by Joanne Rock
Nay, she would not trust Duncan. Not with her heart, not with her father’s legacy and most certainly not with the little girl who deserved the warmth of a family’s love. What might Duncan and his brother do if they learned Cristiana had been harboring their heir for more than four years? Would they declare war on Domhnaill to get her back?
Or worse, was there a chance they spread their seed so carelessly that one more child bearing their distinctive green eyes would not matter to them at all?
For her niece, Leah’s, sake, Cristiana refused to find out.
Duncan would turn this keep inside out to find what he sought.
He arose before the dawn the next morning, determined to make his time at Domhnaill as brief as possible. By the time he broke his fast and dressed warmly to fend off the frigid damp blowing in off the water, the sun’s first rays lit the token he wore about his neck. He held up the medallion to the study the map worked in metal. The cryptic figure he believed matched some landmark on Domhnaill property.
A chill lingered on the breeze that had naught to do with the sea as he stalked farther from the stark gray walls. Unease lurked behind the keep’s strong facade, a sense among the people that their leader had grown weak. Cristiana could make merry all the new year to hide her clan’s shortcomings. But it did not change the fact that Domhnaill was ripe for the taking.
Duncan’s eyes roamed over the stones of the keep in search of a pattern in the rock that might match the figure on his medallion. It was one of many possibilities for what the map might signify. And the task of studying stone walls did not require nearly enough of his attention to keep him from thinking about Cristiana.
About how she’d been ready to wed five years ago.
By the rood, he would never forget the heat of the kiss they’d shared even though she’d been naught but an innocent maid. They’d been left alone to walk in the gardens, their families preoccupied with details of Edwina’s marriage contract. Cristiana had not hesitated to take his arm when he led her through the fruit trees to a bench by an old wishing well.
Oddly, she had not recalled that it had been her to lead him there, since it had been that same day that Donegal had dishonored Edwina. Cristiana had accused Duncan of kissing her to distract her from keeping an eye on her sister. But it had not been so. Cristiana had been eager to be with him, her eyes bright with excitement as she drew him into the trees.
Not seeing any pattern in the stones now, Duncan found his feet picking out the path to that well. He needed to cover a lot of ground in the next moon if he hoped to find the treasure, so it made sense if he spent some of today taking in the lay of the land.
Breaking through the thicket of overgrown fruit trees, he spied a new building between the orchard and the well. A squat, round tower, the structure was too far from the keep to be a kitchen. Yet the smoke of a stoked fire puffed from a hole in the roof.
What construction had the old laird undertaken? Surprised at this sign of ambitious growth, Duncan made sure his medallion was hidden beneath his garments and approached the building, boots kicking up freshly fallen snow.
He tried the door, expecting it to be locked. Instead, the barrier swung open easily and the scent of sweet mead rolled toward him in fragrant waves. The scent of Cristiana.
Indeed, this was her domain. And she must have risen with the dawn like him to be at her work so early. But there she stood, all alone and toiling over a table, her shoulders bent to some work he could not yet see. She had not heard him enter, her full attention devoted to whatever project she labored over.
The building was a brew house unlike anything he’d ever seen before. It functioned as far more than a mere corner of a kitchen where special cauldrons were set aside for mead-making. The entire, fine structure appeared dedicated to Cristiana’s brewing gift.
A hot fire burned in the center of the room, the blaze surrounded by protective stones to contain it. Some of the exterior wall of the tower was stacked with wood, but most of the walls were lined with other cauldrons.
The tower’s only low windows were placed above a worktable near where Cristiana stood. The skin-covered openings allowed the dawn’s light to spill over clay pots of dried herbs and spices. He could see now that she’d cut some sticks of cinnamon into smaller pieces, her hands dusted in fragrant powder.
“Cristiana.” He spoke softly so as not to startle her, but her name became an intimate sound on his lips.
Startled anyway, she whirled around as if expecting to see a field full of marauding Danes.
“Duncan.” Clutching a hand to her chest, she seemed to quiet her heart by force. “I am usually alone out here at this hour.”
Her cheeks were flushed from the heat of the fire as she turned back to her worktable. An amethyst-colored kirtle swung about her feet as she moved, the fabric falling in time with her rhythmic cutting.
“You tend your potions well, Cristiana.” He stepped deeper into the chamber, taking in the rainbow span of flowers drying on the rafters.
The scent of spices and dried berries mingled with the tang of yeast. Being in the brew house was like stepping into a late summer day with the rich warmth of the harvest all around.
“The Domhnaill mead is prized in trade. But I must use care in the making, since I can only obtain a certain amount of honey. Once I run out, I cannot replenish my stores until spring, so I dare not burn any.”
Carefully, she scraped the worktable clean of the cinnamon she’d cut, swiping the last of the powder into her hand. When she’d gathered all she could, she brought it to a pot on the far wall and scattered it over the surface of the brew.
No wonder she carried such an enticing smell on her person at all times. She must absorb the fragrance right through her skin.
“Your father has invested a great deal in this trade.” Peering up at the ceiling, he noted the excess rafters for additional space to dry herbs out of the way of the boiling cauldrons. Mortars and pestles, cups and small jars lined the shelves of an open cupboard.
“Our mead sells for a very good price. In turn, full coffers keep the men paid and attract strong alliances.” She rinsed her hands in a bowl of water kept on the hearthstones and dried them on a linen rag tied to her girdle.
“Your father has not raised a fighting force in many years,” he observed, pacing the perimeter of the structure to view the contents of the fermenting cauldrons. “His coffers must overflow with the excess. He could have made you a fine marriage long ago.”
The dowry Duncan was to have received for her five years ago had been more than generous, especially considering his sons would have ruled Domhnaill one day. What would the laird offer to the man who wed Cristiana now?
“I do not think finding a husband for me is part of his purpose.” Holding back her plaited hair in one hand, she bent over the cauldron in the center of the chamber and sniffed delicately.
The fabric of her tunic dipped away from her breasts as she leaned forward, presenting him with a view so beguiling he stopped cold in his pacing. A jolt of undeniable interest sparked. To lust after her was foolishness. She was no experienced woman to choose a man for pleasure’s sake. She was an unwed maid, who must make a good marriage. A highborn one at that.
And he would suffer the fires of hell before it would be him after the cold way she’d dismissed him.
But the knowledge did not stop the heat streaking through his veins at the sight of her tempting, creamy flesh. The moment ended too soon as, straightening, she took up a spoon and stirred the concoction. He struggled to recall what they’d been discussing.
Ah, yes. A husband.
“Only a fool of a sire would ignore the need to see you wed. And your da is no fool.” A stubborn, hard man perhaps. But other than the misstep with the broken betrothal, the old laird was a keen ruler. Or at least, he had been.
Perhaps she had sensed his gaze on her because she paused in her stirring to peer up at him. Though they stood many steps distant, he could feel the moment
the air between them grew charged. As a virgin untouched, would Cristiana even know the source of such heat?
“I choose not to marry.” Her words were so at odds with everything he’d been thinking, it took him a long moment to understand what she’d said.
“Impossible.” He drew closer, telling himself he wished to judge her features and seek out the lie. Yet he knew he was pulled toward her by a power beyond his control. She fascinated him despite their mutual mistrust. “Your father has no sons. He has no choice but to ally himself—his people—with a strong clan who can protect the legacy of his lands.”
She removed the spoon from the spinning, bubbling brew beside her and hung the instrument from a hook near the pot’s handle.
“He will choose his successor when the time is right. I do not need to wed to secure our fate.”
She spoke madness. Her father indulged this? He would question the old man about it when he obtained an audience with him, since it would make Duncan’s work here easier if he did not have to fight off a suitor for control of Domhnaill. For now, he would have answers of a different sort from her.
She stared up at him with that steady, gray gaze of hers. She had become a practical woman. Efficient. Hardworking. But he remembered another facet of her. A passionate, unrestrained side that she’d locked down like it never existed after that day by the wishing well.
Suddenly, he had to know if that part of her still existed or if it had been stamped out forever by cool practicality.
“You would deny yourself a man’s touch for all your days?” He reached toward her, telling himself he did so only to tease her. To make her feel a fraction of the frustration he’d felt years ago.
Her eyes remained locked on his. Perhaps she did not notice the approach of his fingers until he brushed a lock of her hair just above her temple. The touch had the sense of fate about it, and he recalled another touch, another kiss, another moment so similar to this one. The fact that Cristiana was no longer his did not alter a compelling urge to take her. To steal as much from her and the moment as she would allow.
Chapter Three
C ristiana held her breath at the feel of Duncan’s fingers skimming her temple to sift lightly through her hair. To allow such a touch was foolishness, when they were utterly alone here. Her sister had been wooed to ruination once, and paid for it still. Would Cristiana follow in her footsteps?
Yet a part of her wanted to know if she had imagined the delight she’d once found in Duncan’s caress.
Heaven help her, she had not.
“I understand there will be sacrifices with my choice,” she answered finally, willing herself to step back, out of his reach.
But with her heart thudding a slow, insistent rhythm in her chest, she could not hasten her feet to do her bid ding. There had been a time when she dreamed nightly of belonging to this man—body and soul.
“Do you?” He smoothed his thumb along her cheek and down to her jaw, stopping just below her chin. “Can you truly appreciate what you will miss when you’ve never experienced it?”
Heat sparked over her skin as he drew closer. From this distance, she could see the flecks of gold in his green eyes. Then her gaze flicked down to his mouth as she remembered the feel of his lips upon hers. His kiss had been exquisitely sweet. Patient. Stirring.
A new, small scar speared his top lip with a tiny white line. She found herself wondering what that marred skin would feel like against her mouth if he were to kiss her again.
Her heavy heartbeat sped faster, anticipation humming in her veins even as she reminded herself that he could play this game far better than she could. Five years ago hadn’t he made her believe he cared about her, then raced away to another woman’s arms without ever acknowledging Edwina had a legitimate complaint against Donegal’s brutish behavior?
“I suppose it is easier not to miss something you’ve never had.” Her voice was naught but a whisper between them, a quiet confession for his ears only.
Time dragged out. She wished for some kind of intercession to break the spell he’d cast over her. But perhaps if she indulged this once—if she made a decision to take some small pleasure from him on her own terms—she would not be so plagued with wonder about the attraction she couldn’t deny.
“No good strategist makes a decision without adequate information.” His gaze tracked hers. He handled her gently despite her fears about the Culcanon brutishness. “Perhaps you’ve forgotten the power of even one simple kiss.”
His lips covered hers before she could argue the point. And wasn’t it wicked of her that she did not want to argue it? The arrogant young laird could be mounting a takeover of her keep and yet all that concerned her right now was to test her fanciful memories of him against the truth of the flesh-and-blood man.
Pleasure flooded her faster than strong mead warmed the blood. At the feel of his mouth on hers, her knees wavered. His hand curved about her neck, holding her still for the quick, silken lash of his tongue along the fullness of her lip. She seemed to melt on contact, her whole body swaying until it found the steadying strength of his. Her lips parted, opening to his kiss.
In for a penny, in for a pound. At least this once.
Her fingers clutched at his cloak, seeking anything to steady herself. She gripped the fine wool in clenched fists as her body trembled beneath layers of the worn linen gown meant for working in the brew house. Now, that soft, much-washed fabric afforded her little protection from the raw masculine appeal of his muscular form. Her breasts pressed tight to his chest, the pleasant friction making her head spin with carnal thoughts no maid had a right to consider.
But the feel of her body against his consumed her. This was why she had not wanted to wed. The memory of her last kiss with Duncan had been thus and she feared it would not be the same with any other. For all that she was a maid, she knew deep down this kind of passionate potential did not exist between every man and woman. And—after once having the smallest taste of this soul-stealing excitement—she could not imagine settling for a cold coupling with some man twice her age.
“Cristiana.” Duncan spoke her name over her lips between kisses. “You were meant to be touched. Kissed. Tasted.”
Arching up on her toes, she brushed her mouth to his again, luring him back to wreak the skillful magic that made her senseless with desire. She just needed another moment. A last few stolen minutes to feel passion she’d never know again.
His hands locked about her waist. Holding her against him, yet restraining her from further contact. She blinked, confused.
“Why did you refuse me?” His voice was harsh, all traces of the silken-tongued suitor gone. “Why punish us both for a sin we did not commit? Was it not enough that Edwina broke her oath to Donegal? You had to break yours to me, as well?”
Her senses returned so quickly she felt a chill at the loss of passionate heat. She tried to wrench free, regret stinging sharp. His grip did not budge, however. Emerald eyes pierced hers, demanding answers she had already given.
“Do not pretend to have felt punished when you ran to your leman with the haste of a man who has been at sea for years,” she accused. His defection to another woman’s arms had rubbed salt in a wound since he had murmured sweet words in her ear the day prior about making love to her.
“You are so coldhearted that you would deny a man all comfort? Perhaps I should have sailed straight into battle afterward to take out my fury on an unsuspecting enemy?” His features were hard. Unforgiving. And bore no trace of the man she’d kissed.
Which was just as well. She would rather not face that man again anytime soon.
“The point is that you never gave up your lover when you were pretending to court me. And it was not my sister who broke the oath of the betrothal,” she insisted. “’Twas Donegal who simply took what he wanted without respect to the marriage contract. For my part, I would never wed a man who would take his family’s side so quickly he does not see the truth.”
“I might say
the same of you. Why are you so sure your sister did not find Donegal’s bed willingly, only to regret it later? You have seen how persuasive a man’s touch can be.”
The sharp bite of his comment sank long teeth in an old wound. Anger erupted, giving her the strength to yank away.
“How flattering to know you only kiss with a purpose. But I will not defend myself or my sister to you again. You chose long ago to side with your brother who, I’ve since heard, has shown his true nature in your absence by bankrupting your lands and dividing your people. Yet you still believe he acted nobly in his treatment of my sister?” She stalked to the other side of the cook fire beneath the cauldron, needing a barrier between her and any man who could make her so angry.
She had lost so much, thanks to his need to humiliate her. Her family. And could he be so blind to Donegal’s character still? How could she trust him with her own people if he couldn’t discern clearly?
“He may have been a poor manager of people and lands. At the time, I could not see how that made him the beast your sister portrayed him as.” He stalked to the cupboard and retrieved a vessel, then plunged it into an open pot of fermenting mead. “Besides, I saw Edwina depart the hall with Donegal myself that night they consummated their relationship. They stole kisses in the courtyard as they left. And I assure you, Edwina did not give those kisses begrudgingly.”
“Stop.” Cristiana refused to think on that night anymore. She certainly did not want to consider the reckless, headstrong heart her sister had left with, only to return home with bruises and a soreness in her spirit that had never fully recovered. Her anger at Donegal had left Edwina unable to bond with his child, robbing her of the joy she should have felt in motherhood.
Edwina had begged Cristiana to raise her child. The choice had broken her sister’s heart, but at least the decision had been a selfless one. Edwina had recognized that her exile from home and her broken spirit would not help her nurture the child. She had wanted Leah to have every advantage—a secure home, safety from her brutish father and a mother whose heart had not been frozen by violence.
