Kara's gaze met Dungald's and he smiled wickedly. She looked away.
Harry jumped up from his seat. Tonight he wore a garish purple and green cloak and matching short English breeches. "A dance, Kara. I want to dance." He held out his hand as the players stepped back from the head table and began to play.
Reluctantly she rose from her chair. Did no one but she see how ridiculous this was? She and Harry calling each other husband and wife? She seriously doubted the boy was even physically capable of being a husband.
As she took Harry's elbow and passed Ian, she realized one person in the hall saw the absurdity of her situation. Ian. Only Ian.
Harry released her elbow and clapped to the music, backing up to begin an old country dance. Kara had no chance to escape without making a scene. She rested both hands on her hips and began to dance.
She felt like a strumpet. All the men in the hall, many in their cups, began to clap and stomp. Even the servants bearing trays turned to watch the earl and his lady dance.
They were laughing at her and her boy-husband. She could not hear their laughter, but she could feel it. Didn't Harry?
The music's tempo quickened and Kara danced faster, wishing she could melt into the floor. The hall was hot and smoky, overwhelming her with the smells of roasting meat, ale and bodies.
Harry caught her hands and spun her. He was a full head shorter than she. They looked ridiculous. She felt ridiculous.
The tune came to an end and Kara curtsied, red-faced.
"Another!" Harry shouted. "Another."
"No, my lord, really, I..." She didn't want to stay. She didn't want to dance with a child pretending to be a man. She didn't want to make a spectacle in front of the Gordons. She didn't want the men making fun of Harry behind his back.
"I want to dance again," Harry said, stubbornly meeting her gaze.
Yet again, like an angel from the heavens, Ian appeared between them.
"My lord," he said diplomatically, his voice intended only for the two of them, "I believe your lady wife tires. Perhaps it is time you said your good nights."
Harry set his jaw. "But I want to dance and she has to do what I say, doesn't she?"
His words startled her so that she didn't know what to say. She was thankful Ian was quicker of mind.
"She is your wife, Harry, and that relationship is more complicated than I can explain to you at this moment. Let it suffice to say that a happy wife is a happy castle, a happy lord. An overtired, cranky wife is an overtired, cranky keep and therefore an unhappy lord." He stared at Harry like a disapproving father. "Do you understand what I say?"
Harry twisted his mouth, glancing begrudgingly at Kara. "Do you truly tire?"
She exhaled, knowing they had him convinced. He would dismiss her. "Aye. I'm quite tired. I fear I have not your stamina." She fluttered her hand in front of her overheated face for effect. "Feel free to stay, my lord, but I really wish to retreat to my chambers. It's been a long day."
Harry thought a minute.
Kara saw that a few clansmen watched curiously, but no one could tell what was being discussed. The musicians had started another tune. Interest in the couple in the center of the hall was beginning to wane.
"Very well." Harry threw up his hands. "Be abed, wife. I'll come shortly."
"Yes, my lord. Thank you, my lord." She dipped a deep curtsy, not daring to look at Ian, and then made a hasty retreat before Harry changed his mind.
Kara took her leave of the hall and followed the dark corridors, carrying her own candle to her tower room. Just as she turned into the last corridor, she saw a shadow. A man appeared suddenly out of the darkness.
"My lady."
It was Dungald.
She had barely exchanged a word with him, but she already knew his voice. She pressed her hand to her chest. Her heart was pounding. He had startled her.
What was he doing here in the dark when the other men were still in the hall? What did he want?
She lifted her candle to illuminate his face. His face was handsome, but his eyes were so cold, so inhuman. Either the man had no feelings, or he kept them buried deep inside him. He was absolutely eerie in the cold darkness. "Sir."
"You return without your husband, I see."
She wanted to look away, but she didn't. She would not be intimidated. "He comes shortly."
"To your bed?"
His implication was obvious.
Her first impulse was to tell Dungald it was none of his concern. No man who was not a husband should speak to a woman of her bed. But there was something in his tone that frightened her. "Aye. He comes to my bed. I... I anxiously await him," she stammered.
Dungald chuckled, taking his time, studying her with his stony eyes. "Do you, now?" He put out his hand and lifted a ringlet of hair from her bosom. "And does my lady find his lordship's bed... adequate?"
She stiffened. "Let me pass, sir, or I shall—"
He let the curl fall. His tone took on a sharp edge. "You shall what?"
She met his gaze, her own as hard as his. "Or I shall call my husband and his man."
Dungald flinched.
She had found his weakness: he was afraid of Ian. She saw it in his eyes. It was only a flicker, but most definitely fear.
"I meant my lady no harm. I only asked of your comfort."
"Of course." She walked past him and did not halt until she was inside her chamber, the door latched.
Chapter 4
Kara crawled from her bed, taking care not to disturb Harry. He lay curled on his side, his back to her, snoring softly.
She'd gone to sleep as soon as she had returned to her room, but when Harry arrived near midnight she'd had to rise to unlock the door. Unable to drift off to sleep, she'd grown more restless as the night progressed. She couldn't stop thinking about her run-in with Dungald, about the boy she now slept with... about his brother, whom she could not get from her mind.
And she was hungry. She had not eaten when the others dined because she had been uncomfortable pretending to be the happy bride and hating herself for it. She'd hated those who forced the ruse upon her. Now she wished she'd swallowed her pride as well as some bread.
Shivering in the icy draft that crept around the closed window hangings, Kara threw a cloak over her sleeping gown and lit a candle with coals from the fireplace. She debated what to do now. Read? Stitch?
Her stomach growled. What she wanted to do was eat.
She glanced at the locked door. Dared she go down to the kitchen in the middle of the night?
Why not? Dunnane was her home now, wasn't it? She would most likely live here until she was carried out in a pine box. As mistress of the castle it was her prerogative to take food from the kitchen. She could even wake a servant and have him cook for her. She had no desire to bother anyone, though. A bit of bread and cheese would be enough.
Kara tiptoed back to her side of the bed and located the pair of French silk mules she'd left there the night before. They were a wedding gift from one of the Gordon families. She slipped her cold, bare feet into them and moved noiselessly toward the door.
She slid the lock and slipped out. Only once in the corridor did she think of Dungald. He'd accosted her here last night. Perhaps leaving her room alone at this hour was dangerous.
No, if she were truly mistress here, she'd not cower in her chamber.
She stiffened, pressed her back to the closed door and lifted her candle. If she did come upon Dungald in the darkness, she'd strike him with the candlestick. He'd keep his distance after that, wouldn't he? She peered into the darkness.
Nothing but a dark hallway.
"Don't be a goose," she whispered beneath her breath.
Hearing her own voice calmed her. Surely Dungald had not stood in the hall all night. Someone would have seen him. Whatever his reasons for wanting to torment her, she knew he wished the torment to remain private.
Boldly, Kara walked down the center of the hallway into the tower's circular stairwell
. Her footfall seemed so loud on the stone steps that she wondered if she might wake someone on a floor below.
She pressed on.
She reached the ground floor and followed the main corridors, still unfamiliar with the layout of the castle. Harry had told her that, like many of the castles in the Highlands, it had been constructed in stages, adding structures to the original tower, which dated back to the twelfth century. There had been an even older castle built before the tower. Some of the catacombs of rooms below ground were actually part of the ancient fortress—the same rooms Kara had passed through the day before looking for baby rats.
In a center hall she came to several portraits of unsmiling Gordon men wearing stiff ruffs around their necks. She wondered if their eyes would follow her as she passed. She held up the candle suspiciously. They did not. Something told her that she need not be wary of ghosts at Dunnane, but rather of its living occupants.
Reaching the iron and plank door to the large kitchen, she pushed through and was surprised to see light coming from around the corner. The fireplace? No, the fireplace would be banked at this time of night. It was candlelight.
"Who is it?" came a terse voice.
Kara knew that voice. Her first impulse was to bolt. But how far would she get before he caught her? Besides, what reason did she have to run? This kitchen was more hers than Ian Munroe's.
Kara turned the corner to find Ian rising from a stool pulled up to a worktable before the banked hearth. His hand rested on his dirk, which rested on the table close at hand. He had been eating. A fat tallow candle illuminated his makeshift dining table.
"It's me," she said, her voice seeming strangely intimate within the whitewashed walls of the kitchen that smelled of baked pears and cinnamon. She'd said it as if he would know who me was. "Kara."
He eased back onto the stool. She had surprised him; she could see it in his expression, though he covered it well. "What are you doing here?"
The sight of the crusty dark bread and rich, soft cheese on the table was more than her grumbling stomach could bear. She set down the candlestick and reached for the bread knife to saw off a piece for herself. "I came with the same intentions as you, I see." She stuffed a bit of crust into her mouth and was pleasantly surprised to find it warm.
How intriguing. A no-nonsense man like Ian warming his bread before he ate it? So, despite his tough outer shell, he was a man who liked his simple comforts.
He sliced a bit of pungent, white goat cheese for her and pushed it across the table. "Ye should have called for a servant. A tray could be brought up. It matters not the time. You are now the Countess of Dunnane, a lady of title and rights."
She wrapped the cheese in bread and settled on the stool opposite him. Had it been day, the six-foot-long table would have been cluttered with rolling pins, biscuit cutters and piles of vegetables to be washed and chopped. Tonight it was still dusted with flour and smelled of cloves and cinnamon.
"One of those being the right to not call a servant." She bit into the warm, hearty bread, noting that Ian must have bathed before partaking of his simple meal. His inky hair was damp, and strands curled at his ears. "What of you, who calls the kettle black? Surely someone could have brought you a tray. I doubt Harry would deny you anything."
"'Tis my place to serve my brother, not use those who serve him."
She studied his massive, square-shouldered frame, exaggerated by the small stool he perched on. The man was a mountain. She was amazed by how comfortable she felt in the dark kitchen alone with him. She wasn't at ease alone with Harry yet. "You know, you can nae keep coming to my rescue," she said softly.
He did not glance up. "Offering bread is hardly rescue."
"You know that I speak of last night. The dancing. I was mortified to be making such a spectacle of myself. Mortified for Harry. Didn't he know they were laughing at him, at us?"
"It's my place to not serve only my lord, but my lady." He cut another piece of cheese and wrapped it in bread for her. "But to answer your question, nae, he does not know."
Their fingers brushed as she took the food, and she found the physical contact strangely comforting. "Make what excuses you like for yourself. It was kind of you to handle my husband as well as you did, and I won't forget it."
Ian glanced away under her scrutiny and cut another large slice of bread for himself. "I followed closely behind you when you took your leave. I came upon Dungald at the bottom of the tower stairs. He denied seeing you, but he is a liar. Did he disturb you?"
"I find his mere existence disturbing."
Ian's mouth twitched into a smile, and she took note of what a sensual, full-lipped mouth it was. The moment the thought passed through her head she checked it. What was wrong with her that she entertained such wanton thoughts of her husband's brother?
"Humor is an admirable quality and will serve you well here. Be certain you keep it."
She smiled back. "To answer your question, he was waiting for me in the corridor near our chamber. We briefly exchanged words." She hesitated, feeling her cheeks grow warm. "He inquired of my bed."
Ian cursed beneath his breath as he pushed his goblet toward her. Without forethought, she lifted the cup and pressed her lips to its rim, sharing his wine.
As the cool, fruity wine touched her lips she thought of his lips touching hers. Shocked, she set down the goblet with a rattle.
Ian did not seem to notice her distraction.
"What did you say?" Ian's tone had taken on an edge but she knew he wasn't angry with her.
She tried to concentrate on the conversation. "I... I lied." She brushed her fingertips across her mouth but she couldn't wipe away the taste of the wine or the thought of his lips on hers. "I said I awaited my husband in bed... anxiously."
"Good. That was the right thing to say." He pushed the cup toward her again with one large, strong hand.
"Well, what else was I to say?" She felt a flare of irritation. "Do ye think me a fool? I understand the importance of this union. I understand Harry's need to get an heir."
"I did not mean to—"
"I should go," she interrupted, not letting him finish his thought.
Kara was no longer comfortable in the kitchen alone with Ian—not because he gave her reason to be uneasy, but because she made herself uneasy. What were these thoughts running in her head? Sweet Mary, she was another man's wife. How could she be thinking about Ian's mouth, or worse yet, his mouth on hers?
She pushed off the stool, not accepting the wine he again offered. It burned on her lips now, and the harder she tried not to think about his mouth touching hers, the more she thought about it.
Ian rose from the stool. "Ye must continue to give all appearances that the marriage was not only consummated, but that his lordship is bent on getting an heir. Should Dungald believe otherwise, I would not put it past him to petition to have your marriage annulled or something else equally as dangerous."
Kara took a step back as Ian came around the table. It was on the tip of her tongue to ask him what they would do as time passed and she did not become pregnant, but she didn't want to broach the subject. Not tonight. "I... I'll say good night."
"I will walk you up."
He was so close that she could smell his clean hair and the damp wool where it brushed his back. They were ordinary scents, but somehow on him, disturbingly pleasant.
She lifted her palm. "No. Sit and finish your meal. I can find my chamber quite well on my own." She grabbed the candle and made a quick move for the door.
Ian remained where he was. As she turned the corner, she saw him lift the goblet to his lips and brush where hers had just been. That image kept her warm all the way back to her bed.
* * *
A week later, Kara stood beside Harry, who was seated in his father's chair in the private chamber off the great hall. Beyond the closed door, she could hear men's and women's voices. Harry's hounds barked and raced back and forth outside, adding to the commotion. She could have sworn
she heard the bleating of a sheep.
"You've nine matters to deal with this morning, my lord," Ian said from his stool at the desk, where he was putting documents in order.
Harry glanced at Kara and rolled his eyes. "I thought you told my brother I wished for more free time."
She patted his hand. "Aye, and free time you've been granted. After the nine cases, you've much of the afternoon to do what you please. Hunt, ride, play cards if you like. The master builder does not arrive to speak with you until four."
"If I hurry, that should give me three or four hours before I meet with the builder." He glanced at Ian and frowned. "Why am I seeing the builder again?"
"He'll be directing necessary repairs to the footing of the south wall, remember? We talked about this a fortnight ago. And I thought we would see about connecting the rooms in the tower so that you might be more comfortable now that you are a married man."
Harry shrugged and picked up a stick from his lap. With a small blade, he whittled and flipped shavings onto the floor. "I'm comfortable enough in my father's chamber."
This was the first Kara had heard of the intended improvements for the tower bedchamber she shared with Harry, but she was excited by the idea. With the rooms connected, maybe there would be a way to discreetly sleep separately... only until Harry was older, of course.
Ian rose from his chair. "Aye, I'm sure you are, Harry, but a woman needs more space than a man. A place to keep her clothing, her sewing, female trappings. And should there... when there are children," he corrected himself, clearing his throat, "you will be in need of a nursery. Your wife should also have a maid at her disposal. A girl could sleep in the small room at the end of the hall."
Harry gave a snort. "My mother was satisfied enough with the master bedchamber."
"If you recall," Ian said pointedly, "our mother spent less than two weeks a year at Dunnane. It's not as if she resided regularly with your father."
Harry frowned, apparently trying to remember, then shrugged. "Whatever."
Highland Bride Page 4
