He glanced at Angus, only to find him looking at his wife with something close to awe on his face. Disconcerted, Gilead nodded and turned to walk away.
Somehow, he had the feeling that this was not going to go the way he wanted.
◊♦◊
The man is a bloody boor, Deidre thought at the evening meal. Her stomach churned as she watched Niall’s thick fingers tear a strip of venison from a shank and stick the whole thing into his mouth, the grease sliding into his beard. And they were seated at the high table!
She forced a smile and picked up the small bowl of water the laverer had left. “Would you like to dip your fingers, my lord?”
“Why should I?” Niall broke off a chunk of bread and wiped the lard from his fingers with it before he shoved the wad into his mouth, chewing noisily.
Deidre’s plastered smile remained in place as she set the bowl down. “As you wish, my lord.” She thought she just might regurgitate her own food if she had to say “my lord” one more time, but Angus was seated within earshot and she wanted that horse. Had to have that horse.
The meal wore on. Not even Drustan’s harp could soothe Deidre’s emotional turmoil. Gilead had not presented himself at the table and Deidre alternated between wondering where he was and reminding herself that she was angry with him—and not only for avoiding her earlier. If he had kept his promise, she wouldn’t be sitting here now with this oaf.
Suddenly, she felt the oaf’s hand on her knee. Her skin nearly crawled in revulsion. As unobtrusively as she could, she shifted her weight, moving her leg away.
Niall”s eyes narrowed. “Ye’ll not be avoiding me once we’re wed, lass.”
She tried not to grind her teeth. “We aren’t wed…yet.”
He leaned close to her, the odor of his rancid breath overpowering.
“I’m going to enjoy taming ye. The more ye fight me, the more ye rouse me.”
His hand slipped under the table again and this time he gripped her thigh and squeezed hard until she gasped in pain. She was sure to have bruises tomorrow, but she could hardly show Angus her thigh.
Niall gave her a malicious smile. “One way or another, ye’ll be trained to my hand. ’Twill be up to ye how much pain ye can bear.”
Deidre took a deep breath and bared her teeth in what she hoped Angus would take was a smile. “Never,” she hissed.
He pinched a little harder and then laughed as he turned his attention to his wine. He drained the cup and poured another. Deidre shuddered to think of what life would be like married to a cruel man doused to his gills in spirits. Well, she would not be here to find out. She would not.
◊♦◊
Niall watched as Angus poured whisky for the three of them in the council room after dinner. Gilead, he noticed, didn’t partake. Prick. Sniffing around Deidre’s skirts like she was a bitch dog in heat. He’d put a stop to that once they were wed. Pity that. Angus had made him agree to wait on bedding her. Little Miss High-and-Mighty needed a hard rutting to show her a woman’s place. He intended to spear her with his cock until she was raw. Until she begged for mercy. But for now he would abide by the pact; it served his other ambitions.
“I’ll send the envoy to Gunpar,” Angus said as he sipped his whisky.
Niall snorted. The man was really taking that Briton queen’s idea seriously! The idea that a woman knew anything about war strategy was ridiculous. “Ye really think Fergus will take the north way?”
Angus slid a map across the table to him. “It would make sense. If he can reach the eastern shore, we would be fighting on three fronts.”
“Nae. ’Tis just like a woman to come up with something like that.”
“Formorian, I may remind you, has been battle-trained,” Angus said somewhat coldly. “Why would she not understand an army’s maneuvering? Turius listens to her. She knows what to do.”
Aye. No doubt she knew what to do in Angus’s bedchambers, too. The woman made no attempt to hide her interest. Niall always wondered why Turius overlooked it. He, himself, certainly hadn’t, when Rhea had looked longingly on Angus at a feast one night when she’d had a bit of wine. He’d waited until she was stone-cold sober the next morning before he’d whipped her with his leather shaving strap in the privacy of their chambers. His servants knew not to question screams coming from his rooms.
Nae, if Formorian were his wife, she’d soon learn where she belonged. She’d be giving him a bairn every year, too. The Briton king was a fool for not keeping his wife pregnant. That would cool Angus’s lust. But, mayhap, his lust could be used against him.
Niall shrugged and set his empty cup down. “’Tis late and I don’t care to argue. Could I be seeing my sweet-intended before I leave?”
“Certes she is already abed at this hour,” Gilead said.
Niall raised an eyebrow. “And how would ye be knowing that? Have ye been trying to sample my wares?”
Gilead clenched his fists, but Angus intervened. “My wife retires early and she expects her maids to be in attendance when she rises. I’m afraid ye’ll have to wait.”
Wait, Niall thought, as his horse was brought and he and his men started home. He had waited a long time. A second son doesn’t inherit his father’s kingdom and Lugaid always kept his brother, Carlin, too well protected for Niall to try to kill him. Not that Niall hadn’t tried. In fact, it was that last fight that had got him sent here. Oh, Lugaid had made it sound like he would be equal to a king in status in this new land, but when he’d arrived, over half the lands his father said were to be his had been confiscated by Angus. No matter that Angus showed him papers with proper title. No doubt they were forged. This land was his.
And Elen should have been his. To bind the powerful Mac Erca to him and his father, uniting Eire, and once Mac Erca was dead—not too hard to accomplish by hiring mercenaries—he could have ruled in his place. Timid Elen would never have confronted him on anything.
But Fate had smiled when Deidre played right into his hands. Since Beltane night, when for that brief moment he had felt her under him and almost got his shaft driven home, he’d wanted the little bitch. If that damn, honorable Gilead were more of a cad like his father, Niall would have had her, too. He had become obsessed with seeing her naked, staked out in the bed, his to do with as he pleased, however he pleased. For as long as he pleased.
That she was kin to Angus was a stroke of Eire luck. Binding the clans would only give him more authority to claim the lands when he brought Angus down. His lands, he reminded himself. And for his trouble, he’d take all of Angus’s remaining lands, too. He would totally and completely destroy Cenel Oengus. Niall smiled. Oh, yes.
Chapter Seven
A TANGLED WEB
Nearly a week passed and Niall did not make another appearance. Deidre didn’t ask any questions. She was just grateful she didn’t have to put up with him at dinner. He turned her appetite sour with his crude manners.
But she hadn’t seen Gilead, either, and she was frustrated, eager to start her riding lessons. How else was she ever going to begin searching for the Stone? The day after their discussion in Elen’s chambers, Deidre had waited for Gilead in the stables. She’d even skipped the midday meal, only to find he’d ridden off to check on a crofter that was having trouble with sheep being stolen. The next day he’d gone to Culross to settle a dispute over a game of chance one of their soldiers had engaged in with a villager. On the third day, he had a different excuse, and on the fourth and fifth, as well. Deidre had no idea there were so many things that only Gilead could take care of. Well, this was one morning that he wasn’t getting away.
“Good morn,” she said, stepping out of the empty stall next to Malcolm’s as Gilead led the stallion out.
He looked startled and the horse tossed his head. Gilead calmed him by stroking his neck. “What are ye doing here?”
Deidre widened her eyes with a look of pure innocence. “Why…you are supposed to be giving me riding lessons, remember?”
“Ah. Tha
t. Well, ye see, I need to go—”
“Nowhere,” Deidre said sweetly and smiled. “Your father told me he’d send for Formorian if you can’t help me.”
A muscle twitched in Gilead’s jaw as he stared over her head for a moment. Deidre could almost hear him battling with himself over which would be worse…having Formorian here or having to work with her himself. Apparently, she was the lesser of the two evils, for he sighed.
“Verra well.” He looped Malcolm’s reins around a hitching post near the stall. “Let me find ye a gentle nag, then.”
Deidre followed him down the row of stalls. She was still angry with him, so why were her knees trembling? And her tummy butterflies all swooshing around erratically? Lord, she had no idea she could still be so intoxicated by him. His legs were encased in soft, doeskin trews that clung to his thigh muscles as he strode swiftly ahead of her. Did the man always move so fast? She could hardly keep up, but then, who was she to complain, with the sight of those tight buttocks shifting with each step? Her anger only seemed to whet her appetite for him. She almost giggled at the apoplectic fit Clotilde would have if she knew her niece was harboring such thoughts, but the woman in Deidre had awakened, and she didn’t want to stop.
Engrossed with the fantasy of what he’d look like without the trews on, she ran full into his back when he stopped abruptly in front of a stall. She inhaled the freshly laundered scent of the crisp linen shirt that stretched over his broad shoulders. His back felt like smooth rock.
He jumped at the contact and turned around, looking down at her.
“Ouch,” she said and rubbed her nose as she stepped back. “You might warn me when you intend to stop.”
He raised an eyebrow. “I thought saying, ‘Here we are,’ to be enough.”
Oh. Whoops. Sometimes her woolgathering did go a bit far.
But it really wasn’t her fault; he had a fantastic arse. “Well. Sorry, then.”
Gilead nodded and pointed to the stall. “Nell is a wee pony a lot of our bairns have learned to ride on.”
Fantastique. A horse that probably wouldn’t make it beyond the gates. Deidre stepped past him to look into the compartment. It was empty.
“How wee is this pony?” she asked as she looked up.
Gilead frowned and stepped closer, glancing over her shoulder. His body’s heat enveloped her like a warm blanket and she forced herself to stand still. She’d already made a fool of herself once.
He turned and walked away, shouting for a stable hand. Broderick came running from the tack room.
“Aye, my lord? What’s amiss?”
“Where have ye taken Nell?” Gilead asked.
“Doona ye remember? Ye said to take the old horses to the higher pastures for the summer, since we wouldn’t be needing them.”
“All of them?” Gilead asked.
“Aye. We’ve only the warhorses, the colts, and the brood mares. Why?”
“Mistress Deidre has convinced my father that she wants to learn to ride.” Gilead didn’t look at her. “She wants to surprise her…her fiancé.”
Ouch. That hurt. Did he have to be so formal? If only she could tell him why… Deidre sighed. He would think her totally mad if she told him about the magician and the Stone, or worse, send her back to Childebert and a life of confirmed spinsterhood.
The Master of Horse was looking at her with interest “Any chance that ye can persuade Lady Elen to join ye? ’Twould do our lady good to take some fresh air. I can send for a couple of the ponies to be brought down—”
That would take too long. She needed to find a circle of stones, and she needed a good horse to do it. “Lady Elen is scared of their size,” Deidre said apologetically. “Couldn’t I ride one of the brood mares?”
“Ye could,” Broderick agreed, “were they not either ready to foal or already have the young ones by their teat.”
Gilead looked relieved. “Well, then. I guess we’ll need to cancel the lesson.”
Oh, no, you don’t. Deidre gave him a sorrowful look, turned, and walked away. She was next to Malcolm before he realized what she was planning to do.
“Wait!” Gilead sprinted after her. “Don’t—”
But it was too late. Deidre gathered the big destrier’s reins and quickly led him to a stoop. She had one foot in the stirrup and was trying to swing a leg over, hindered by the full skirt, when she felt Gilead’s strong arm around her waist, lifting her off.
The horse sidled away and Gilead pulled her close. She could feel his chest heaving against her back, and for a moment, he laid his head atop hers and then he stepped away, spinning her around.
“Are ye daft? Malcolm would have tossed ye right out the door and broken half yer bones while he was at it!”
She could see now that the heaving of his chest wasn’t due to exertion or concern, but to anger. She lifted her head in defiance. “Then get me a horse I can ride!”
He made a sound that sounded like a Gaelic curse, but she wasn’t sure. “There are only warhorses here, trained for battle!”
Deidre shrugged. “Well, then. I guess I could always use the horse Formorian rides. When she comes to give me lessons, that is.”
He uttered the same sound, his blue eyes blazing. “Ye are a stubborn lass.”
Deidre folded her arms across her chest and tapped her foot.
They stared at each other, engaged in a silent battle of wills. Finally, Gilead gave a big sigh. “All right. If ye are that certain ye must impress Niall.” For a moment, a look of hurt crossed his face and then his expression became impassive again. “But if ye break yer neck, doona blame me.”
Gilead stomped off and Deidre had to run to keep up with him, not even having time to admire his backside. She didn’t dare ask him to slow down; she had just barely managed to hold out on that clash of minds. She was sorry he was angry and even sorrier that he thought she wanted to impress Niall. The man wasn’t worth impressing, except with a boot imprint somewhere, maybe.
With all her heart, she wished she could tell Gilead the truth.
◊♦◊
Deidre really wanted to impress Niall. Gilead pounded his fist on the polished table in his room several hours later. So. He had been wrong about her, after all. Watching how stiffly formal she had been with Niall, Gilead had thought she couldn’t possibly have meant what she said to his father. He was almost sure that she cared nothing for Niall, but the only other motive left was greed. How disappointing. Somehow, he hadn’t thought Dee—Mistress Deidre—would stoop to that level. Mayhap greed was what her interest in him had been, too. She was penniless. A laird’s son had wealth and goods to offer a woman, and a lot of women had tried to latch on.
He sighed, remembering how the soft lushness of her full breasts had felt pressed into his back when she’d run into him. The sly wench probably did it on purpose. But she had felt so good in his arms when he pulled her off Malcolm and held her against him. The faint trace of heather soap had lingered in her hair and he couldn’t help burying his nose in the silky strands for just a moment. Fool. Why couldn’t he stop reacting to her now that he realized she hungered so much for material gain that she would agree to marry Niall?
Mistress Deidre was ambitious enough to rival Formorian. She had almost gotten Gilead wrapped around her delicate, well-cared-for pinky. He’d caught himself in time. He wasn’t besotted like his father was. He was not Angus. He would never be like him.
◊♦◊
Fergus Mor motioned for his guards to leave and close the door. He poured another whisky for his guest and slid it across the table in the map room.
“Now what brings ye so close to the Highlands, Niall?”
Niall didn’t answer right away, his cold, flinty eyes taking in the trappings. Fergus had done well for himself. Heavy tapestries with intricately woven hunting scenes lined three of the walls. A rock fireplace with a hearth large enough for a man to walk into took up the fourth wall. The heavy oak table was polished to a sheen and the equally solid chairs
had thick cushions of leather. A comfortable man’s room, and the whisky was smooth, as well.
“I’m waiting.” There was mild reproof in Fergus’s voice.
“I’ve come to offer my services,” Niall said.
“Why would I be wanting yer service?”
“Word has it that ye are amassing men from Eire and that ye’ll be seeking more land soon.”
“And if I am?”
“The Angus held a meeting three sennights ago. The lairds of Comgaill and Gabrain were there, as well as the Briton king, Turius.”
Fergus’s pale blue eyes lit up. “Was Queen Formorian with him?”
Niall clenched a fist under the table. What was it with that blasted woman? He wasn’t here to discuss her; he had more lucrative matters on his mind.
“Aye.” He laughed suddenly. “The land may be yers for the taking, at that, if Angus can’t keep his hands off her.”
Fergus’s bushy red eyebrows knit together in a frown. “That’s the way of it? Turius came close to claiming Caledonia once; does Angus think he won’t confiscate Oengus if he’s provoked?” He leaned back and studied Niall. “Aye. Is that what this is about? Ye think to lose yer lands, too, close as they are?”
“Nae!” Niall fingered his empty glass and looked hopefully at the bottle. “I came to warn ye about the plot.”
Fergus straightened. “What plot?”
“The lairds think ye will not raid direct through Comgaill, but that ye are likely to move through Pictland to reach the eastern shore.”
“Through Pictland? The painted people care not for intruders.”
Niall nodded. “I said that, too, but Turius listens to that fool queen of his.”
“This was Formorian’s idea?” Fergus asked in surprise.
“Aye. Daft woman—”
“Nae. She be not daft. Gabran trained her well. Go on.”
“She thinks ye would treaty for passage with the Picts. If ye reach the eastern shore with enough men ye could attack from three directions.”
“Hmmm. An interesting idea,” Fergus mused.
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