LORD OF DUNKEATHE

by Margaret Moore

  "Harsh truth, my lord," she said, "but one I think you'd find hard to deny."

  "If Polly is willing to part with her virtue, why should I guard it for her?"

  If he wanted a self-serving reason, she'd give him one. "Because, my lord, such a woman can also cause great dissension in a household. She will have those who envy her and despise her, and some who'll try to follow her example. You may find yourself with a few noblemen's bastards on your hands."

  "You seem to care a great deal about people you barely know."

  "At home, it's my business to be aware of what's happening with the servants. Perhaps I shouldn't have interfered or listened to her troubles, but it's a difficult habit to break."

  He moved toward the table. She backed away, until she realized what she was doing and how that might look to him.

  He, too, came to a halt, lightly resting his hand on the back of the chair. She tried not to stare at his strong fingers, the knuckles, the sun-browned skin....

  "I shall take what you've said into consideration," he said. "It seems my method of choosing a wife is yielding some unexpected benefits."

  She tore her gaze from his powerful hand and regarded him steadily. "That may be, but I still don't approve of your means of finding a bride, my lord."

  "Neither does my brother," he admitted, his revelation surprising her. "Unfortunately, I don't have the time to search the country for a suitable wife. It was easier to invite those who wanted to be considered to Dunkeathe."

  "Like sending sheep to market," she charged, struggling to ignore the desire awakening within her.

  His brows rose. "If these women are treated like so much livestock, that is the way of the world, my lady. I can't be held responsible for that. And if I hadn't let it be known I sought a wife, your uncle wouldn't have come to Dunkeathe. He's proving to be a very interesting man with very interesting ideas."

  She didn't care to discuss her uncle with Sir Nicholas of Dunkeathe, so she started for the door.

  "Is he really that knowledgeable about sheep?"

  Annoyed by Sir Nicholas's sceptical tone, she turned back. "Aye, he is."

  "Then why are you so poor?"

  She straightened her shoulders and prepared to defend her beloved uncle. "Because of his kindness. He never refuses to aid those who need help, or feed those who are hungry."

  "So you're proud of him, despite his faults?"

  "I love him, despite his faults—and because of them. We are none of us perfect."

  Sir Nicholas's answer was so softly, gruffly spoken, she had to strain to hear it. "No, we are not. I am not." He started toward her.

  Suddenly, all her brave defiance seemed to have deserted her. She swallowed hard and sidled backward. "I'm surprised to hear you admit it," she said, fighting to keep her voice steady.

  "I know my faults, but I also know my strengths. Yet it seems you, my lady, are capable of arousing such desire in me, I become as weak as a lad."

  He halted in front of her and a troubled look darkened his face. "God help me, how I wish you did not!" he whispered hoarsely as he pulled her close and his lips took hers with sure and certain purpose. His arms encircled her and held her tight against him.

  Need, yearning, lust leaped into burning, vibrant life within her.

  She couldn't help herself. She didn't want to help herself as she leaned into him with her warm, yielding body.

  Yet even as she returned his kiss with ardent passion, she knew this was wrong. They should not be here, together, alone and kissing. She should stop him. Make him let her go. Walk out of this chamber and never, ever come near him again.

  But the desire kindling within her swiftly overwhelmed the voice of her reason. Her objections fell away, destroyed by the sensation of his mouth against hers, and that of his body, virile and powerful, hard against her own.

  He tasted of fine wine, intoxicating and full-bodied. Rich and warm, like grapes in the sun.

  And like the sun, she was hot. No breeze could chill the welcome warmth engendered by his touch as his hands slid up her back, clasping her even more tightly to him. No blast of winter could cool her ardour as she leaned into him, her breasts crushed against his chest.

  Her hands glided around his waist, over his rough leather belt. How good this felt, how right. How perfect. More thrilling than anything in her life. When his tongue pushed against her lips, she didn't hesitate to part them, and welcome him inside.

  His hand moved slowly down her back to cup her buttocks and press her against the evidence of his arousal. Her legs slightly parted to steady herself, she moaned softly, aware of his need, and

  her own. The moistness between her legs, the gentle throbbing that had an urgency she had never felt before.

  She held him closer still, and her kisses became more urgent. More fervent. More demanding. This was what she'd longed to feel, on those long, lonely nights at home. How she'd dreamed of being held and kissed and touched, by a man who passionately desired her.

  She'd feared this was impossible, forever denied, because she was not pretty and no longer young, and no man she could love had ever wanted to marry her.

  This man didn't want to marry her. He might lust after her, but he would never marry her. There was nothing good or lasting or pure between them, but only unbridled, uncontrolled desire.

  She broke away from him. "Stop!"

  For a brief instant, she saw his shock. And then it was as if shutters had closed over his face, rendering it a wooden mask no more revealing than a plank. "If you wish, my lady."

  "I do wish it!"

  "And so I have stopped," he said, his tone reasonable, as he spread his arms wide.

  "I have no desire to be the object of your lust. I refuse to be just a body in your bed, a means to sate and satisfy your lust while you

  woo another for your wife," she declared as she marched to the door.

  She looked back at Nicholas of Dunkeathe over her shoulder. "Have no fear, my lord, that I will speak of what's happened between us," she said, while he stood as stillas a marble statue, "I won't, because it's to my shame, as it should be to yours."

  With that, she threw open the door and strode out of the room. They couldn't stay here another hour, not after what Sir Nicholas had done.

  And what she'd done, too, the small voice of her conscience prompted.

  She ignored it, just as she ignored Lady Joscelind and the other ladies by the hearth who stopped talking to stare at her as she stalked past, determined to find Uncle Fergus and leave this place without delay.

  Some of the ladies were sewing, while Lady Joscelind idly strummed a harp. Lady Catherine and Lady Elizabeth weren't there, of course. They'd already had the great good sense to go. As for the rest, let Sir Nicholas have one of them and be damned.

  Then she spotted Eleanor, seated at the edge of the group, looking at her in amazement. She couldn't stop to explain—not yet —and she was sorry they would have to say goodbye to her. She'd miss Eleanor and she was certain Uncle Fergus would regret bidding farewell to Fredella, yet they simply couldn't stay.

  She reached the courtyard and there was still no sign of Uncle Fergus. Perhaps he'd gone to the village, or out to the farms, looking for more marvellous sheep.

  She continued to the gate and spoke to the two Saxons on guard, the same ones who'd been so insolent that first day.

  The stocky one ran his gauntleted hand nervously up and down the shaft of his spear, and his cheeks coloured. "My lady, thank you for not saying nothing to Sir Nicholas about.. .about what happened there at the gate Midsummer's Day. We're right grateful."

  The other one eagerly added, "If we'd a-known who you was

  She was in no humor to forgive insolent Saxons, any more than she was willing to consider their overlord an honourable knight. "I haven't told Sir Nicholas yet."

  The big one's eyes widened in his plump face, while the thin one blanched.

  "I—it was a mistake and we won't make it again," the first guard
stammered.

  "So perhaps next time you'll think twice before treating visitors to Dunkeathe in that impudent manner. If I hear of such behaviour again, I will most certainly inform Sir Nicholas."

  She wouldn't, of course, because she wouldn't be here. Later, when she was gone, they'd probably curse her for scaring them, but she didn't care. "Have you seen my uncle?"

  "Yes, my lady. He went to the village."

  She nodded her thanks, then hurried through the inner ward, past the tents and small groups of men huddled together playing drafts and gambling. Others were polishing armour or mail. A few were singing, a rollicking song about a bed and several wenches.

  They clearly had as little respect for women as Sir Nicholas, and were likely just as full of base animal desire.

  She kept walking until she got to the market square. She scanned the people milling about and looking at the items for sale.

  She couldn't see Uncle Fergus anywhere. She walked a little way through the market, avoiding going near the archer who was still in the stocks. She passed the tavern—full of happy revellers, it seemed—as well as the chandler's stall, the baker's, the wool merchant's and several other stalls, all before she decided it would be better for her to await Uncle Fergus back at the castle. As she waited, she could pack their things ready to leave at dawn tomorrow.

  As she returned the way she'd come, she glanced down the alley between the butcher and the baker. Two people were standing close together, whispering and gendy kissing like two young lovers.

  It was her uncle and Fredella.

  Feeling as if she'd been caught eavesdropping, Riona stumbled back and immediately hurried away.

  Losh, she knew Uncle Fergus liked Fredella, and while she'd discussed their marriage that very morning with Eleanor, seeing them together forced her to realize just how much Uncle Fergus cared for Fredella. He might very well want to stay until they were wed.

  Perhaps Uncle Fergus could stay while she returned to Glencleith. The sheep could be his excuse. Yes, surely, somehow, Uncle Fergus could remain and she could think of an excuse for leaving on her own. Something about the household, maybe. Something she'd forgotten to tell Kenneth...

  The tavern door opened, nearly hitting her. As she came to a gasping halt, Sir Percival came staggering into her path.

  Grinning like a death's head, the drunken nobleman straightened. Given his dishevelled hair and clothing, she suspected he'd been doing more than drinking.

  Before she could go on her way, he stepped in front of her and blocked her path. "Well, well, well, what have we here?"

  She went to go around him. "Pardon me, my lord, but I have things to do."

  He grabbed her arm to halt her. "Important things, are they?"

  "Yes. Now you'd better let me go or—"

  "Or what?" he said with a leering smile as he pulled her closer. "You'll scream?"

  Did this skinny, overdressed dandy think he could intimidate her? What a fool! "Or you'll regret it."

  "You're fortunate I find women who present a challenge so exciting, else I could get angry. I've heard the Scots are a proud and feisty people. I admire spirit," he said as he started to pull her into a narrow alley that reeked of piss and dung between the tavern and the chandler's stall next to it.

  "We're a good deal more than that," she said, making no effort to halt their progress. Although he had a sword and probably a dagger, she wasn't the least bit afraid. She'd been taught to defend herself and was quite ready to do so, and he was so drunk, he could hardly stand.

  "You're damned fetching, too," he said, pushing her back against the wall.

  His stinking breath hot on her face, he leaned forward to kiss her.

  "And we're not afraid to hurt blackguards like you," she retorted as she grabbed his shoulders and swiftly raised her knee, hitting him hard.

  He groaned and, clutching at his crotch, staggered backward. "I'm going to tell Sir Nicholas about you, you...!"

  "Please do," she replied, keeping her eyes on him as she backed toward the entrance to the alley. "Tell him all about it. How you were drinking and wenching in the village after the hunt and then lustfully pulled me into an alley and tried to kiss me.

  "Or are you going to say I set upon you with no provocation?" she inquired as Percival's face reddened. "That I just went wild and attacked you for no reason? I'd take care what you say to Sir Nicholas about me, for if you imply that I behaved wantonly, I'll tell him exactly what happened. Who do you think he'll believe?"

  "He doesn't like the Scots any more than I do, you stupid whore!" Percival cried, lunging for her.

  She was sober and he was drunk, so it was easy to neatly sidestep him. He went sprawling in the mud and whatever else was on the ground.

  "I'm willing to say nothing of this disgusting incident, but if you ever come near me again, I'll go to Sir Nicholas and tell him everything," she said, mindful of Uncle Fergus, and what he might do if he heard of Sir Percival's unwelcome advances.

  Percival was a fool and easily defeated when he was drunk, but he had surely been trained to use his weapons, and in a fight, sober, against her uncle, he might be able to do serious harm.

  "You'd better keep away from the servants, too. Sir Nicholas takes a very dim view of men who try to seduce them."

  As Percival struggled to his feet, she hurried off, back to the castle to pack her things.

  Tomorrow, she would gladly leave this place and not look back.

  KEEPING A WARY EYE on her cousin, Eleanor watched as he staggered about her well-appointed chamber like an enraged and caged beast. In one hand, he held a wineskin that he'd nearly emptied. His wet hair hung limply around his face and she'd heard him drunkenly shouting at one of the servants to take away his clothes and burn them. He had washed after his fall in the village and was once again well-dressed in costly attire. Unfortunately, the wine and his fetid breath overpowered the perfume he'd liberally sprinkled on himself.

  "You'll not speak t' her or that uncle of hers, and neither 'ill Fredella, d'you hear me?" Percival charged, slurring his words and sending spitted flying as he paused to glare at Eleanor. "You stay away from 'em! I only tola.. .tollerrr.. .tolerated 'em 'cause Nicholas seems t' like that oaf."

  He wiped his chin, then took another gulp of wine.

  Eleanor clasped her hands and pleaded, "Surely there's no harm

  "Are you deaf?" Percival shouted, waving the wineskin at her, his face reddening. "I said you can't speak to 'em and you'd better bloody well do as I say!"

  He took another drink from the wineskin, his fifth since coming to her chamber, and he stumbled into her small table, rocking it and sending a clay vessel of soap crashing to the floor. Eleanor stood still, too terrified of her enraged cousin to even try to pick up the pieces.

  "She's prob'ly not even a lady—they prob'ly forged that parchment her uncle showed Sir Nicholas's steward, and that Robert's too stupid to see it."

  He sat heavily on the end of Eleanor's bed, and his head fell forward, his shoulders slumped.

  "But if Sir Nicholas likes them..." Eleanor ventured, daring to hope his tirade was over.

  Percival raised his head and glared at her with his bleary, bloodshot eyes. "I still don' want you talking to those two. You should be talking t' Nicholas and doing everything you can to get him. That's why we came, not so you could be friendly to savages who wear skirts and have ugly nieces."

  "But Percival," Eleanor implored, "I can't force Sir Nicholas to like me. If he doesn't want me, what can I do?"

  Percival rose unsteadily. "You can make him like you."

  "I'm trying but—"

  "The hell y'are!" he retorted, shaking the wineskin at her.

  "Percival, please." She spread her hands in supplication. "I'm doing all I can—"

  "Do more!" her cousin roared before he drained the wineskin and tossed it aside.

  "I don't think I could ever be happy with such a man."

  "Happy?" her cousin screeched.


  With a snarl, he grabbed her by the throat and shoved her backward onto the bed. "Happy?" he shouted. "Did anybody ask me if I'd be happy you were left on my hands?"

  He shoved once more, then pushed himself away. "If you weren't pretty, I'd've packed you off to a convent by now. Maybe I should. Maybe I will."

  Coughing, she stared up at him. His expression was as fiendish as a gargoyle.

  "If you don' do as I say, Eleanor, I'm goin' send you t'a convent—in the most remote place I can find. I'll tell the nuns you're a lewd, wanton wench and ought t' be kept under strict watch. By God, I'll tell them to wall you up in a cell to keep you away from men—don't think I won't!"

  Holding her throat, sure he meant it, sure he could and would do what he said, Eleanor envisioned spending the rest of her life in such imprisonment and started to cry.

  "I'll try to do better," she sobbed, her breath coming in great gasps, unable to look at her cousin's cruel face. "I'll try to talk to him. I'll try to persuade him to marry me. But if I can't.. .if he chooses another..." She slid down onto the floor, kneeling at Percival's feet, her hands clasped as she pleaded. "Please don't send me to such a place, Percival. Please! I'll die!"

  He only scowled at her the more. "Then see that he picks you, you useless cow."

  He staggered out of her chamber, slamming the door behind him and leaving Eleanor weeping on the floor.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  AS THE SERVANTS began to clear away the remains of the evening meal, Lord Chesleigh turned to Nicholas with a smile that reminded Nicholas of a toad.

  He was regretting inviting the remaining nobles to take their turn seated at the high table. Before, he could enjoy his meals in relative peace, perusing the occupants of the hall as he wished. Now, he had the talkative, boastful Lord Chesleigh on his left, and his daughter, who at least wasn't so inclined to talk, to the more honoured right-hand side.

  "After that fine meal, what say you to some dancing, my lord?" Lord Chesleigh suggested.

  Before he replied, Nicholas subdued the urge to survey those in his hall once more to see if Lady Riona had come after all. He could guess why she hadn't, especially since her uncle wasn't there, either. They were probably packing their things, determined to leave in the morning. Later, they'd probably tell every Scot they knew about the lascivious, sinful Sir Nicholas who'd set out to sully a virtuous lass's honour.