LORD OF DUNKEATHE

by Margaret Moore

  Once Lady Marianne was on the ground, Nicholas immediately went to give the baby back to her.

  "Why don't you hold her a while longer? You seem to have a way with her," Lady Marianne said as she slipped her arm through his.

  He looked as if he'd rather walk through fire. "You take her."

  His sister blithely ignored him. "Now tell me all the news," she said as they started toward the hall.

  Suddenly, Lady Marianne looked Riona's way. Their eyes met, and in that brief instant, the lady's curious gaze seemed as penetrating as her brother's, capable of reading the secret desires of Riona's heart.

  Riona silently cursed herself for lingering in the courtyard when she had so much to do. "Come along, Polly," she said briskly, hurrying away. "We've wasted enough time already."

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  WITH MARIANNE STANDING to his right and Adair to his left at the high table, Nicholas waited for the priest to say the blessing for the evening meal. All the nobles were assembled here, except Lady Riona, her uncle and Roban. Riona was likely in the kitchen, ensuring all was well in hand. He had no idea where her uncle and Roban were, although he noted that Lady Eleanor's maidservant was present.

  It had been interesting watching the men when they were introduced to Marianne and Adair. With Marianne, Percival had acted like the vain fool he was, D'Anglevoix had seemed to melt a little and Lord Chesleigh had been courtesy itself.

  They were less sure how to react to Adair, who stood with feet planted, arms crossed and a smile on his face that seemed to dare them to think he was anything but the finest and bravest of men. Naturally, they didn't dare indicate if they were less than impressed with the warlike Scot.

  The other younger nobles had reacted as expected. Lavinia had quietly said a few words, then moved away. Priscilla had giggled, and Audric had bowed politely and said something about Scots' valor, which proved he was both wise and a gentleman. Joscelind

  had been impressed by Adair, and less by Marianne, although she was careful not to show much on her beautiful face.

  A pale Eleanor had said little.

  Nicholas's glance darted between Eleanor and Joscelind. There was no reason he couldn't be happily married to either if he tried. Whatever the flaws in her behaviour, Joscelind had her beauty and her family's wealth and connections to recommend her. Eleanor was much the same, although she was also younger.

  The priest started the blessing. Nicholas hurriedly and dutifully closed his eyes, and joined in thanking God for His mercy and His bounty. When Father Damon finished, the hum of the voices of the nobles, the soldiers and several servants filled the hall. In another moment, more servants started to come from the kitchen, bearing carafes of wine and baskets of bread.

  "Where are the children?" Nicholas asked Marianne, thinking of his bold little nephew who leapt without looking. He was a lot like Henry that way, and Marianne.

  As for Cellach, he had little experience with infants, yet she'd nested in his arms as if she felt completely safe. It was a heady compliment, and one that gave him a powerful yearning to have a child of his own.

  "Polly's with them," Marianne replied. "Cellach is sleeping soundly and I hope Seamus soon will be, too, despite his nap. It

  took a promise that you'll show him one of your many fighting tricks, as he calls them, to get him to stay with Polly."

  "Where the devil's Roban?" Adair muttered as he scanned the hall.

  "Perhaps he decided to eat at the tavern," Marianne calmly suggested.

  Adair laughed. "Well then, I'll be making a jaunt into the village to fetch him later." He gave Nicholas a wry smile. "Maybe I'll have a bit to eat there myself, especially if you're serving tripe. Scots may use most of a cow, too, but I just can't get used to that."

  Nicholas permitted himself a small smile of satisfaction as he prepared to reveal the culinary good news. "Roban's going to be sorry he missed this meal. We're having some Scots dishes tonight."

  Adair stared at him in wide-eyed amazement.

  "Alfred has left my employ, and the person currendy supervising my kitchen is a Scot," Nicholas explained.

  "Well, thank God and it's about time! What's his name? Maybe I know of him or his clan."

  "It's a woman, and her name is Riona. She's a lady from Glencleith. Her uncle is Fergus Mac Gordon. Do you know him?"

  "I don't think so, but there's something a bit familiar about the name," Adair mused aloud.

  "Does this mean you've made your choice for a bride?" Marianne asked.

  Adair grinned. "And she's a Scot?"

  "No, it doesn't," Nicholas coolly replied. "After it became necessary for Albert to leave, I decided to allow each of the remaining ladies to take a turn in that capacity. I want to make sure my bride is capable of running a household."

  Marianne's expression was not one of approval. "You mean you're giving them a test?"

  Why did women have such a difficult time grasping the value of his plan? "I prefer to think of it as making sure they can manage my household."

  One of the servants arrived with a dish of fish in some sort of batter, mercifully interrupting the discussion. Another maidservant came with wine to fill their goblets, while Marianne delicately put some of the fish onto her trencher.

  "Ach, herring in oats!" Adair cried, eagerly and impatiently serving himself a large portion. "Now this is food!" He slapped a helping onto Nicholas's trencher. "You'll enjoy this!"

  Nicholas wasn't so sure, yet he decided to give it a try. To his surprise, it wasn't bad. Not wonderful, nor the best fish he'd ever eaten, but not bad.

  Judging by their expressions, Lord Chesleigh, his daughter, Percival and D'Anglevoix had decided to abstain. Well, they could starve, if that's what they preferred.

  "I didn't think you'd ever consider a Scot for a bride, Nicholas," Marianne remarked, clearly enjoying the fish.

  "I can't really consider Lady Riona," he replied in French, speaking quickly so that Adair couldn't make out what he was saying. His brother-in-law knew the language, just as Nicholas had learned Gaelic, but if he spoke fast enough, he could hope Adair couldn't keep up. "Her family's too poor and have no connections at court. I'm letting her and her uncle stay until Lammas so that no Scot can claim I didn't seriously think about marrying her."

  "Then your choice is a matter of money and influence?" Marianne asked.

  "It's a matter of survival," Nicholas said, stabbing a piece of fish and switching to Gaelic so the Normans wouldn't be able to comprehend the conversation.

  "So, brother-in-law, if it can't be the Scot, who's in the lead?" Adair asked, revealing that he'd understood Nicholas after all.

  "At the moment, my preference runs to Lady Joscelind or Lady Eleanor. Both their families are rich. Lady Joscelind's father is very powerful at court, and Percival has several friends there, as well."

  Marianne fixed her gaze on him. "But do you like them? Are they pleasant?"

  Chewing his fish, Nicholas shrugged. "Pleasant enough."

  "But Nicholas—"

  Adair nudged his wife. "It's his choice, Marianne, not yours. Let the man go about it his own way, whether for good or ill." He gave his wife one of those looks he often did, the sort that suggested to Nicholas that there might indeed be such a thing as love. "You were anything but pleasant to me when we were first married and we couldn't claim to have been in love then, yet it seems to have come right after all."

  Marianne smiled at her husband. "Aye, it did, m 'eudall. "

  The doors to the hall burst open and two men came stumbling and staggering into the hall, their arms about one another's shoulders.

  "Ooooooh," Roban and Fergus Mac Gordon sang in unison at the top of their lungs, "and that was the lass from Killamagroooooo!"

  As they finished their song, Roban saluted the high table with the small wooden cask he held in his free hand. "Adair! Marianne! Look who I found—Fergus Mac Gordon!"

  Like his companion, Roban was completely oblivious to the sensation the
y were making. Lord Chesleigh's expression was one of disgust and his daughter's delicate nose wrinkled with distaste. Sir Percival sneered, D'Anglevoix regarded them as if he'd never seen the like, and Lady Lavinia and Audric exchanged horrified looks. Lady Priscilla giggled, nervously. Lady Eleanor looked dismayed, while her maidservant's face was ashen.

  Both Nicholas and Adair got to their feet as Mac Gordon staggered forward and bowed, grinning. "Greeting, chieftain of the Mac Tarans and his lovely wife!"

  "Roban, you're drunk," Adair declared with amused patience. "Go sleep it off somewhere, and I suggest your new friend retire, too."

  "I'm not drunk!" the big Scot roared. "I'm well watered!"

  Her face red, clearly embarrassed, Riona came rushing out of the kitchen corridor and made straight for her inebriated uncle.

  "You've had a merry time, I think, Uncle," she said when she reached him, putting her arm around him. "Now I think you ought to rest."

  "Rest?" he cried, throwing up his hands as if that was the most ludicrous suggestion he'd heard in years. "Who needs rest? Roban wants to hear about the time I was on the boar hunt and there was that dog, and then my boot—"

  "Have you eaten, Uncle?" Riona interjected with an undercurrent of desperation in her sweet voice. "We had herring in oats tonight. I'm sure there's some left. Why don't you and Roban come with me to the kitchen?"

  Nicholas got to his feet. Riona didn't deserve to be humiliated this way, for it was clear she was both embarrassed and ashamed.

  "Herring in oats, did she say?" Roban cried as Nicholas started around the high table, intending to escort the two men out himself if they didn't go with her willingly. "Why didn't you say there was such food awaiting us here? I was afraid it was going to be that tripe."

  Roban made a face, shuddered and said in a loud whisper, "How those Normans stomach that stomach, I'll never know."

  "We can eat later, Riona," her uncle declared. "These Normans don't know how to make music, either." He grinned at Roban. "Let's do that one about old Mac Tavish and his dog."

  Prepared to drag them out of the hall if necessary, Nicholas strode toward them.

  "I think you both should eat," he said when he reached them. He threw his arms around the two men and steered them toward the kitchen. "The herring was very good. I can vouch for that myself."

  Her face flushed, but without so much as a glance in his direction, Riona hurried ahead of them.

  "Of course it was good, boy!" Fergus bellowed. "Riona made it, didn't she? She's a wonder, isn't she?"

  "Yes, she's a wonder," Nicholas replied, thinking that it had been a very, very long time since anyone had called him "boy," and wondering if Riona herself had prepared the fish.

  "What did I tell ye, Roban, old son? She's all but promised to him already."

  That got a reaction from Riona. She darted a look over her shoulder at her uncle that would have warned a sober man to keep quiet.

  Nicholas hoped this wasn't going to ruin the relationship she had with her uncle, which was one to envy. It was probably Roban's fault they were drunk. He'd been to a tavern once or twice with Adair's friend himself, and knew how easy it was to lose track of time and how much you had to drink as Roban regaled you with stories of heroic deeds and great battles, all featuring amazing Scotsmen, of course.

  Once in the kitchen, the servants, wary and curious, gave them a wide berth as he got the two men sitting on a bench beside the worktable.

  "Ah, thank you, my son," Mac Gordon exclaimed. "Well, you're not my son and never will be. Nephew-in-law, though, eh?" he finished, laughing.

  "I suggest you do as your niece proposes and have something to eat," he replied, ignoring Mac Gordon's comments and fighting to ignore Riona, who was dishing up some food at another table along the wall, her slender—and very tense—back to him. "I'll see you both in the morning."

  "Or later in the hall," Mac Gordon declared, slapping Roban on the back and nearly knocking him over. "Roban and I will teach you how to sing."

  Nicholas didn't reply as he turned to leave the kitchen. As he did, he couldn't help giving Riona one last look. When she realized he was watching her, she quickly turned away.

  But not before he saw a tear upon her flushed cheek.

  The sight of that single droplet stirred something deep within Nicholas—a tenderness, a longing to comfort, such as he'd never felt before.

  Was this weakness?

  He'd always thought so when he'd heard the minstrels singing of such a feeling.

  Yet how could it be? he asked himself as he returned to his hall. Never in his life had he felt more keenly determined to protect and take care of another. He felt strong, not weak—stronger than he'd ever felt in his life, as if he could take on an army to protect Riona Mac Gordon, and see to it she never shed another tear.

  AFTER RIONA had finally got Uncle Fergus and Roban fed and a little bit sober, she had to try to get them to retire, or at least persuade Uncle Fergus to go to bed.

  "But my beauty, 'tis the shank o' the evening!" Uncle Fergus protested after she suggested it was getting late—again.

  The servants stifled more grins and smiles.

  Riona could appreciate that while this might be an amusing diversion for them, it most certainly wasn't for her. She'd rarely been so humiliated as when she'd heard Uncle Fergus singing and hurried into the hall to find him making such a scene. And then when the lord of Dunkeathe himself had felt called upon to escort him from the hall...

  "Where's Fredella?" Uncle Fergus asked, looking around as if he thought she might be hiding in the corner.

  "I daresay she's long abed," Riona replied, hoping this would encourage him to move.

  "Who's Freerinella?" Roban asked with a sleepy grin.

  "A lovely woman. Dee-lightful." Uncle Fergus winked. "And too old for you, my lad. She needs a mature man."

  As her uncle roared with laughter at his own joke, Roban rose somewhat shakily. "Then I'm going to see what Adair's up to." He sat back down. "After I rest my eyes a wee bit," he mumbled as he folded his arms on the table and rested his head on them. In the next moment, he was snoring.

  Uncle Fergus prodded him, but the man didn't move or stop snoring. "Wheest, young folks today! No stamina."

  "If he's that tired, it must be late," Riona reasoned.

  "Maybe you're right," Uncle Fergus finally conceded.

  Riona sent up a quick prayer of thanks as her uncle hoisted himself up from the bench. She hurried forward to lend him her shoulder. "Let me help you, Uncle."

  Mercifully he didn't protest.

  "We'll go through the yard," she said. "It's faster."

  Since their chambers were so far from the hall, it was quicker to go through the courtyard, and if that meant not having to endure the sneers and whispers of the Normans, so much the better.

  "I told you about the time I went boar hunting, didn't I?" Uncle Fergus asked as they crossed the yard.

  Mercifully, the sky was clear, the moon bright and the ground dry.

  "And that dog got so excited?" her uncle continued loudly. "And then there was the hole in my boot where the pup bit me? And the boar came straight at the lad—?"

  "Yes, Uncle, I've heard that story. Many times," she finished under her breath, trying not so sound impatient, but in truth, she could recite that story herself. How Uncle Fergus had been visiting a clan to the north. How the weather had been perfect, until the storm rolled in. How Uncle Fergus and "the lad" had brought the most untrained, unprepared young hunting dog on the venture. How the dog had bit Uncle Fergus's foot and put a hole in his boots—"And them brand-new the day before." And then the taking off of the ruined boot and the charge of the boar, its eyes fierce, its mouth frothing, directly for the lad. And finally, how Uncle Fergus had tossed the boot aside, drawn his dirk and thrown it, killing the beast instantly.

  They passed the guards at the foot of the apartments and started up the stairs. Her uncle was so unsteady on his feet, it was slow going, but
eventually they reached his chamber.

  "Here we are, Uncle," she said as she shoved open the door with her shoulder and helped him inside.

  "Thank you, my beauty," he said as he sat heavily on the bed. "You go on to bed yourself."

  He lay on his side and in the next moment was fast asleep.

  Sighing wearily, she tugged off his boots and covered him with the length of his feileadh that normally hung over his shoulder. She kissed him good night and went out, closing the door softly behind her. At last, this long, troublesome, confusing day was nearly at an end.

  "Is he all right?"

  She jumped and her heart raced at the sound of the familiar deep voice behind her.

  What was the lord of Dunkeathe doing there? she thought as she faced him. A torch in the wall sconce nearby flickered in the slight breeze coming in through the narrow windows, simultaneously lighting his face and putting other parts in shadow, so that it was hard to make out his expression clearly.

  "He should be fine come the morning," she replied. "He doesn't usually drink so much," she added, lest he think Uncle Fergus be prone to over imbibing, like Sir George.

  "Neither does Roban. I suspect they drank as much as they did because they were together. It's easy to lose track of how many you've had when you're with a fellow like Roban."

  "I wouldn't know about that." She started sidling toward the stairs. She didn't want to be alone with the lord of Dunkeathe, especially standing in a corridor where anyone might see them. "I should ensure that everything that needs to be done in the kitchen has been done, and then I should retire, too. I'll have much to do tomorrow."

  "The evening meal was excellent. My sister and brother-in-law were very impressed." He reached out and brushed her cheek with his knuckle, the tender action surprising her, and sending tremors of pleasure through her body. "Don't worry about what those others might think," he said softy. "I'm sure the men have all been at least as drunk as that once, if not several times. I've been that drunk myself on occasion."

  Why did he have to look at her that way? Why couldn't he be arrogant and haughty, so that she could hate him? "I don't care what those Normans think."