twas a sacred spot,
their
sacred spot, and it could not be lost. So, Duncan had chosen Ceinn-beithe as his first objective and intended headquarters.

'Twas a happy coincidence that the site had strategic import as well, for it jutted into the sea, providing a view of incoming ships from west, north and south. The broch was still defensible and of wide repute throughout the region.

The poet in Duncan understood what was at stake, the warrior within him knew what had to be done.

The Scottish king William, with his close ties to the Norman court, had a tendency to grant suzerainty of land to Norman lords, in marked defiance of the King of the Isles' claims to the same land. 'Twas a battle lost by attrition, that land difficult to reclaim once the Norman lords had built a fortification and armed it with knights.

Fortunately, the noble claiming this holding was neither Norman nor a knight. The Countess was not only a woman, but undoubtedly one ill-prepared for the rigors of establishing a court here. The very fact that she traveled with such an enormous entourage did not hint at resilience.

And even more fortunately, the deed that she held was a forgery. Aye, Cormac MacQuarrie had taken pride in the fact that he was so illiterate that he could not even sign his name.

If the lady knew her deed was forged, Duncan doubted that she cared. Possession was the only law that troubled these arrogant Normans and his challenge of her deed would not change that.

The better solution was simply to be rid of her.

“Well?” Gillemore demanded, matching his step to Duncan's own. “What does she desire?”

“She believes the land is hers to claim and means to build an abode here.”

Gillemore spat in the grass. “Normans!”

“She is not Norman, Gillemore.”

“Nay?”

“Nay, her French is too cleanly spoken and nigh difficult for me to comprehend. She is a foreigner, from further abroad, perhaps a Frenchwoman.”

“Bah! They are all the same, seizing what they have no right to claim and forcing good people from their own abodes.”

Though that might well be true in this instance, Duncan laid a hand on the older man's shoulder. “She will steal naught from us. If naught else, her foreign origins would leave her even less well prepared for the wildness of this place.”

A hopeful light dawned in Gillemore's eyes and Duncan realized that more of his men were following the conversation closely. “Aye?”

“Aye.” Duncan's voice was firm. “Noblewomen loath discomfort and only travel when necessary to secure their own selfish advantage. I have told her that we will not surrender Ceinn-beithe and she will not linger, particularly if the rain continues.”

Gillemore, evidently encouraged, grinned and jabbed his elbow into Duncan's ribs. “Aye, and what else did you learn of noblewomen, boy?”

Duncan smiled. “They have hearts wrought of stone, Gillemore, they are arrogant, they are selfish and they spare no effort to turn others to their will. Though noblewomen may be beautiful, their beauty hides the darkness of their hearts.”

Gillemore winked. “And we are led by the man who best understands these vipers.” He clicked his tongue in satisfaction and walked away, hailing another to share the tale. Duncan was aware that more than one man's gaze rested assessingly upon him.

Norman or nay, this countess was precisely like the Norman noblewomen Duncan had met—haughty, cold, beautiful, manipulative. She had even shied from his touch, the condemnation in her eyes telling Duncan more than he needed to know of her opinion of him.

Not that he cared.

Nay, the issue of greater import was that she did not intend to immediately leave. Duncan recognized a formidable will when he met one and if will alone could suffice, this countess would see the matter done.

But will alone could not establish a court. Duncan studied the lady for a long moment, as though he could unravel her motives as simply as that. The countess was slender, with a few tempting curves, her lips full and her manner crisp. To Duncan's dismay, she was possessed of startlingly green eyes, so clear that 'twas difficult to believe the woman had any capacity to lie. He would do well to recall that noblewomen were queens of deceit.

The Countess de Nemerres was tall for a woman, though still shorter than Duncan. She was probably fair of hair, though she kept her tresses demurely braided and veiled, a habit that prompted unwelcome curiosity. Duncan told himself that the hue of her hair mattered naught, and could have believed it if he had not still been curious to know.

He deliberately wondered what had happened to the count, for there must have been such a man for her to hold her title of countess.

Had she expected to find her spouse established here already? Nay, no man would have surrendered the deed if he had planned to assert his claim first. And truly, the lady did not seem to expect a man to take her cause.

Duncan surmised that the count no longer strode this earth, though his widow seemed untroubled by her loss. The lady clearly had claimed the man's coin, for no expense had been spared in her retinue. What manner of widow would leave all she knew to make a new home abroad?

And then he guessed. What if this coolly composed countess been the instrument of the count's demise?

Duncan's heart stilled. There was an intriguing possibility and one that certainly meshed with the selfish motivation of noblewomen. If she sought refuge from the law, that would explain her determination to stake a claim in this remote place. It would explain her determination to enforce even a deed that had no value.

He progressed no further in his thinking before a heavy hand landed on his shoulder.

“And so?” Iain demanded, scorn dripping from his words. “You do not appear to have dissuaded them from making camp.”

“They will not persevere,” Duncan replied with a shrug, his thoughts still swirling with possibilities. “'Twill be but a day or two before they return to greater comfort.”

“So we are to wait? Like women or dogs?” Iain made no effort to hide his disgust. “That is no way to secure a claim!”

Duncan granted his companion a disparaging glance, noting only then how his entire company watched this exchange as avidly as he watched the countess. “And what would you do?”

“Seize what is ours and make good our claim to the land!” A rumble of assent passed through the men. “We are men, not children, warriors who fight for what is rightly our own. We should slaughter them in their beds, we should seize the women for our pleasure, we should take their treasures for our own.”

Duncan surveyed his opponent and deliberately schooled himself to remain calm. “Aye? What manner of warrior slaughters women and children who cannot defend themselves?”

The men fell silent as color flooded Iain's face. “What manner of warrior stands aside while another seizes what should be his?” he retorted.

“Naught has been said of standing aside.” Duncan's anger began to simmer. “There is naught to be lost in a measure of prudence. Should we move now, we might well find an army bent on revenge arrive with the sun.”

Iain's lip curled. “Who would avenge this party?”

“Any noble might, for 'tis clear these are nobles of wealth, undoubtedly with many connections at court.”

“One does not stir to war so readily as that.”

“And what of the lady's spouse?” Duncan cast a hand toward the arrivals. “Does this not bear the look of half a household? Where are the knights and squires, the marshal, the ostler, the smith?”

Uncertainty dawned on the faces of his companions and Duncan watched as Iain noted the change.

“No man would let his women travel unaccompanied,” Iain snapped. “There will be no more.”

Though Duncan suspected as much, he would be certain before he risked lives.

“No Gael would do as much, 'tis true, but 'tis too early to assume,” he replied with authority. “The man might well have paused to raise a cup with his patron, with the king or another.”

Iain remained visibly unconvinced.

Duncan continued with vigor. “He might have fallen ill, or lost a steed and thus be a day or two behind the lady's arrival. 'Twould not be the first time. He might well assume her safe enough with so much of his household in attendance. There could be a thousand reasons for his delay!”

Iain folded his arms across his chest. “Truly, Duncan, I always believed you made a better bard than a leader, and this day, your tales prove me aright.”

Duncan had had his fill of the insolence of Cormac's son.

“It matters not what you think of my leadership,” he declared hotly. “I was chosen by Cormac and I am chieftain, regardless of your displeasure with the situation. 'Tis your duty to your father to support his choice. 'Tis your obligation to follow or leave, not to breed dissent among our numbers. We are weaker divided and you know it well.”

“We are weaker poorly led.”

“You would be weakest rashly led. For then you should all have to be buried and there would be none to do the labor.”

“I say we attack by nightfall, and make good our claim.”

Duncan leaned closer, his words hot. “And what of the army who comes to enforce the lady's deed, which grants her the land?”

“What deed?” Iain was visibly shocked.

“She carries a deed, granting her title to Ceinn-beithe.”

Glances of consternation were exchanged at this news and the men gathered closer. Iain frowned and stepped back, his features pale, although Duncan had not realized he had such respect for the law.

Duncan warmed to his theme, feeling the shift in Iain's support. “You would be murderers then and traitors under the king's own law, hunted men unwelcome at any court.” He poked a finger into Iain's chest. “Even Dugall, King of the Isles, with his lack of affection for King William, would not rush to embrace a man upon whom he could not rely.”

“We should seize the deed and shred it,” Iain protested stridently. “That way, there would be no tale of it forevermore.”

“Destroying the deed will not remove the lady's claim, just as killing her party will not make their right in the law any less. There will be heirs, upon that you may rely, just as you may be sure that there was never a deed that existed without another to secure its claim.” Duncan gave Iain a scathing glance. “Even you could not hope to kill them all and live to tell the tale.”

The two men glared at each other.

Duncan took a step closer and lowered his voice. “Would you be mocked for all your days as a warrior who could not win his will from women without bloodshed?”

Iain's face darkened as the men began to chuckle.

“Cunning overcomes strength,” Gillemore declared gleefully.

Though Gillemore's taste for proverbs could be annoying, Duncan welcomed this one.

“They will leave by the morn, by midday at the latest,” Duncan informed his men. “No noblewoman will endure what she will undoubtedly see as harsh conditions. These are women raised in soft circumstance. We have but to wait to see Ceinn-beithe our own.”

The men nodded and stepped back, appeased. Iain spat in the grass and strode away, his manner convincing Duncan that he had not heard the last of this trouble between them.

* * *

By dawn, Eglantine had persuaded herself that barbarian men possessed no allure whatsoever. That it had taken her the better part of the night to reach this conclusion was irrelevant, in her estimation—the important thing was that she had seen to the root of her own weakness and corrected the matter.

On their arrival, she had been troubled, tired, challenged and facing only the first of the obstacles arrayed against her. And she was irked that their guide, having seen them to this wild place, had disappeared into the hills. It had not been easy to ensure her company was settled, given the inclement weather and the trials of both Alienor and Esmeraude. And there had been pledges to extricate from all involved that they not reveal her true name to anyone.