The Bride Quest II Boxed Set

by Claire Delacroix

  “And we have not to lift a blade.” The men laughed, and Duncan was content to let them believe what they would while he sought the elusive truth.

  Iain, though, spat in the grass. “If this is your plan,” he said coldly, “I think it folly, indeed.” The men might have argued with him, but Iain held up a hand. “You must all recall that we have but half the tale, and rely solely upon Duncan for even that much. Indeed, he could have said anything to the woman in that foreign tongue, and we would not know the truth of it.”

  “He has no reason to lie to us,” Gillemore protested.

  “Nay?” Iain asked.

  “Nay!” Duncan retorted.

  “And Duncan has been honest since first he joined us,” Gillemore continued. He grimaced. “’Tis perhaps the boy’s greatest flaw.”

  “I thank you for that,” Duncan said, prompting another chuckle from his companions.

  But Iain would not leave the matter be. “Perhaps Duncan means to ally with this woman and see his own bed made in the bargain.” He folded his arms across his chest. “’Twould not be the first time he saw to his own advantage, devil take the rest.”

  Silence fell among the men. Duncan fixed Iain with a cold glance. “On the contrary, I have always put the needs of others ahead of my own.”

  “Liar!” Iain charged.

  “’Tis no lie!” Duncan roared.

  “I shall not stand aside and let you claim a fortune, after you have won your advantage with lies.” Iain bellowed. “I shall not watch you see to your pleasure while we beg for vittles!” He shook a finger at Duncan. “I grant three days, Duncan MacLaren, to you and your reputed charm. Three days, no more, to win the deed from this foreigner, destroy it and see her party gone from Ceinn-beithe.”

  Duncan put his hands on his hips and stepped closer. “And then?” His words were low and heated, a dangerous tone that a wiser man might have heeded.

  Iain did not.

  “And then I shall lead the clan and I shall take that leadership by force.” Iain cast a glance over the company, some of whom nodded approvingly. “I shall take it with the assent of the clan, for they will know that they have no leader in you. I shall reclaim Ceinn-beithe and I shall pledge my service to Dugall, King of the Isles, as the chieftain of the clan MacQuarrie.” He poked his finger toward the sea. “Then I shall honor the rest of your pledge to Dugall and see the south secured, no matter the cost!”

  The lady’s kiss had indeed cost Duncan dearly and he was enraged that he could have been so foolish. She might well win her desire, if dissent separated his men.

  “You will do no such thing!” he roared. “You have no right!”

  “I have every right!” Iain retorted, his face reddening.

  “I am the chieftain of clan MacQuarrie!”

  “And I should have been! I am the son of Cormac MacQuarrie, the rightful heir to the role of chieftain. ’Tis you who had no right to steal what should have been mine!”

  “’Twas granted to me, and that willingly!”

  “You already stole once from my family!” Iain was livid. “I shall not stand aside and watch you steal again.”

  ’Twas but half the tale. Duncan could not say a word against Cormac, not after the friendship that had bound them together, not after all the good that man had done him. He took a deep breath and stepped back, clenching his teeth so that he did not say what might be regretted.

  “You know that is not the truth,” he allowed himself to say.

  “Aye, ’tis the coward’s way to dodge a fight.” Iain sneered. “You twisted my father to your will, rather than labor for the prizes you would have for your own. I will not watch you turn the entire clan against me.”

  Duncan folded his arms across his chest. “’Tis you who damage your position, with lies and dissent.”

  Iain held up his fingers. “Three days.”

  “Be warned—I will not let you do this, Iain MacCormac.”

  Iain smiled coldly. “Then I shall delight in killing you first, Duncan MacLaren.” His smile broadened but was no more friendly for all of that. “Unless of course, you manage to succeed.”

  Chapter Six

  Gillemore might have said something, but Duncan spun and stalked in the opposite direction.

  Oh, he could wrap his hands around Iain’s neck with pleasure, for what that man wrought these days—at least he might have, had they not been so close once long ago.

  But that had been before, before Cormac found fault with Iain, before the boy went away, before Iain was shocked by the evidence that his father favored Duncan over him. Before Duncan had been made chieftain at Cormac’s request.

  Fostership to a hundred and blood to twenty, that was what Gillemore oft said of the matter. And indeed, there had been a rare bond between Duncan and Cormac, an affection and respect that transcended any lack of blood between them. Duncan knew the old man loved his son, knew he wanted naught but the best for him, knew that he had finally accepted that Iain was not the warrior he had hoped he might be.

  But none could tell Iain that now. He was too embittered by his losses.

  Perhaps Duncan should have seen the strains in the family who adopted him as their own. But he had been too glad to find a home to question the conditions. Duncan shoved a hand through his hair and stared out to sea, haunted by memories and tormented by his choices. Aye, he had made more than one error in his days.

  Did he make another in being tempted to trust the countess Eglantine?

  He sorely regretted that kiss, that much could not be changed. But, he would win compense from the countess, he would drive her from this place with haste, regardless of what he had to do to succeed.

  He had little choice.

  The moon rose in the clearing sky, even as Duncan doubted anew the old man’s choice. How could he win Iain’s wager? How could he ensure there was no bloodshed? How could he seduce the deed from Eglantine?

  Yet how could he fail the task assigned by the King of the Isles, when failure would mean the elimination or the subjugation of Cormac’s heritage? How could Duncan not try to unite the clan beneath his hand, as Cormac desired?

  It seemed he was doomed to fail the old man yet again.

  He would not think of Mhairi. Duncan rubbed his face in frustration and stared into the mist shrouding the isles, knowing he would not sleep this night.

  “She is a rare one, that much is certain,” Gillemore declared, setting himself beside Duncan.

  “Who?” Duncan asked, though he knew full well who the older man meant. In truth, he welcomed the distraction from his thoughts.

  “That countess.” Gillemore rubbed his hands together, then blew upon them. “As vexing as a new filly but strong enough to run all the way to Edinburgh, aye?”

  Duncan smiled. “I expect as much.”

  Gillemore wrinkled his nose. “But burdened with such an ugly name for such a bonny face. Eglantine.” He grimaced. “It sounds like a foul brew.”

  Duncan found himself grinning. “’Tis apt enough for her.”

  “Aye?”

  “Aye. In her own tongue, it means a wild rose.” He nudged the other man. “The kind with thorns as doughty as a briar.”

  Gillemore chuckled. “Then it does fit well enough, for the lady’s beauty is as rare as a rose’s bloom.” He watched the younger man knowingly. “She is stronger than you guess, Duncan, like those stubborn flowers. Be careful, lad, or she will claim more than Ceinn-beithe from you.”

  With a hearty squeeze of Duncan’s shoulder, Gillemore rose to his feet. “An early match is oft a poor one and a late match a blind one.”

  “I make no match, Gillemore.”

  “Do you not, lad? Do you not.” The older man shook his head. “Love and a cough are not well hid, Duncan MacLaren, but a man is never well served but a love blind to consequences. Take your desire of this one but do not compromise your own goals.”

  ’Twas good counsel as so oft this man’s was. Duncan smiled and grasped Gillemore�
��s hand. “Aye, I will.”

  Then the older man was gone, whistling through his teeth as he went.

  And Duncan was left, recalling a poor match and wondering about a blind one. He was certain ’twould be Mhairi’s ghost who tormented him this night, but ’twas the vision of another woman who stood resolute in his mind’s eye.

  A noblewoman with hair like spun honey, with silken skin and a warrior’s resolve. ’Twas because he desired her that Eglantine so interfered in his thoughts, Duncan knew it well.

  And there was but one way to be cured of that affliction, for mystery alone fed desire. No woman held sway over a man once he had tasted her charms fully, ’twas well known.

  He would have to seduce Eglantine. For the good of his clear thinking, of course.

  * * *

  Eglantine suspected that Duncan lied about the forgery of the deed.

  ’Twas the simplest way to be rid of her, to seize Kinbeath, and he was not a man to trouble himself with finesse when a blunt solution would serve his ends. Clearly there was no way to prove his falsehood for what ’twas without leaving the holding to seek the confirmation of a king—and once he seized possession of the land, ’twould be nigh impossible to reclaim it.

  Eglantine would not fall for his ruse.

  Even if her heart wondered whether Theobald could have disappointed her again. ’Twould not have been out of character, that much she had to admit. Oh, she could see him, delighted with himself as he concocted a false deed, certain that ’twould appease her.

  But Duncan lied. Duncan! He wanted Ceinn-beithe. Eglantine already knew that he wore the cloak of civilization lightly, if at all.

  And she had learned precious little from him on this night, naught of crops and survival despite her determination to do so. The man took pleasure in provoking her, that much was clear, and showed remarkable skill in distracting her from matters at hand.

  The ‘loving month’ indeed. Eglantine clicked her tongue in disgust, hating how her flesh heated directly to her toes, hating even more how appealing the thought of a lover was in this chill clime. Nay, not a lover, but Duncan.

  But she would not consider the merits of welcoming Duncan to her bed to ensure her warmth, though he did volunteer as much.

  The man had a rare insolence about him, that much was clear.

  Eglantine deliberately forced Duncan MacLaren from her mind, ignored the cluster of Duncan’s men silhouetted by the fading sun and set to work. Her daughters had to move, and she had best ensure ’twas done aright.

  At least the rain was halting. Perhaps her luck changed after running awry for so long. Eglantine shook her head and smiled at the unlikely prospect of that.

  Célie had already moved Esmeraude’s belongings into Eglantine’s tent and she could hear the two of them playing as the maid prepared the child for bed. Previously, Jacqueline and Alienor had shared the third tent with their maids, but Jacqueline was more than happy to move into the newly empty tent.

  There was Jacqueline to move and Alienor to pacify, menus to review with Louis and sentries to be posted. Eglantine worked through her evening tasks diligently, dreading the inevitable confrontation with Esmeraude.

  But her fortunes had indeed changed, if only slightly. She finally entered her tent to find not only a brazier glowing with welcome heat, but her daughter already sound asleep in Célie’s arms. The women shared a smile and Eglantine brushed a curl back from her little cherub’s brow before climbing into the welcome luxury of her own bed. The tent nigh glowed golden within, ’twas a dry and peaceful sanctuary.

  And warm enough, she told herself, even without a lover in her bed.

  Though still Eglantine was not to have that single night of sound sleep. Just as her eyes drifted closed, a man sang in the distance and the sound made her sit bolt upright. His deep voice and mournful tune sent chills down Eglantine’s spine, though maid and babe slumbered on untroubled. She gripped the linens, knowing full well who ’twas.

  Curse him! The man would even deny her sleep!

  Eglantine thumped the pillows and dropped back onto the mattress, drawing the linens high over her ears. She squeezed her eyes shut, determined to not listen to him, but the song wound its way not only to her ears. Its mournful tune made her heart ache, though Eglantine could not understand the words. She found herself wondering what Duncan had lost, for his song sounded as though ’twas wrung from the depths of his soul.

  Then she realized how readily he distracted her. A pox upon Duncan MacLaren! She would forget him and his lies if ’twas the last thing she did. No doubt he wanted only to ensure she did not sleep well—so that she would be a less worthy opponent on the morrow.

  Eglantine would give him no such satisfaction. Nay, she would arise early and hunt once more, fulfilling her responsibilities to her vassals.

  Though this time, she would not venture so far afield.

  * * *

  Duncan returned from his walk along the shore while the sky was yet dark. He had not slept the night, he was rumpled and damp and in a foul temper. But ’twas not the sleeplessness that soured his mood—and ’twas not because he had been haunted by Mhairi and his errors in the past.

  Nay, ’twas Eglantine who had kept him from sleep and that rankled. ’Twas Eglantine with her hot kisses and her flashing eyes, with her slender curves, her mysteries, and her steely determination who invaded his thoughts and awakened his desire.

  Even when he sang of Mhairi.

  Duncan flicked a glance at Eglantine’s already spreading settlement. The woman won her way in this, and he was fool enough to be her pawn. She had not left, she showed no signs of departing. The weather had turned to her favor, while Duncan’s men grew increasingly impatient with his decisions.

  But ’twas not within Duncan to attack women, much less to countenance bloodshed in the first place. He was not a warrior, he was not a intuitive leader of men, and he wondered anew at Cormac’s choice.

  But while he took the noble course, the walls rose slowly but steadily on the hall that would be her court. ’Twould not be long before Eglantine was settled permanently here, her claim fortified and defensible.

  ’Twould not be long before ’twas too late.

  Duncan had to do something and he had to do it now.

  And then it came to him, as clearly as if Cormac himself whispered in his ear. If you have but one eye, look with the eye you’ve got.

  Duncan smiled. Aye, he was a bard and a fine one at that. He would win this battle with a tale. And he had already planted the seed of it, as though it had been his plan all along.

  He pulled the knife from his belt and crept closer to the sleeping settlement. He steered a wide berth around the cooks who were arguing good-naturedly, picking out the places where he could make the most damage with the least work. One sentry dozed, a second hovered near the cooks. The third and fourth were easily avoided.

  Duncan would make trouble as only a Gael storyteller could—by feigning the presence of an offended ghost. Should the household’s superstitions be stirred, even the pragmatic countess would not be able to keep her vassals here.

  And Eglantine could not survive in this place alone.

  Duncan bent and quickly pulled a strategic trio of tent pegs from the ground. He cut guy lines so that a mere thread remained, and pulled more pegs while keeping out of sight. The wind rose as he worked, as though ’twould aid him in this, and he knew that he made the right decision.

  By the time he had swept silently through the camp and a fitful gust of wind finished his labor, Duncan was sitting amidst his men as though he had been there all the night long. He stood up as though startled by the sounds of tents collapsing and chaos being wrought.

  But his smile at the cries of dismay revealed his hand to more than one of his companions.

  * * *

  Alienor screamed when her tent fell upon her. She won a mouthful of silk for her efforts and struggled, furious at the ineptitude of Eglantine’s vassals. She abandoned her mai
d and finally crawled into the sunlight.

  The laughter of the local men halted her while she was yet on all fours. The camp was in confusion, tents falling, women crying out and men running, but Duncan and his men stood and laughed at their antics.

  They had left their camp to watch what they undoubtedly deemed entertainment, and stood not far outside the perimeter of Eglantine’s camp. The sentries seemed to have forgotten their duties in the urge to help, and Duncan’s rough group of men pointed and laughed. ’Twas true that no one was hurt, but Alienor’s face burned with embarrassment.

  She looked far from her best. She stood, though, and spared the men a haughty glance before casting her disheveled braid over her shoulder. A tall fair man ceased his laughter and she could nigh feel his gaze upon her.

  ’Twas then that Alienor realized she wore only her sheer chemise. Instead of modestly hiding her charms, she turned and glared at the man for his boldness.

  And he smiled, appreciation tinging his expression.

  Alienor had an idea. Aye, she knew what she wanted, and she knew she would not find it here. She was fast under the thumb of Eglantine and did not care for that in the least. Alienor wanted a spouse, and though a barbarian was not her first choice, there were few other options hereabouts.

  She eyed Duncan MacLaren with new appreciation. He was not hard upon the eyes. And Alienor had seen Eglantine eyeing him the day before—not only did that show the man’s probable skill abed, but there was something infinitely appeal in claiming something—or someone—that Eglantine desired.

  ’Twould be fitting recompense, to Alienor’s thinking.

  She had no doubt in the power of her own considerable charms. Eglantine was ancient, after all, widowed and prim and scarred by childbirth. Alienor was young, unsullied and willing.

  Alienor did not intend to let subtlety lose the battle. She cast back her hair and boldly walked across the camp, loosening her braid as she picked her way through the disorder. She was well aware of how those black tresses accentuated the fairness of her skin, how the pallor of just awakening would make her eyes look more vividly blue. She ignored her maid’s cry of protest and kept her gaze fixed upon Duncan as she walked.