LORD OF DUNKEATHE

by Margaret Moore

  Lord Chesleigh shot the man a disgusted look. "It's not the food we're here to discuss," he snapped. "Am I to understand by this, my lord, that you've made your choice for your bride?"

  "Yes, have you picked?" Percival seconded, looking far from pleased.

  "No, I have not," Nicholas replied. "Lady Riona had a confrontation with my cook over his management of the servants, with the result that the cook has left Dunkeathe. I needed someone to take charge of my kitchen, and for now, it's going to be Lady Riona. After that, the other ladies will take their turn."

  Now Audric wasn't the only one who looked puzzled.

  "You see, gentlemen, I require a wife capable of running my household in a calm, efficient manner," Nicholas explained, "and this will allow me to be certain of my bride's qualifications in that respect."

  Lord Chesleigh's eyes lit up, while Percival frowned. D'Anglevoix looked down his aquiline nose as if this was simply

  beneath his second cousin, and Audric appeared very worried indeed.

  "Does anyone have any objections?" Nicholas asked. "If you do and you don't wish your relative to supervise my kitchen, you are, of course, free to take your leave." He smiled with his lips and spread his arms. "But I do hope you can understand. I'm a soldier, with little knowledge of domestic matters. My household, and all the expenses it requires, will be completely in my wife's hands. I wouldn't want to discover I'd married a woman who couldn't handle that responsibility."

  "I assure you, Sir Nicholas," Lord Chesleigh declared, "that Joscelind will prove she's not only beaudful, she's very capable of managing a nobleman's household."

  "Lavinia will prove herself, as well," D'Anglevoix vowed.

  The silent Audric started biting his nails. Nicholas suspected he was envisioning his sister's chance to marry the lord of Dunkeathe disappearing like so much smoke in a brisk breeze.

  "Well, /don't think that's right or just," Percival huffed. "Your wife won't be in the kitchen cooking, will she? You'll be hiring another cook, won't you?"

  "Yes, I will, but as I said, I want to know my bride is capable of ruling my household."

  "If you think your cousin isn't up to it, Percival," Lord Chesleigh said, "perhaps you should cut and run before she embarrasses you with her failure."

  "Eleanor won't fail," Percival replied angrily. Then he marched out of the room.

  Audric bowed and followed him, still without saying a word.

  Lord Chesleigh sighed and shook his head and gave Nicholas a sympathetic smile. "Poor Percival is such a hothead," he said. "And his cousin is even less mature."

  "Lady Eleanor is a pretty girl," D'Anglevoix noted, "yet prettiness can be no match for experience. Lavinia's mother was a most excellent chatelaine, and I'm sure Lavinia will be the same."

  "I look forward to having that opinion borne out," Nicholas said with a polite little bow.

  Lord Chesleigh gave D'Anglevoix a patronizing smile. "Yes, we'll find out how capable she is, won't we?"

  Again, Nicholas had the sensation he was trying to hold off opposing armies—or that such a task would actually be easier. "Now, my lords, if no one has any objections, I have a few other matters of some importance to discuss with my steward."

  "Of course," Lord Chesleigh said, turning to leave.

  D'Anglevoix nodded his farewell, and strolled from the room after Lord Chesleigh.

  Robert slowly let his breath out as he came forward. "That went better than I anticipated," he admitted. "I thought Lord Chesleigh might find the idea of a competition insulting."

  "Not when he's sure Joscelind will win," Nicholas replied.

  "Ah, my lord, here you are!" a voice proclaimed with a familiar Scots lilt. Fergus Mac Gordon came bustling into the solar, a bundle of indigo-blue wool shot through with scarlet in his hands.

  "Is there something I can help you with?" Robert said, moving to intercept the jovial Scotsman.

  "Not unless you're going to plan the wedding," Fergus Mac Gordon replied, laughing.

  He put the bundle down on the table in front of Nicholas, gave it a pat, stepped back, crossed his arms and beamed at the Norman. "There you go. My wedding present to the groom. The finest feileadh and shirt in Glencleith, except my own. Although I must say, my lord, I thought you'd ask my permission first. Just a formality, of course, but I am her uncle."

  The Scot winked as if they were sharing a great joke. "There's no point keeping it a secret."

  Nicholas knew he should tell the man the truth, that Riona would never be his choice, and yet, the words didn't come. "I fear, sir, that if you or anybody else thinks I've made my decision, you're mistaken."

  The little man stopped smiling. His face fell, and Nicholas nearly squirmed beneath his dismayed gaze. "Then you mean to say it's like Riona said? She's only helping for a little while? I thought she was just being modest."

  "All the young ladies are going to be given the same opportunity, as a means for me to determine if they're capable of running my household."

  "Ah!" the Scot cried, his happiness apparently completely restored. He rubbed his hands together like a man about to tuck into a fine meal. "A test, is it? What a clever fellow you are! But you mark my words, my lord, Riona will win. It won't even be close. You'll see. She's got a way with the servants—aye and the purse strings. She doesn't think I know just how clever with the coins she is, but she's kept us in food and drink during some rough winters." He winked at Robert. "Between your clever steward here and your wife, you'll wind up a rich and happy man."

  However appalled Robert was by Mac Gordon's familiar manner, he seemed quite pleased by the compliment.

  Realizing with a twinge of guilt that he'd never praised Robert's efforts, Nicholas leaned forward and pushed the bundle

  toward Mac Gordon. "Regardless of what happens, you should keep this until I announce my choice."

  Holding up his hands as if the cloth had burst into flames, the older man shook his head and, laughing more, backed away. "There's no need. You'll see, my lord. You'll not find a better manager in all of Scotland. Or a more clever, bonnier bride. So you keep the feileadh and shirt for when you need them."

  With another wink, he was gone.

  God save him, the man was like some sort of gnome. A stubborn, amusing, sprightly gnome.

  "Does he really think you'll ever wear a feileadh?" Robert wondered aloud.

  Nicholas could hardly see himself wearing that skirted garment, either. He had gotten used to it on the Scots, but he couldn't envision himself striding around Dunkeathe with bare knees. So he shook his head as he undid the bit of rope holding the bundle together, to reveal a white linen shirt and a long length of very fine, soft wool woven in a square pattern.

  "That's a lot of cloth," Robert observed.

  Nicholas did the bundle up again. "Which I'll never wear," he said as he carried it over to the chest that held all the rolls and records of the estate. He opened the lid and moved around

  parchments, then placed the bundle in the bottom. "There it'll stay until it's time for the man and his niece to leave."

  "Then you really don't consider Lady Riona a possible bride?"

  "No."

  "What are these other matters you wish to discuss, my lord?" Robert inquired as Nicholas lowered the lid.

  "I said that so those men would leave," Nicholas confessed without regret or embarrassment. "I've had just about my fill of Lord Chesleigh in particular."

  Robert smiled. "Yes, I can see that, and I can see why," he said. "I'll go ensure that the chambers for your sister and her family are prepared."

  Nicholas nodded a farewell, and when the steward was gone, he started to pace. Maybe he shouldn't have asked Riona to take over the supervision of his kitchen. He should be trying to ignore her as much as possible. Another fortnight, and he'd make his choice of bride and his financial troubles would be at an end. His hold on his estate would be secure. He would have some influence among the powerful men at court.

  He couldn't r
isk losing that. Not for a woman who would bring nothing to the marriage except herself, no matter how competent she seemed. Or how tempting.

  "WHAT DO YOU MEAN, you don't know anything about supervising kitchen servants?" Percival demanded as he stared at Eleanor with blatant disbelief. "Are you some kind of simpleton?

  Eleanor cringed. "I've never had a chance to learn."

  "Your mother never, ever, taught you how to manage servants?"

  "I was too young to be taught much before she died, and you've never let me—"

  "Damn your parents for making you a millstone around my neck!"

  Eleanor could bear his criticism of her, but when Percival cursed her parents, she glared at him with all the hatred she felt. "I despise you!"

  "I don't care," he retorted. "Except that it should make you that much more anxious to marry Sir Nicholas to get away from me. But now you tell me you're useless as a chatelaine."

  He picked up one of her combs made of ivory, ready to throw it at her, when the sounds of a commotion in the yard stayed his hand. He marched to the window to see what was happening. "That must be Nicholas's sister and the Scot she married."

  He whirled around, a gleam of malicious delight in his eyes. "The man she had to marry because they were found in her bedchamber together, in the middle of the night."

  Eleanor started for the door.

  He intercepted her. "Where do you think you're going? To Sir Nicholas, to tell him what a loathsome beast I am? You could, but I doubt that would inspire him to choose you, or I'd suggest it myself.

  "Here's what we're going to do instead, dear cousin. You're going to seduce him. You're going to find a way to get into his bed and become his lover. Then I'll 'discover' you together and he'll have to marry you."

  "That's despicable!" she cried, trying to get around him.

  "So what, if it works?" Percival demanded as he grabbed her arm and held her. He ran his gaze over her face, and then her body. "You shouldn't have a great deal of trouble seducing him, Eleanor."

  "I won't dishonour myself!"

  "We'll have to be subtle," Percival mused aloud, ignoring her protest, her struggles, her dismay. "Give him longing looks and maybe find a way to brush against him. Seek out chances to be alone with him for a few stolen kisses."

  "I won't!"

  Percival's arm snaked around her and he pulled her against his slender body that smelled of wine and stale perfume. There was a hungry gleam in his eyes that she'd never seen before. "Yes, I think it would be best to go slowly at first. A few kisses of those soft lips of yours first, along with some suitable moans and sighs. Then you can claim to be overwhelmed by desire, and he'll believe it."

  "I'm not going to play the harlot!"

  His embrace tightened still more, so that she could scarcely breathe. "Oh yes, you will," he said, "because I promise you, my sweet cousin, that if I have to send you to that convent, you won't go there a virgin, whether Sir Nicholas has the pleasure, or I do."

  His mouth crushed hers and his hand grabbed her breast. Shocked, horrified, she shoved him away with every bit of strength she had. "Don't touch me!"

  He merely smiled and delicately wiped his lips with the cuff of his tunic. "Either Sir Nicholas or me, my dear," he said as he strolled to the door. "The choice is yours."

  AS THEY WERE returning from the storehouse with a basket of fish for the evening meal, Polly grabbed Riona's forearm and pointed at the man who had just ridden into the courtyard. He was tall, broad- shouldered, wearing a feileadh and shirt and boots, and riding a

  very fine horse. His dark hair hung to his shoulders, with two small braids at the sides.

  "That's him, Adair Mac Taran," Polly said in an enthusiastic whisper, as if she feared he would hear her even though he was several yards away. "Now, did I lie, my lady? Is he not the handsomest man you've ever seen?"

  "Yes, he's very handsome."

  And so he was, in a conventional sort of way. She'd always heard Adair Mac Taran described as a charmer, and she could see that, in the smile he had on his face. Not for him grim inscrutability, that stern determination, that hint of deep loneliness that made a woman want to hold him close and whisper that she would never leave him.

  Riona shook her head as if to rid her mind of that ridiculous thought.

  Meanwhile, a wagon rumbled into the yard behind Adair Mac Taran. Its bed was covered with a canvas and it was driven by a large, robust, brown-haired Scot likewise clad in a feileadh and with a claimh mhor slung across his back. Also seated on the wagon was the most beautiful woman Riona had ever seen, cradling a baby wrapped in a light green blanket. The woman's lovely features would make even Lady Joscelind look plain. She wore a simple, yet well-fitting gown of dark blue wool, with a fine cloak over her and she sat on that wagon seat like a queen upon her throne.

  "Who's the other man?" Riona asked Polly, nodding at the fellow beside Nicholas's sister.

  "That's their clansman, Roban. Their little boy must be in the back of the wagon. He's an imp, that one."

  "I'm surprised that Roban's got his claimh mhor. That's rather a fearsome weapon for a peaceful visit. My uncle left his at home."

  "Sir Nicholas gave him leave," Polly answered, "since he's such a good friend to Adair, and stood by him when his brother turned against him."

  Adair Mac Taran swung down from his horse. Like Sir Nicholas, he had an athletic grace, a way of moving that seemed fluid and easy.

  "Greetings, brother-in-law!" Adair cried when Nicholas came out of the hall, his jovial, bass voice echoing through the yard.

  "Greetings, Adair," Nicholas replied as he reached them. "One of the grooms will show you where to stable your horse, since the usual stall is already occupied."

  Then he smiled up at his sister. It was a small smile, but it softened the harsh angles of his face in a way that made Riona remember that night in the garden. "I trust the road wasn't too rough, Marianne."

  The lady smiled in return. "Your men must have been working very hard indeed, for it's much improved."

  "The road may be some better," Roban said as he climbed down from the wagon, "but I wish I'd had my horse beneath me and not this wooden seat."

  "I'm sorry, Roban, but you would insist on driving the cart," Lady Marianne replied.

  "You couldn't do it with a babe in your arms."

  "Cellach would have been fine in her basket," Lady Marianne replied, and even though it was genially said, Riona heard a hint of her brother's stern resolve in her voice.

  "What if Cellach got to fussing?" Adair asked as he joined his wife. "Could you see Roban carrying her in his arms on his horse?"

  That made the lady laugh. "No, and I'm grateful for your help, Roban. Truly I am."

  Equanimity restored, Roban chortled, his teeth visible through his dark beard.

  "Where's Seamus?" Nicholas asked.

  "He fell asleep," his sister answered, nodding at the back of the wagon.

  "And not a minute too soon," Roban said darkly. "I thought I'd have to tie him down or he'd fall out." He rubbed his throat. "This journey's made me thirsty. I wonder if that Mairi's got more of the uisge beatha she makes so well?"

  "I believe she has, although why you prefer that to wine, I'll never understand," Nicholas answered gravely. In spite of his serious mien, Riona could hear amusement in the lord of Dunkeathe's voice.

  "Well then, if you'11 excuse me," Roban replied, "I'll step over to the village, since I don't think you'll be needing me anymore today."

  "No, go ahead, and have one for me," Adair said.

  As Roban headed for the gates, whistling a rollicking tune, a tousled haired, towheaded little boy about four years old stuck his head out of the canvas covering of the wagon.

  "Uncle Nicholas!" he cried as he climbed over the seat. He stood up and threw out his arms. "Catch me!" he ordered—and then he launched himself at Nicholas.

  With a gasp, Riona started forward, while Nicholas lunged and caught the boy in midair.


  "Seamus, you're getting too big for that," Lady Marianne admonished as Riona halted and backed away, trying not to feel

  like a complete fool. "One of these days you're going to fall or hurt your uncle."

  Man and boy both looked at Lady Marianne, the boy with scepticism and the man as if she'd called both his honour and his masculinity into question.

  "Nevertheless, your mother could be right," Nicholas reluctantly admitted as he looked down at the boy, "if you keep growing the way you are."

  "Oh, I can't hurt you, " the little boy said, not a whit disturbed by his mother's admonidon as he smiled up at his uncle. "You'll always catch me."

  Yes, yes, he would, Riona thought. Nicholas would never fail to protect anything he loved, whether it was this castle, or his nephew, or his sister. Or his wife, whichever woman could win him.

  "He does that every time," Polly noted. "Didn't I say he was an imp? God love him, though, he'll be a brave one, like his father and uncle."

  Adair Mac Taran ruffled the lad's blond hair. "Now then, young rapscallion, will you go with your mother and uncle into the hall, or help me with Neas?"

  "Neas!" Seamus cried, jumping up and down. "Can I ride him? Please!"

  The Scot laughed, the sound like a deeper version of the boy's merriment. He scooped up his son and deposited him on the back of his horse. "Hold on tight, Seamus. Our family honour will be besmirched if you fall off."

  "I won't fall," the boy declared. He looked so determined, he reminded Riona very much of his uncle, and she was quite sure he'd stay on the horse no matter what.

  Lady Marianne held her baby out to her brother. "Here, take Cellach," she ordered.

  "Give me your hand and I'll help you down," Nicholas answered.

  "Don't be silly," Lady Marianne chided, and again, Riona heard that hint of familiar resolve. "Hold Cellach and I'll get down by myself."

  With a pained look, Nicholas complied, taking the little bundle of baby awkwardly. As his sister climbed down off the cart, he gazed at the wee bairn nesded safely in his powerful arms as if she were a miracle.

  He might be imposing—and he was—and he might be intimidating—and he was—but as Riona watched him, her throat tightened, and she was filled with a burning, bitter envy for the woman who would bear his child.