In the Laird's Bed

by Joanne Rock

  “Sir?” a maid approached him while he pounded at the polished oak door.

  “Aye?” He did not even let up for a moment.

  “Shall I retrieve the laird or Lady Cristiana?” the young woman raised her voice to be heard over the creak and groan of the wood that protested his efforts.

  But just then, there was a metallic “clink” and the sound of wood and metal scraping together on the other side of the door.

  Both Duncan and the maid paused to stare until the door creaked open.

  Lady Cristiana herself stood within. He could not see much of her through the narrow opening. A hint of deep saffron surcoat and creamy kirtle. Pale cheeks and stormy gray eyes rimmed with red.

  Perhaps sensing the high tension that crackled to life, the maid dipped a curtsy and disappeared into a nearby chamber.

  If Duncan had imagined any tender words or a conciliatory approach for this moment, the intent fled at the sight of her. She’d hidden from him purposely. And, for the love of heaven, was she in another man’s quarters?

  An empty pallet lay in one corner, the rushes disturbed enough to make him think someone had slept there recently.

  “What are you doing?” He stalked inside, his hands twitching with the need to clamp around another man’s neck.

  His gaze swept the chamber, but he found it empty save her.

  They were very much alone.

  “I am thinking about the grave error I made in opening my gates to you on the basis of Christian charity.” Her cold words were underscored by her stiff carriage. Tension threaded through her voice, hinting at a wealth of emotion beneath the hauteur.

  Only, the scent of her remained as inviting as always.

  Just now, he found it difficult to believe he could melt that icy exterior.

  “Why choose this chamber for errant thoughts that will not change the past?” He gestured to the vacant pallet. “Is this where you meet your lover? Do you confide your regrets in the father of your child, perhaps?”

  “You are an ill-mannered lout to suggest it, but I am not surprised your thoughts are so base.” She lifted the hem of her surcoat and swept around to one arrow slit that overlooked the courtyard. The opening had been covered with some kind of thin skin that muted the view but allowed light to show through.

  Weak winter sun touched her hair, bathing her out line in warm color. Seeing her thus reminded him of fanciful thoughts he’d once had about her. There had been a time when he seemed to light up inside just looking upon her. Not just because of her beauty but because of her nurturing spirit. The ease with which she looked after her clan.

  Though she’d been the younger sister, she’d always seemed so responsible. Practical.

  How foolish he’d been.

  “Then why are you here? I have scoured the keep and seen no sign of you for hours. It will be easy enough to discover who last occupied this chamber. The maids will not be so loyal to you when you are no longer their mistress. They will answer me when I ask.”

  Jealousy made him crueler than necessary, he knew. But her secretive nature ever since he’d returned to Domhnaill spurred his suspicions.

  “There is no need to ask the maids my business. I can tell you that I sought Lord Cullen of Blackstone this afternoon to accept a proposal of marriage he once suggested to my father.”

  If he’d been an impassive bystander, he might have admired her shrewd political acumen in such a move that could easily unseat Duncan and his claim to the keep. He needed Domhnaill to secure Culcanon and settle the rift with Donegal.

  But he’d never been impassive when it came to this woman.

  “Your father will not permit such a match.” Duncan closed the distance between them, tempted to seize her by the shoulders and shake sense back into her. “And if he does agree to it, it will be easy enough for me to prove to the king that he is no longer sound in his thinking.”

  His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, powerless in anger toward a woman.

  “You would not.”

  “Do not tempt me.”

  She remained silent for a long moment, fury simmering in her gray eyes.

  “Well?” he prodded, his anger restless and in need of a target. He did not care if it was Blackstone, the laird of Domhnaill or the king himself. “What was Blackstone’s response? Did you at least warn the man whose wrath he would incur if he accepted you?”

  “Apparently a matter of some urgency called him home unexpectedly. I was not able to speak with him.”

  Relief flooded through him. The crushing weight that had been on his chest dissipated into nothing. He wanted to laugh with the unexpected good news, but the dark cloud of her expression made him reconsider.

  But, saints be praised, he’d won a reprieve.

  “Do not look so disappointed, lass.” He tipped up her chin, unwilling to think she found him so abhorrent that wedding a man more than twice her age would be preferable. “Whether you know it or not, Cullen’s absence has saved innocent lives. I will not have to fight him for you now.”

  “My hand is still mine to give,” she protested, turning away.

  He missed the feel of her skin against his fingers. That brief contact had calmed him and stirred him at the same time.

  “As a noblewoman?” He shook his head. “I think not. If your father does not will a marriage with Blackstone, what choices do you have? It is one thing to refuse marriage altogether, but no woman of your standing is allowed to choose her own mate. There is too much at stake.”

  “And you think I do not appreciate that? I, who have worked to develop a thriving trade here out of nothing? I, who have added to Domhnaill’s coffers far more than I have taken? Yet now, I must step aside and watch my hard work go to ruin in the hands of a warrior who lives by the sword and not by the land?”

  She stalked about the dim chamber, as restless in her outrage as he’d been with his own. He had not expected her to protest his rule on these grounds. Nor had he realized how much she’d grown to enjoy her mead-making.

  Enjoy her. His onetime enemy.

  He had to keep her here. After the way he’d tricked her, he could not allow her to lose her position. Not after all the time he’d spent with her. He’d seen what an effective lady she made to her people.

  “What makes you think Blackstone would have been any different? He is a warrior, too, although an older one. But I told you once before that you would have a place here if I took over as laird.”

  “As the mistress of mead, not as a wife with any power.” She shook her head impatiently. “Do you think I can go from being lady here to servant, no matter how lucrative?”

  She vastly exaggerated the change in position, but he understood her point. Following her back to the window casement, where she stared moodily out the filmy covering, he placed his hands on her shoulders and spun her to face him.

  He could only see one option. He did not know if that’s because he wanted her or because he’d entered her keep by treachery that first time. Either way, he needed to end all talk of Blackstone.

  “Then do not be a servant under the new rule. Speak the vows to me you should have said years ago and be my wife.”

  Chapter Seven

  C ristiana did not know what made her heart thump so fiercely.

  Was it the fear of a proposal that could cost her a future with Leah? Tender surprise at Duncan’s willingness to wed her even though he thought her innocence had been stolen by another man?

  Or was it simply the feel of his strong, warm hands upon her person, exciting her the way his touch always had? Either way, her racing heart confused her. She felt unsteady and unsure of herself in the wake of an emotional day.

  “What purpose will such an arrangement serve for you?” she found herself asking, though she should have simply denied the request.

  “You are well-loved by your people. Wedding you will help them accept me.”

  It was true. Yet believing him meant she had to recognize he cared about such
things. That a well-meaning heart lurked beneath his arrogance and maneuvering.

  “The people would grow to respect you either way.” Her eyes sought his, the green darker than her daughter’s but sharing a distinct pattern of yellow flecks throughout.

  She noticed he had not removed his hands from shoulders, the fingers beginning a subtle stroke inward toward her neck.

  “Aye. But I have need of a wife and I found you admirably suited the first time I looked into the matter.” A light, teasing tone crept into his words, tempting her to relax into the moment. “Besides, I have great need of fat coffers. Apparently you can deliver them to me through this mead-making prowess of yours.”

  Of course she could not marry him. But that gentle tone of his—as if they shared secrets and confidences—tried telling her differently.

  “Much has changed in five years,” she reminded him, hoping she could dissuade him from his course. She feared the wandering direction of his hands even more than the conspiratorial whispers. “I am not so well suited anymore.”

  If that did not deter him from this union, she was lost. Her father and Keane already demanded it. If Duncan wished it in spite of her supposed lack of innocence, she would be wed to him whether she willed it or nay.

  “We have all changed.” His thumbs strayed over her collarbone to the neck of her linen kirtle. “You have turned into a woman of great talent and ambition. You’ve used it to further your family’s fame and wealth. I admire that, since my half brother increased our rents in my absence and used all the gain to indulge his temper with ill-chosen border wars.”

  She stilled, captive to his touch and surprised at the sudden dark undertone to his words. Had she misjudged his relationship with Donegal? Could Duncan have seen the ugly side of his half brother’s character even though he had often defended him publicly?

  “I think it is right to put family before all else,” she admitted, breathing in the clean scent of his skin underneath the hint of hickory smoke that clung to his garb from some hearth fire.

  She really needed to extricate herself from the vacant chamber where they were far too alone. But just now, she couldn’t even seem to untwine herself from his sweetly seductive hands as he squeezed her closer.

  “You see? We are one in this thinking. We are both ready to protect and defend those closest to us.” His gaze drew her in until she got lost in it. Spellbound by the connection, she did not sense the impending kiss until his lips brushed her cheek.

  Her temple.

  Swaying on her feet, she blinked and tried to reorient herself. Blindly, she gripped his tunic, steadying herself.

  Perhaps he would understand her need to protect Leah, no matter what. Perhaps he would fall in love with the little girl as much as she had. But she could not count on it. She must demand it ere she went any further.

  “Wait.” She edged back, knowing she could not go forward unless she ensured Leah’s safety. “I cannot— I will not—allow this unless you can assure me you will protect Leah.”

  He frowned. Shook his head.

  “Of course.” He leaned in to kiss her, his breath warm upon her neck. “Whatever you wish.”

  “Nay.” She held him off, trembling within. “It is not enough. You must…” she said as she licked her lips. “You must swear it to me.”

  He straightened fully, though he did not release her. Confusion and a fair amount of righteous indignation passed through his gaze.

  “She is at risk somehow?” He studied her more carefully. “You have reason to believe she is in danger.”

  “Nay. But as long as her father draws breath, I will worry that he might come back for her. This, I will not tolerate.”

  Perhaps it was the mention of the child’s father. But something in her words caused a tightening of his jaw. An angry flare of the nostrils. But this time he did not hesitate to give her what she wished.

  “By all I hold holy, I swear to you, I will keep Leah with my own life.”

  Transfixed by the fierceness of the oath, she was silent a long moment.

  “You would prefer I draw blood to seal the matter?” he asked, without a trace of hesitation.

  “Nay.” She nodded jerkily, overwhelmed at the security she had just claimed for her child. Without question, she had obtained a stalwart protector for Leah. She just prayed Duncan would not come to despise her for all the secrets she kept. “The oath—your words—they are sufficient.”

  “Then come to me,” he whispered, pulling her closer. “My service comes with a price and I plan to collect it tonight.”

  His lips brushed her cheek. The tenderness of that touch, combined with a binding vow that she had not expected, softened her last shred of resistance. Maybe the time had come to seize the moment of happiness that had been teasing her senses every time she’d ever been in Duncan’s presence.

  “I have lingered with you too long.” The soft words were not a chastisement so much as an admission of fact. She couldn’t have walked out now if she’d tried.

  He squeezed her to him, his hands skimming up her spine. Her breasts molded to his chest, her legs brushed his thighs.

  “Nay. You have not lingered nearly long enough.” His errant hand that had toyed with her neckline earlier now thrust deeply beneath the fabric, trailing along the swell of her breast. Heat bubbled along her skin. Like a cauldron nearing the boiling point, the warmth concentrated on the outside first, but she knew it was only a matter of time before that fire reached the inside.

  Still, with her last grip on rational thought, she arched up on her toes to better gaze into his eyes.

  “You’ve not won fairly,” she accused.

  “Since we are hardly fighting, I will consider it a victory for us both.”

  His mouth covered hers, quieting all worries and any extraneous thought. There was only this moment. Him.

  Her whole body turned liquid and boneless at the stroke of his tongue. Lights danced behind her closed eyes as he surrounded her. Absorbed her into him. She wrapped her arms about his neck, needing to get closer to the source of all that vibrant feeling animating her limbs. Her belly. Her most secret places.

  She recalled this sinful feeling from other kisses. Other times she’d been alone with him. But the intoxication in her blood was stronger now than ever, perhaps because she knew she would see it through this time. This kiss would not end until she had explored that feeling and savored it for herself. She knew Duncan could provide it in full measure—a night of heaven on earth.

  With tingling fingers, she splayed her hands along his broad shoulders, spanning thick muscle and flesh-warmed linen. If her blind groping was too brazen, she did not care. Men knew the source of all this hot frenzy, but she did not. Fumbling with the ties of his tunic, she freed the laces until the shirt loosened enough to make way for her touch.

  “I have dreamed of you,” he confessed, breaking off the kiss long enough to tug the tunic up and off. “Dreamed of this.”

  Taking his hand, she led him toward the pallet and the room’s only source of light—the narrow window casement with the tapestry pulled to one side.

  “It is not enough to see each other in dreams. I want to remember exactly how you look.” She eyed him hungrily, taking in the bands of muscle that started beneath his ribs and disappeared into his braies.

  “Wait here,” he warned her, stepping away from her when she’d been ready to leap back into his arms. “I would like to see you better, as well.”

  Confused, she watched him hasten from the room, bare chested and magnificent. He returned in a trice with a torch in hand. Shoving the door closed behind him, he lowered the bar to seal them in privacy and then approached the hearth. He tossed the torch into the grate atop a small pile of wood, casting the small chamber in a golden glow. Cristiana watched the way the fire bathed his body in burnished bronze, admiring the sleek perfection of his honed strength.

  He studied her, too. His dark green gaze caressed her, lingering on her bare shoulder, where
her kirtle had slipped down. Self-consciously, her hand went there, brushing her bare skin with her fingers as if he’d bid her to do so. As if she could not wait another moment to feel a true caress.

  “Duncan.” She called to him, his name a hoarse plea when her body already trembled for him.

  “Take it off,” he bid her, his own voice gruff with hunger. “I will fix the pallet so it is fit to lay you there. But I would like to see—”

  Fingers flying over the laces, she unfastened the surcoat and let it slide to the floor.

  He’d been freeing a tapestry from the wall—presumably to lay upon the pallet. He tore it down with gratifying speed at the sight of her in the thin lawn kirtle.

  She guessed the hearth fire illuminated her body from behind. The flames felt good against her back when she’d started undressing. She did not need to look down to know her breasts fit snug inside the garment. The soft fabric—normally so comfortable—chafed her overly sensitive skin. She wanted his hands upon her and nothing more.

  “You are—” he seemed to search for words, his eyes never leaving her body as he tossed the tapestry unceremoniously upon the straw-filled mattress “—a feast for the eyes.”

  She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, eager for his touch.

  “Then I hope you’ve brought an appetite,” she teased, lifting her hands to her hair to untwine the plaits. “It will be my pleasure to serve you.”

  She was on her back in a flash.

  A primal thrill shot through her at the sweet feminine joy of being overpowered. The weight of him squeezed and tantalized her even as he propped himself on an elbow to bear some of the burden. She had not guessed she could have such a strong effect on him, to lure him so thoroughly to bed.

  Her half-undone hair fell about her shoulders, a silken coverlet between her and the tapestry beneath her. He buried his nose in the untwining curls, breathing in her scent.

  “You smell like honey. I cannot drink mead without thinking of you.” He gripped the hem of her kirtle where it drifted about her thighs and skimmed it up her legs.