LORD OF DUNKEATHE

by Margaret Moore

  He slowly raised one dark brow.

  Did he think he was going to make her look away with that unspoken interrogation? Did he think she would give him the victory in this strange little game? Never!

  She leisurely arched her own brow.

  His other dark brow rose.

  Once more, she mirrored his action.

  He slowly started to smile.

  So did she.

  Still keeping his gaze upon her, the man lowered his arms. Then he pushed himself off the wall and sauntered toward her.

  CHAPTER TWO

  HE WAS COMING TOWARD HER? By the saints, what was he going to say, or do? Maybe he was going to suggest... improprieties.

  Riona's breathing quickened as she told herself she'd ensure he understood that she was a lady of virtue and honour . She wasn't a servant to whom he could make insolent suggestions.

  And she shouldn't be blushing like an addle patted girl as he continued to stroll toward her with that leisurely yet purposeful stride.

  If she quit staring at him, perhaps he'd be satisfied and leave her alone.

  "You there!" a woman called out imperiously.

  The soldier halted and they both turned toward the wagon from whence the voice came.

  It sported a painted canvas covering that had an opening at the back like the flaps of a tent, now held apart by an apple-cheeked, middle-aged maidservant, her hair covered by a white scarf, her dress one of dark brown wool. Seated beside the maidservant was a pale young woman with blond hair wearing a gossamer veil of white silk kept in place by a thin gold coronet. Her neck was long and slender, and the square bodice of her dark green silk gown was embroidered with golden thread. As for her features, she would have been very beautiful, had her ruby-red lips not been drawn up into a disdainful sneer.

  "Yes, you," she said in a haughty drawl as she addressed the solider. "Come here."

  He did as he was ordered.

  The rich beauty raised a bejewelled hand. "Unload that," she commanded, gesturing at a nearby wagon containing several wooden chests and boxes. "Ask my father, Lord Chesleigh, where they should go. And see that you don't break anything, or I'll have you whipped."

  "As you wish, my lady," the soldier replied, his voice low and deep and as powerful as the rest of him.

  By his accent, he was not, and never had been, a peasant.

  Perhaps he was in charge of the garrison here, although why he'd stoop to such manual labour was a mystery.

  Riona continued to watch as he undid the rope across the back of the wagon that prevented the boxes and chests from falling out. One by one, he lifted the pieces of baggage and set them neatly on the cobblestones, his muscles bulging and his jerkin stretching

  across his broad back. Even when he was nearly finished, he'd barely broken a sweat.

  The older nobleman Uncle Fergus had suggested might be Sir Nicholas joined the young lady at the wagon.

  "Be careful with those," he unnecessarily ordered the soldier before he addressed the lady. "I must say I'm most disappointed with our host. He should be here to greet us."

  "It's just as well he's not, Father," she replied. "I'd like to change my gown before I meet him."

  "We've only been allotted two small chambers," the nobleman grumbled.

  "I'm sure that once you explain what we require, he'll gladly provide it. You are Lord Chesleigh, after all."

  With that, the young woman put out her slender hand for him to help her, the golden rings on her fingers flashing in the sunlight. Rising with regal dignity, half crouching because of the canvas covering, she had to bend over before setting foot on the stool another servant hastened to set in place.

  To give the beauty her due, she managed to invest even that activity with grace and dignity. As she straightened, her gown fell into smooth, fluid folds below her slender waist and the golden embroidery of her gown twinkled in the sunlight, while the gilded girdle about her slender hips shone. With her other hand, she held

  up her dress, exposing one delicate leather slipper before she stepped onto the ground.

  It seemed almost a wonder she would deign to walk on anything so ordinary as cobblestones.

  Lord Chesleigh glanced at the soldier. "Ask Martleby where the baggage of Lord Chesleigh and his daughter should go, and see that it's taken there."

  "Yes, my lord."

  Lord Chesleigh ran an imperious gaze over the man. "And be quick about it."

  The Norman lord then swept past the soldier as if getting within three feet of him might stain his garments. His daughter followed at a more graceful pace.

  Instead of tending to their baggage, however, or calling for assistance, the soldier turned and started toward Riona.

  She tried not to squirm or give any sign of dismay, even if she was dismayed. And excited. Which she shouldn't be. She should try to be dignified when she explained that she wasn't a servant or merchant come to trade.

  He stopped about a foot from her wagon and regarded her steadily with dark, inscrutable eyes whose gaze never wavered.

  Again, she felt entrapped by it, and him. Although the sensation should have been unpleasant, it wasn't. It was...thrilling.

  "Would you like me to help you with your baggage, too?" he asked in that deep, slightly husky voice that seemed to offer its own temptations, and convey more than a simple question.

  What, in the name of the saints and Scotland, had come over her?

  Before she could give an answer—any answer—a movement on the wall walk above made them both glance up at the guard there. With a look akin to panic directed toward the man on the ground, the guard immediately snapped to attention, and Riona realized this fellow facing her was most definitely not a common foot soldier.

  A relatively young and handsome man who looked like he'd been trained in arms and combat, and one of whom all the hirelings seemed afraid....

  Of course.

  "No, thank you, Sir Nicholas," she replied, giving him no sign that she was puzzled and curious. "I'm sure you've got plenty of other things to do."

  His brows lowered. "As a matter of fact, I do."

  "Then please, don't linger here chatting with me. My uncle and I can manage our baggage quite well."

  The man she was now quite sure was Sir Nicholas of Dunkeathe bowed stiffly, then turned on his heel and strode away, leaving Riona to ponder why a Norman nobleman would pretend he was not.

  A SHORT TIME LATER, the lord of Dunkeathe stood looking out the narrow arched window of his solar surveying the yard below, which was now almost clear of wagons, horses and guests.

  The room was as austere as the man himself. No tapestries graced the smooth stone walls. An unpainted wooden chest with leather hinges and bronze lock that held the dthe rolls and accounts of the estate stood against the wall. The rest of the furnishings were likewise simple and plain, and the floor was bare. On a table near the door stood the only articles of any beauty—a silver carafe and two finely worked silver goblets.

  His hands clasped behind his back, Nicholas watched the young woman who had guessed who he was, or perhaps found out some other way. Since he'd left the courtyard she'd gotten down off the rickety cart, but she hadn't ventured from its side. She must still be waiting for her mistress or master to tell her where to go.

  "Ten ladies, with their noble relatives, twenty-six servants, and one hundred and ten soldiers have arrived," his steward noted

  behind him. "That's two more ladies and their entourages than we'd expected."

  Which one of the nobles did that bright-eyed, brown-haired young woman belong to? Nicholas wondered. She wasn't a servant of the complaining Lord Chesleigh and his beautiful daughter, or they would have chastised her for speaking to an unknown man.

  She'd been amazingly and boldly impertinent to him in a way few women, and no servants, ever were. Indeed, she'd been so bold and intriguing, he'd been very tempted to suggest she join him in his bed. Her bright sparkling eyes seemed to promise passion and desire and excite
ment.

  He wouldn't have, of course. He'd never in his life seduced a servant. And he certainly shouldn't now, when he was supposed to be wooing a wife.

  Robert Martleby delicately cleared his throat, reminding Nicholas that he was still there.

  Nicholas forced his mind to the issue at hand and turned to face his steward. "In spite of the unexpected arrivals, you've seen to it that all the guests and their servants have been accommodated?"

  "Yes, my lord. We've had to pitch tents in the outer ward for several of the soldiers. I had some of ours join them, so there would be no accusations of poor treatment, and to keep an eye on them, as well."

  Nicholas nodded his approval. "You'll have to find larger quarters for Lord Chesleigh and his daughter. He wasn't pleased with those you assigned him. He thought they were too small."

  Robert frowned and studied the list in his hand.

  "Does that present a problem?"

  "Perhaps I can switch his chamber with that of Sir Percival de Surlepont."

  "That would put Sir Percival's chamber next to mine?"

  "Yes, my lord."

  "Very well. See that the change is made—and make it sound as if that was a mistake that had to be corrected, and that this is some sort of honour to Percival instead of an inconvenience, or being done in response to a complaint."

  "Yes, my lord."

  "Who did Percival bring?"

  Robert's gaze returned to the tablet. "His cousin, Lady Eleanor." He raised his eyes to regard Nicholas. "Apparently he is her nearest male relation."

  "What's she like?"

  "Pretty and modest."

  Nicholas recalled the young women in the courtyard, but no one in particular came to mind. The only two women he could remember with any clarity were that bold maidservant and the haughty daughter of Lord Chesleigh. "How old is Lady Eleanor?"

  "Seventeen."

  He didn't want a girl for a wife, but a woman capable of taking responsibility and leadership of the household. He had no desire to have to deal with a shy, fearful bride on his wedding night, either.

  That impertinent, brown-eyed maidservant with the thick braids down her back, and the little wisps of hair that escaped to dance upon her intelligent brow, wouldn't be shy. His blood warmed as he imagined how she might react if he took her in his arms and captured her mouth with his.

  "Sir Percival assured me her dowry would be substantial, my lord."

  Once again Nicholas commanded himself to stop thinking about that servant. "I've heard the family is quite rich."

  "Yes, my lord, they are, and a sizeable dowry will go a long way toward solving any difficulties..." Robert flushed and let the words trail off when he saw Nicholas's disgruntled expression.

  "We've enough ready coin to get us to Lammas and through a wedding, don't we?" Nicholas asked. "The wool must have brought in something."

  "Yes, it did, my lord, but I must point out that the expense of this... this..."

  "I have to entertain my guests in the style they expect," Nicholas replied as Robert floundered for the word to describe his overlord's method of finding a bride. "I won't have them thinking I'm desperate—which I'm not." Not yet, anyway. "It's your responsibility to see that no one suspects I'm running short of funds."

  "You're not yet in dire straits, my lord," Robert assured him.

  "Good. By Lammas I should have a bride in hand, or at least a betrothal agreement and promise of a dowry. Who else has come?"

  "Lady Mary, the daughter of the Earl of Eglinburg, Lady Elizabeth, sister of the Duke of Ansley, Lady Catherine, daughter of the Comte D'Ortelieu, Lady Isabelle, ward of Sir James of Keswick, Lady Eloise, daughter of Sir George de Chillery, Lady Lavinia, second cousin to the Due D'Anglevoix, Lady Priscilla, niece of the Abbot of St. Swithins-by-the-Sea who came with her brother Audric, and Lady Joscelind, daughter of Lord Chesleigh of Kent."

  Ah yes, the beautiful—and proud—Lady Joscelind and her equally proud and arrogant father. He wondered what they'd do when they discovered they'd been ordering their host about as if he were their lackey. That should prove interesting—although, given their natures, they might take offence that he hadn't identified himself. He'd have to ensure that he gave them a believable explanation.

  Nicholas strolled back to the window and saw that the maidservant was still standing by the cart. She shifted her feet, as if her patience was wearing thin. "That's only nine," he noted, glancing over his shoulder. "Who's the tenth?"

  "Nobody of any consequence, my lord. In fact, I probably should have denied them admittance to the courtyard, but the fellow did have a charter and you had said that all women of noble birth were to be considered. His niece meets that qualification."

  Nicholas raised an inquisitive brow, just as he had in the courtyard. That serving wench had then done the same, surprising and secretly amusing him more than he'd been amused in...well, a long time. "Who is this nobleman with a charter you don't think should be here?"

  "A Scot, my lord, the Thane of Glencleith. I asked those of our men who are Scots, and it seems he's the holder of a small estate to the north. Politically, he's completely unimportant, and I understand he's quite poor."

  "Only one Scots noble came?"

  "Yes, my lord."

  Only one—and he was a lord in this country. Clearly it didn't matter to the Scots that he'd changed the name of his estate back to the original one, or that his sister had married into one of their clans. He was still, first and foremost, a representative of the Normans and their unwelcome intrusion into Scotland .

  Yet whatever they thought, he'd earned Dunkeathe and recalcitrant Scots or no, he'd keep it. If he had to marry for money and influence to ensure that, he would.

  A fist pounded on the door. Nicholas wheeled around just as the door flew open and a short, brawny, gray-haired, bearded, potbellied Scot wearing one of their skirted garments bustled into the room.

  Before Nicholas could demand an explanation, the intruder came to a halt, put his hands on his hips, and smiled at them both. "Here you are!" he cried in heavily accented French. "Delighted to make your acquaintance, my lord. I thought you'd be in the courtyard greeting your guests, but obviously Normans have a different idea of politeness."

  He looked around the room before his gaze settled again on Nicholas. "Wonderful castle you've got here. This chamber's a bit bare, but when you're married, your wife will change that."

  Nicholas's first thought was that the man was half-mad, while Robert looked like he was going to faint.

  "My lord, I—I—" the steward stammered, clearly aghast and at a loss to explain what was happening.

  The fellow seemed harmless, if audacious. "Welcome to Dunkeathe," Nicholas replied, giving Robert a look to assure him he wasn't angry.

  Robert recovered the powers of speech. "My lord, this is Fergus Mac Gordon Mac Darbudh, the Thane of Glencleith."

  The poor, politically unimportant Scottish noble.

  Whatever Nicholas thought of the man personally, and no matter how poor and seemingly unimportant he might be, Nicholas knew he had to be diplomatic. He'd lived in Scotland for a decade, and he still couldn't fathom the complicated relationships between the clans. It could be that this man had relatives who were far more politically important than he himself.

  Therefore, he put a smile on his face and calmly inquired, "Is there something I can do for you, my lord?"

  "It's not what you can do for me," the boisterous Scot replied. "It's what I can do for you. I've brought you the perfect bride." He smiled with immense, and quite sincere, satisfaction. "My niece, Riona. She's a very fine girl, my lord—no man could do better when it comes to marriage. She's a sweet lass, and she's been the joy of my life since she came to me when she was two years old and her sainted parents died.

  "She's run my household since she was twelve, too," he continued before Nicholas or Robert could get a word in. "The servants follow her orders without question and while she keeps them in good order, they love her. I
'll wager there aren't many Norman ladies so beloved by their servants as my Riona is.

  "And she's clever, too. She keeps all the accounts and knows where every penny's spent. She's saved me many a penny, too, I can tell you—although that won't mean much to you, for there's plenty in your purse, I know. But still, no man wants a wasteful wife. Granted she's not got a large dowry, but what's that to a man of your wealth, eh? What are a few more coins in the purse if your wife's making your life a misery? Riona could never do that. She'll be a bride any man could be proud of and I wouldn't offer her up to just any man, either."

  With that, he folded his arms over his chest and beamed as if he'd just saved Nicholas from a fate worse than death.

  Unfortunately for Fergus Mac Gordon, his niece could be the most wonderful of women, but if she was poor, she had no chance of becoming Nicholas's bride. The personal attributes of his wife were considerably less important to him than the dowry she would bring.

  Nevertheless, the man was probably as proud as all the Scots were, and he'd likely be insulted if Nicholas refused to consider his niece from the start, so he had best not be too quick to dismiss her.

  "I thank you for bringing your niece to Dunkeathe," he said politely, "and I'm sure she's a very fine young woman. I assure you, I'll take all the qualities of every lady into account before I make my choice. Now if you'll excuse me, my steward and I have other matters to discuss."

  "Of course you do!" the Scot cried. To Nicholas's relief, he didn't seem a whit dismayed by this polite dismissal as he backed toward the door. "You're a very busy fellow, I'm sure, with this great pile of a castle to tend to. So many soldiers, too—an army you've got, although who'd dare to attack you here? The man would have to be mad."

  Then, just as abruptly as he'd entered, he was gone.

  It was like the calm after a maelstrom. Or before a storm.

  "My lord, I do beg your pardon," Robert said, clearly horrified by what had just happened. "I had no idea he'd do that, none whatsoever!"

  At the sight of Robert's red, indignant face Nicholas had to turn away and look out the window again, for he felt the most unusual urge to laugh.