The Countess (8 page)

Beauteous charming Esmeraude.

Esmeraude longed to know

Who 'twas who sang so low.

A kiss she vowed the man was owed,

A kiss he'd have from Esmeraude.”

Esmeraude was clearly intrigued. She watched Duncan with a hint of a smile touching her lips, her eyes shining, her hands clasped.

“None more surprised than Esmeraude—

The minstrel proved to be a toad!

He sang before her whole abode,

Proving he crooned the sweet ode.

The court whispered, but Esmeraude

Her token did indeed bestow.

All gasped when the small grey toad

Became a prince, a fitting beau.

The king, father of Esmeraude,

Did upon the pair much wealth bestow.

They wed and lived in a château,

The toad prince and his Esmeraude.”

Esmeraude clapped her small hands with delight, easing closer to Duncan. An appreciative ripple ran through the assembled company, though Duncan watched only the little girl.

“More!” she demanded, but there would not be another to satisfy this child's whim.

“Nay, that is enough for the moment.”

“Again,” Esmeraude insisted, offering him a pout that was probably supposed to be persuasive.

Duncan shook his head. He flicked a pointed glance at the countess, and was surprised to find that her expression had softened. She looked for all the world like a relieved mother, one who adored her babe, though Duncan knew that could not be so.

She manipulated him apurpose and he had best remember as much. “Perhaps you should return to your mother.”

Esmeraude looked crestfallen, but Duncan pushed to his feet, anxious to put distance between himself and another noblewoman polishing her wares. The toddler looked between him and her mother, her attempts to summon tears so obvious that Duncan shook his head.

He hoped Esmeraude's thoughts would always remain so readily read, though he doubted that would be the case. Aye, she would learn from her mother, that much was certain, and would soon adopt the noblewoman's array of useful masks. Duncan felt his anger rise anew.

“I would speak with you,” the countess said softly.

Her tone surprised Duncan. He reminded himself that the countess had wrought this situation herself, but still his anger wavered before her gentle manner. No doubt she knew 'twould be so and he was annoyed with himself for being so readily manipulated.

Had he learned naught on his journey south?

Duncan's words were curt, his annoyance as much with himself as the countess. “What of the child?”

Eglantine smiled sadly, an expression that wrenched Duncan's poet's heart no less than her words. “I trust she would be happier without me.”

“I shall take her, my lady,” the maid offered hastily, scooping up the child and cuddling her close. The countess nodded, then stepped towards Duncan. Her emerald eyes glowed with what might have been gratitude, had she been guileless. She led him away from her party, toward the coast.

“I must thank you for your kind intervention,” she said, her gentle smile infuriating Duncan beyond anything else she might have done.

“'Twas naught.” His tone was nigh insolent.

“Nay, 'twas most generous of you. You have a fine voice.”

“Hardly that.” Duncan snorted, then spoke his mind despite his reservations. “I feared you would strike the child in return for her boldness.”

The lady seemed to stifle a laugh, though her gaze sobered. “Though I have been sorely tempted by Esmeraude to do so, and that more than once, abuse is not my way. 'Tis not her fault, after all, that she is so distressed.”

“Nay, 'tis
yours
.”

“Mine?” she echoed, new frost edging her tone.

“Aye, 'tis
you
who have failed in your duties. Clearly, the child does not even recognize you, which speaks poorly of your role as mother.”

She folded her arms across her chest, pushing her fine breasts to prominence beneath the wet cloak in a way that did naught to aid Duncan's thinking. “Indeed?”

“Indeed! I have seen much in my day, and little good of the nobility, but this is the first that I have witnessed a child unaware of her own parentage!” Duncan's voice grew louder. “'Tis no endorsement of your character, my lady, that much is certain!”

“Do tell,” the countess invited coolly, her eyes narrowed to emerald slits.

Aye, she was insulted. A man less wise in the ways of noblewomen might conclude that he had wounded her, might beg forgiveness, might be fool enough to step anew into her trap.

But Duncan knew better.

“But then, what is one to expect from nobles? 'Tis clear enough that you, like all the others, think of naught beyond your own entertainment and comfort!”

“Which would explain my presence here?” Her words were crisply enunciated, as though she bit them off.

Duncan was not fooled. Nay, Ceinn-beithe was a prize of some kind for her, of that he was certain. He did not let himself be swayed from his argument, but propped his hands on his hips and scowled at her.

“Do not try to deny the truth of it to me! Were you not at the hunt so early on your first morn? How typical of a noblewoman to amuse herself while her villeins labor hard to ensure they have some food and shelter!”

He gestured to Esmeraude and her maid. “And how like a pampered noblewoman to leave the nursing and the raising of her children to those same villeins, lest she ruin her form or hamper her own pursuit of entertainment.”

To Duncan's astonishment, the lady did not flee before his outburst. She did not cry, she did not flutter her lashes. She held her ground and glared back at him, those green eyes snapping.

Duncan stepped forward in an attempt to intimidate her. “Aye, you mark my words, Countess, this land will not suit you well. There is no room here for noble and villein, for the land demands sacrifices from all.”

“'Tis clear there are no nobles here, that much I will concede.”

Duncan leaned closer. “Perhaps
you
should depart,” he suggested in a low voice, “as you are the true foreigner, and leave your hardworking villeins behind. Why, I have half a mind to take that child from you, to ensure that she knows something of caring and trust before 'tis too late!”

Her eyes flashed. “I shall not argue your possession of half a mind.”

A dull flush rose on Duncan's neck that her words could be so controlled. “Aye, is that not to be expected? I accuse you of casting aside your own children and you regard me with such composure—'tis as though I commented on the weather! Have you no passion in your soul? Is there no blood in your veins?”

She smiled a slow smile that infuriated Duncan. “I assure you that there is blood in my veins. I was, however, raised to show impeccable manners—clearly not your own good fortune.” One fair brow lifted. “Therefore, given your eloquent clarification of your sentiments, it would be inappropriate to invite you and your men to share our repast, as was my intent just moments past.”

“A repast your villeins will labor to provide for your pleasure!” Duncan spat the words.

She nodded. “Aye, Gerhard and Gunther will labor hard to skin the rabbits and ensure they are stewed, however they assured me that they were most grateful for the meat.”

Duncan's eyes narrowed. “How could they not be grateful when to hunt fulfills their lady's pleasure? 'Twould be less than prudent to respond in any other way.”

“You are mistaken again,” she snapped, her voice rising for the first time, “for the hunt is a responsibility, not a pleasure for me. Had I the choice, I would never hunt, but 'tis my obligation to provide for those beneath my hand. My household had need of a hot stew after our journey. And it is, after all, my
right
to hunt upon my holding.”

Duncan blinked. She hunted purely to ensure her company had a hot meal? That could hardly be called selfishness. Indeed, 'twas almost...maternal. And she had not fled from his accusations, nor even his fury, she had not wept.

She had faced him proudly and defended herself.

Duncan was startled to realize that she was the first woman of any class to do as much. He had always longed to meet a woman who could argue like a man, who would not tremble when he shouted, who knew that he would never strike her, notwithstanding his bellows.

'Twas disconcerting to have met such a woman in this countess.

His anger drained out of him, as quickly as always it did, the lady's manner leaving him with too many unanswered questions. She had not hunted for her own pleasure, she had not come to Ceinn-beithe unequipped to remain.

Why had she come here?

'Twas suddenly imperative that he know. Duncan noted now that she wore plain leather boots, heavy boots, wrought like those of a man and unadorned with frippery. Her kirtle was simply cut, of good quality wool, its embroidery far from lavish. She wore no jewels. He noted now the differences he had not seen immediately.

The countess' features were unadorned by kohl or carmine, her fingers devoid of rings. Her hawking glove was stained with blood, evidence that she did not shirk the gruesome task of the hunt, despite her stated dislike of it. She was garbed simply, as though she had risen quickly and hastened to fulfill her obligations to her household.

Had he misjudged Eglantine, Countess de Nemerres?

The lady, however, did not look inclined to confess her secrets to her. She inclined her head slightly, her tone formal. “I wish you good day, Duncan MacLaren, and Godspeed in your departure.” She pivoted, and walked away, her back perfectly straight.

“One last question, my lady countess,” Duncan cried after her.

She cast a glance over her shoulder. “I owe you naught.”

“Why does Esmeraude fear her own mother's touch?”

Eglantine turned then to survey him, the flame burning in her eyes enough to steal Duncan's breath away. “That is not your concern.” Her words throbbed low and her anger was unmistakable.

Duncan smiled, liking how her eyes snapped. “You are afraid to tell me the truth,” he charged, his manner deliberately provocative.

He provoked far more than anticipated.

Eglantine's eyes flashed like fiery emeralds and she stormed back toward him, the fury in her expression making his pulse thunder. Far from retreating demurely, the lady closed the distance between them fast. She was about a head shorter than him, though she strode toward him with remarkable speed, a vengeful goddess taken flesh.

Duncan was entranced.

T
he lady did not share his mood. She halted before him, tipped up her chin—clearly undaunted by the difference in their height—and jabbed her finger into his chest to make her point.

“I am afraid of
naught
!” she spat. “And I am certainly not afraid of an uncivilized, trouble-making, unpredictable, vulgar...” she sputtered, momentarily at a loss, and Duncan grinned.

Ye gods, but he could well sympathize with the sense of being so angry that words did not fall readily from the lips.

“Barbarian,” he supplied helpfully, feeling a startling affinity for this woman. Indeed, an admiring grin curved his lips, clearly doing naught to improve the lady's temper.

“Aye!” Her eyes flashed dangerously. “A
barbarian
like you!” She caught her breath, her breasts rising as she gritted her teeth and glared.

She was magnificent. Duncan touched the curve of her cheek with one calloused finger, though he half-expected she would smote him for such boldness. Eglantine inhaled sharply. Her skin was softer than soft, but her eyes hardened.

“How
dare
you?” she demanded breathlessly and swatted at his hand. She was trembling with anger, but she did not step away. Indeed, she leaned closer. “You shall not touch me again, are we understood?”

Nay, she would surrender naught without a fight, this one. The prospect emboldened him as naught else could have done.

Could he drive her from Ceinn-beithe with his touch?

'Twas worth a try. There were none from her camp within range to intervene—indeed, her vassals seemed intent on pursuing their own labor and ignoring the lady.

Perfect.

“Oh, I would dare more far more than that,” Duncan vowed in a low voice. He moved quickly, capturing her chin with one hand and bending close. “Does my pledge strike fear into your heart, my lady Eglantine?”

Her eyes narrowed, but not quickly enough to hide the heat of her response. “Nay!”

“Good.” He whispered against her lips, deliberately trying to infuriate her. “For 'tis the way of barbarians to take what they desire.” Duncan brushed his lips quickly across hers, knowing 'twould take her precious little time to recover.

“And you know what I desire,” he murmured, before claiming her with a thorough kiss. She parted her lips instinctively, the exquisite taste of her nigh making his head spin.

Duncan's head did spin when Eglantine slapped him, hard.

“Shameless rogue!” Her eyes snapped as he fingered his jaw. 'Twas he who inadvertently took a step back, though the lady immediately took a step to follow. “Have you no manners at all in this no-man's-land? Do you not know your place, or respect the rights of a woman to say aye or nay?”

“And what would you say to my invitation, Countess Eglantine?” Duncan demanded with a grin. “Aye or nay?”

“Nay! Of course!”

He flicked a fingertip across the tip of her nose. “But your eyes say aye.” He noted how she caught her breath, his gaze drawn to the ripe curve of her breasts. He boldly let his hand fall to cup one breast, knowing she would not tolerate such familiarity.

He was startled that the curve of her fit his hand so perfectly that they might have been each wrought for the other.

“You!” Eglantine exhaled in a low hiss, grasped his wrist and flung his hand away. Duncan had the wits to take a step back before she could slap him again.

“Tell me of the child,” he coaxed, telling himself that he fared well in provoking her. “Tell me why she fears you. Is it because you are a stranger to her?”

Eglantine's hands clenched into fists as she stared at him, her gaze hot, her cheeks red. How could he have imagined her to be wrought of frost? The lady's passion raged like an inferno and Duncan wanted to touch her again—though not to drive her away.

“I owe you no answers,” she spat. “I owe you
naught
, Duncan MacLaren—I owe you
no
explanation and no kisses and no ‘aye or nay', and I would suggest you not forget the truth of that.”

With that, Eglantine spun and stalked away, leaving one captivated man in her wake.

She pivoted when she was a dozen paces away to jab her finger through the air at him. “And leave my land,” she demanded. “You are not welcome at Kinbeath now, if indeed you ever were.”

The countess left Duncan no opportunity to reply before she marched back to her watchful company.

Duncan most certainly would not leave Ceinn-beithe so readily as that. Aye, he had named Eglantine's temperament wrong. 'Twas blood, hot blood, that coursed through her veins, that much was more than certain.

What had driven her here? Duncan wanted to know. And why did her own child fear her? What had happened to the count? And who, of course, had forged that deed? Within the tangle of mysteries lay the key to driving her away, to securing this holding for his own.

Though Duncan was honest enough to admit to himself that he was somewhat less interested in seeing this lady depart just yet. 'Twas just her mysteries that intrigued him, and once he understood her better, his fascination would fade.

But his gaze clung to her figure overlong all the same.

“If that be a woman you believe wrought of stone, lad—” Gillemore commented from such startling proximity that Duncan jumped “- then I should be wary of meeting one you call fiery.”

Duncan chuckled, then clapped one hand on the older man's shoulder. “I shall drive her away yet, Gillemore. She is not one who takes kindly to being denied her will.”

Gillemore harrumphed. “Aye, mind she takes naught of you with her when she leaves, lad.”

“There is no fear of that.” Duncan declared with confidence, though he ran his tongue across his lip as he walked, tasting Eglantine again.

He wanted more. One sample of her sweetness would not suffice. Would Eglantine writhe beneath a man, would she demand as much as she gave—or would she lie back like a corpse once she chose to surrender? Was her show of passion a ploy, or a glimpse of her true character?

Duncan did not know and he was sorely tempted to find out—if only to ensure that he chose the best strategy to drive the lady away. That was it. Aye, he would attend that meal—the one to which Eglantine had pointedly
not
invited him. With any luck, his presence alone would infuriate the lady yet further.

Duncan could hardly wait.

* * *

Eglantine hated losing her temper.

Nay, she
never
lost her temper. 'Twas out of the question. She was not Esmeraude, blessed with Theobald's charm and his stormy temperament. Nay, not she.

Eglantine was tranquil. Eglantine was collected. Eglantine never so much as raised her voice, she turned chaos to order everywhere she went.

Her blood most certainly did not boil.

Although on this day, it gave a fair impression of doing so. Aye, she seethed, as never she had seethed before. She had been stern with Esmeraude when softness would have won greater results—a mistake for which she would certainly pay, even though it could readily be blamed upon her exhaustion. Worse, she had shouted at and struck another.

One who deserved no less, but still.

Her loss of composure was all because of that same irksome ruffian, a man who had no right remaining on her land, a man whose moods shifted like the shades of the sea, a man who tested her mettle then
laughed
when she responded.

A rogue who kissed her, when he had no right to even address her. She never felt lust either, not Eglantine, she never burned with desire. A man's touch was pleasant, no more than that, and occasionally gratifying. Men did not make sensible Eglantine simmer.

Though on this day, she nigh expected to see steam rise from her flesh.

Had it not been for the obvious annoyance of dealing with Duncan MacLaren, she might have assumed she had fallen ill with some foul disease. Indeed, 'twas amazing to Eglantine that in the course of one short day, her murderous intent should have shifted almost entirely from Theobald to a man she had only just met.

And trebled in intensity.

No less, she could not ignore the burn upon her lips, a brand left by Duncan's provocative kiss. A stolen kiss, 'twas, a token of affection seized without permission or request! Such audacity was beyond belief.

And she, shameless wanton that she had evidently become, had wanted more. She was no trembling virgin in these days, and though her marriages had been dutiful arrangements, there had been nights of passion and pleasure. Eglantine admitted to herself that she missed the weight of a man's hand upon her flesh.

Not often. But once in while.

But she was beyond marriageable years, and certainly not one for casual liaisons. 'Twould be a poor example for her daughters, and truly, she had not been raised herself with low moral standards.

Nay, her daughters' matches were her sole goal, their satisfaction would be her own. She told herself that twice, to no effect. Eglantine took a deep, shuddering breath and willed the tingle deep in her belly to silence.

It ignored her, and heated like a coal on the smith's forge.

She could not be caught in the allure of a barbarian, not she. She could and would steel herself against the man's rough appeal. She only had need of one night's good sleep and she would have it this night.

The problem of Duncan MacLaren settled, she set herself to organizing with terrifying efficiency.

Esmeraude was Eglantine's primary concern. The child had had her chance to mourn her papa, but now must come to terms with the way matters would remain. 'Twas true enough that Theobald should never have argued for Eglantine to leave the child to his influence alone—but she had been witless enough to agree.

Now, the result was hers to repair and 'twould be best to see that remedy made soon. And she knew that she had erred in her approach this morning. She would have to begin again, begin more gently. Yet as Eglantine watched her daughter play with Célie, she knew she was not yet prepared for another battle of wills.

Eglantine rubbed her brow, cursed the rain and wished with all her heart that something would turn in her favor.

First, she would discuss the construction plans with Xavier, then she would oversee the meal which already began to tempt her nostrils. Once all were sated and calm, Esmeraude would be moved into Eglantine's own tent. Célie, of course, would join them as well, though likely none of them would sleep this night.

Perhaps on the morrow, or on the night after that.

But 'twould be the beginning of the establishment of trust between mother and child. Sooner or later, Esmeraude would accept her circumstance and her mother. Eglantine knew she could outwait the child.

She was the patient one, after all.

'Twas no coincidence that 'twas Theobald who recognized her own ability to make the most of little. Eglantine sighed, wishing he had not left her quite so complete a challenge, then summoned a smile as she sought Xavier.

Patience and perseverance would bring their own rewards.

* * *

Xavier was prepared to undertake his own feat of patience and perseverance in the building of their manor. He was excited about the site he had chosen and spoke with enthusiasm of the shelter from the wind to be had here, as well as the large stones already scattered around the site. He intended to add to their number with smaller rocks from the vicinity.

Indeed, the boys aiding him had already assembled an impressive pile and even as the stocky man spoke to Eglantine, he fitted one or two smaller ones into place. 'Twas as though he could not bear to be parted from his project.

His scheme was to make a floor of the stones, then a low wall that would rise to Eglantine's hip or so. That stone wall would hold large logs upright every three strides. At the roofline, Xavier intended to build a frame with timber, then complete the walls with more stripped trees set vertically.

Louis listened carefully, hands folded behind his back, his periodic questions incisive. Eglantine tried to envision the structure, so different from the stone or wattle-and-daub that she had known.

Anything would be better than a tent. And a stone floor strewn with herbs had a strong appeal. 'Twould be a marvel to rise without dirt or mud underfoot.

She spared a glance to the tower Duncan and his men had claimed and Xavier expressed his opinion that 'twould indeed make a defensible retreat. Louis contributed his research that such structures were evidently build with storerooms beneath, that the occupants might better withstand a siege. None mentioned that they would only be able to investigate it fully and use it once 'twas reclaimed from Duncan's band.

Xavier and Louis agreed that the walls should be of double thickness to halt the wind, which even now had a bite as it swept in from the sea. Xavier etched the site of the fireplace with his toe, more or less in the middle of this hall, and described a roof of the stripped boughs overlaid and lashed with straw. Louis suggested an enlargement of the fireplace, to better allow for cooking, and the two men discussed the possibilities.

Xavier intended to build one hall of moderate size—again, he etched the dimensions in the ground with his toe—then add to the manor, room by room. In this way, he explained proudly, they would all have some measure of shelter soon, yet by the fall the structure would boast four or perhaps five chambers. This would better shelter their ranks for the winter and allow for some division of tasks and accommodation among the rooms.

Eglantine was impressed by Xavier's scheme and said as much, her praise making the older man's ears redden as he grinned. She suggested that this first hall be the largest and the central of the finished plan, that way to ensure the heat of the fire was used to best advantage. Both Louis and Xavier had agreed that this was sound.

All in all, their planning took a considerable measure of the day. The glow behind the clouds that marked the position of the sun had sunk toward the horizon by the time they were in agreement. They had only just fallen silent when Gunther began to hammer upon an empty pot.