Главная страница | Современная зарубежная литература | Lord of Dunkeathe

Lord of Dunkeathe
Margaret Moore
Sir Nicholas was desperately seeking a wife…The Lord of Dunkeathe had strength and cunning, and with a wife who brought him power and wealth, he would soon be the envy of all. But though countless eager young women paraded before him, vying for his favor, it was the sharp-tongued, quick-witted and completely unsuitable Lady Riona who drew him as no other.Lady Riona knew full well the arrogant knight would never choose an impoverished Scottish bride, but the Norman devil's heated glances held such promise that even she was ready to swoon at his feet. Lord help her, but Nicholas had her ready to trade her long-protected virtue for the promise of one night of passion in his arms!



Praise for Margaret Moore
“Entertaining! Excellent! Exciting! Margaret Moore has penned a five-star keeper!”
—BJ Deese, CataRomance Reviews on Bride of Lochbarr
“Margaret Moore’s characters step off the pages into your heart.”
—Romantic Times
“Ms. Moore…will make your mind dream of knights in shining armor.”
—Rendezvous
“…an author who consistently knows how to mix just the right amount of passion and pageantry.”
—Old Book Barn Gazette
“When it comes to excellence in historical romance books, no one provides the audience with more than the award-winning Ms. Moore.”
—Harriet Klausner, Under the Covers
“Her writing is full of humor and wit, sass and sexual tension.”
—Elena Channing, Heart Rate Reviews
“Margaret Moore has a captivating writing style…that lends itself to pure, fluid prose and vivid characterizations.”
—C. L. Jeffries, Heartstrings Reviews
“Fans of the genre will enjoy another journey into the past with Margaret Moore.”
—Romantic Times

Margaret Moore
Lord of Dunkeathe


With special thanks to my family
for their encouragement and support.

CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER ONE
Glencleith, Scotland, 1240
“PLEASE TALK TO HIM, RIONA,” eighteen-year-old Kenneth Mac Gordon pleaded as he walked beside his older cousin in the small yard of the fortress of Glencleith. “He willna listen to me, but he might to you. Thane or no, we’re poor and he’s got to quit offering food and shelter to every sod who shows up at the gate, or we’ll no’ have two coins to rub together.”
“Aye,” Riona Mac Gordon reluctantly agreed, “but it’ll break his heart if he canna offer the hospitality of his hall.”
The red-haired Kenneth pounded his fist into his palm for emphasis. “Father must face facts. We’re poor and getting poorer. He’s got to stop inviting every stranger he meets for a meal and a night’s lodging.”
“I’ll have a word wi’ him and see if I canna make him understand we need to be more careful,” Riona acquiesced as they reached the gate. Nearby, chickens scratched and pecked in the hard-packed earth near the stables. The wooden stakes that made up the outer wall were falling down in more than one place, and the gate couldn’t have kept out a determined child. “Maybe if I tell him you’ll have naught but some rocky ground and a run-down fortress to inherit, he might listen.”
“You should tell him that there’s nothing left for your dowry, either.”
“I don’t care about a dowry,” Riona answered. “Your father did enough taking me in when I was a wee bairn and treating me like a daughter e’er since. Besides, I’m too old to think about marrying now. I’m long past the first blush of youth, and none have offered that I cared to wed.”
“You’re not too old. That fellow from Arlee didn’t care about your age.”
“That’s because he was fifty if he was a day—and nearly toothless to boot. If that’s the sort I’ll have to choose from, I’ll gladly die a maid.”
“After rising from your sick bed to make sure all’s in hand before you go,” Kenneth noted.
“Somebody has to look after you and your father.”
“Aye, and the rest of the folk in Glencleith. Tell me, how many cottages have you visited in the past fortnight? How many complaints have you heard and dealt with on your own without troubling Father?”
Riona smiled. “I dinna mind. And the women feel better bringing their troubles to me.”
“That’s as may be, but it’s a fine job you do, sparing Father worry—although a little worry might do him some good. Maybe if we told him I’ll have no money and you’ll have no dowry, that’ll finally make him see the light.”
Riona sighed and leaned back against the wooden palisade. It creaked so precariously, she immediately straightened. “How I wish Uncle had plenty of money and a fine estate, that he could live as he would, without a care in the world. It’s no more than he deserves, for a kinder, more generous man doesn’t live. He’d teach these Norman lords about hospitality.”
“Aye, that he would.” Kenneth brushed a lock of his curly hair out of his eyes, then kicked at a stone near his toe. “Some day, Riona, things will be better. I promise.”
“At least our people can be happy knowing you’ll be just as fine a lord as your father, although perhaps a little more practical.”
That brought a smile to Kenneth’s freckled face that still had more lad than man in it. “I hope so. Tell me, do ye think Old Man Mac Dougan’s really as sick as he claims? He’s been dying—or claiming to be—since I can remember.”
“Aye, I do,” Riona replied. “He was that pale, I’m sure he isna well. I tried to get him to leave that drafty cottage of his, but he wouldn’t hear of it.”
“Just took the food and fuel you brought him, is that it?”
“Aye, but I worry about him, there by himself. Maybe I can persuade—”
“Ooooh, there was a fine lass from Killamagroooooo!” a male voice bellowed in song beyond the gates.
They both stiffened, like a hound on the scent.
“There’s Father now,” Kenneth unnecessarily said, for there was only one man in Glencleith who sang so loudly and lustily. “He sounds happy. Very happy.”
Riona didn’t point out that Uncle Fergus usually sounded happy. If he sounded unhappy, that would be cause for surprise.
“Here’s hoping he got a good price for the wool, then,” she said as she opened the gate.
“Here’s hoping he hasn’t brought back half a dozen tinkers or paupers he met along the way,” Kenneth added as he hurried to help her. “I should have gone with him. I would have, if he hadn’t left before I got back from hunting. I half think he did that on purpose.”
In the interest of family harmony, Riona didn’t tell Kenneth he was right. She’d tried to talk Uncle Fergus into waiting for his son’s return, only to have him wave her off and say he’d been dealing in wool since before she was born. That was true, but Riona also suspected he’d been getting cheated since before she was born, too.
“If he’s in a good mood,” Kenneth proposed, “now might be the best time to suggest he be more…or less—”
“I’ll speak to him right away,” Riona replied. Delaying wasn’t going to make her task any easier.
Through their unguarded gate came their ancient nag pulling a cart with tufts of wool clinging to the rickety sides. Uncle Fergus was perched on the seat, his feileadh belted low beneath his ample stomach, his linen shirt half-untucked. Wisps of his shoulder-length iron-gray hair had escaped from the leather thong he used to tie it back. He looked disheveled enough that Riona might have suspected he’d been drinking, except that Uncle Fergus rarely imbibed to excess, and never in the village.
“And I brought her hooooome from Killama-groooo!” he finished with a flourish before beaming down on his son and niece like a triumphant general home from a long and tough campaign.
“Ah, here you are and both together!” he cried, tossing aside the reins and rising. He spread his arms as if he wanted to embrace the whole of the small fortress, walls, stone buildings and all. “Riona, my beauty, I have such news for you!”
In spite of what she had to tell him and her fear about the price he’d gotten for the wool, Riona couldn’t help smiling. She was beautiful only in her uncle’s loving eyes, but his epithet always made her feel as if she might be a little beautiful.
“Such news—and I might have missed it if I’d waited,” he said with a wry look at his son. He turned and started to climb down, almost catching the fabric of his feileadh on the edge of the seat.
With a soft and mild curse, he tugged the fabric down so that it again covered his bare knee.
“Is your back troubling you?” Riona asked anxiously, as both she and Kenneth hurried forward to lend him a hand. “You didn’t help unload the wool, did you?”
“No, no, my beauty,” he assured her. “I let those young lads of Mac Heath do all the work.”
Kenneth shot Riona a disgruntled look. Mac Heath was not known for honest dealings and Riona didn’t doubt that if Kenneth had his way, they’d never speak to Mac Heath, let alone sell any wool to him.
“Why Mac Heath?” Kenneth asked.
“Because he gave me the best price.”
Riona and Kenneth exchanged another glance, only this time, Uncle Fergus intercepted it.
“Now, children,” he chided, although even his criticism was jovial, too. “There’s no need for such looks. I did as you suggested, Kenneth, and asked more than one how much he’d pay. Mac Heath gave the most.”
Riona guessed Mac Heath had done that because his scales were weighted. Before they could say anything more about that, though, Uncle Fergus threw his arms about their shoulders and gave them another expansive smile as he steered them toward the hall.
“Now let me tell you what I heard. It’s wonderful, something that’s going to make all the difference in the world to you, Riona,” he finished with a nod in her direction.
She had no idea what that could possibly be, unless he’d heard of a way to feed a small household for free.
Uncle Fergus dropped his arms as they reached the hall, a low rectangular stone building ten feet by twenty.
“You know of Sir Nicholas of Dunkeathe? The Norman fellow King Alexander gave that huge estate to, the one south of here, as a reward for his service?” Uncle Fergus asked as he led the way over the rush-covered floor to the central hearth where a peat fire burned, even on this relatively mild June day.
“Yes, I’ve heard of him,” Riona replied warily, wondering what on earth that Norman mercenary could have to do with her.
“So have I,” Kenneth said. “He’s as arrogant as they come—which is saying a lot, since he’s a Norman.”
“He’s got some right to be arrogant, if what they say about him is true,” Uncle Fergus replied. “It’s not every man who can start with almost nothing and make his way so far in the world. Aye, and he’s handsome as well as rich, and a friend of the king to boot.”
“So what has he to do with Riona, or she with him?” his son asked with a puzzlement that matched Riona’s.
“She’s going to have a lot to do with him,” Uncle Fergus replied as he threw himself into the one and only chair to grace the interior of the hall. “Word’s gone out that he’s looking for a wife. Any and all who meet the requirements are welcome to attend him at his castle and he’s going to pick a bride from among them. We’re to be there by noon on the day of the feast of St. John the Baptist—Midsummer’s Day. Sir Nicholas wants to make his choice by Lammas.”
“From the twenty-third of June to the first day of August isn’t very long,” Kenneth noted. “Why is Sir Nicholas in such a hurry?”
“Anxious to have a wife to help him run his castle, I don’t doubt. And who better to be his bride than our Riona, eh?”
Riona stared at him, completely dumbfounded. Uncle Fergus thought she ought to marry a Norman? He thought a Norman nobleman would want to marry her? Maybe he had been drinking.
Kenneth looked just as shocked. “You think Riona should marry a Norman?”
“That one, aye, if she can. A woman could do a lot worse.”
Riona found that hard to believe, and so, obviously, did Kenneth. “Even if Riona wanted him,” he said, darting her a look that showed how unlikely that would be, “what about these requirements you mentioned?”
“Oh, they’re not important,” Uncle Fergus declared, waving his hand dismissively. “What’s important is that this rich fellow needs a wife, and Riona deserves a fine husband.”
“Surely he won’t want me,” Riona protested.
Uncle Fergus looked at her as if she’d uttered blasphemy. “Why not?”
She picked the reason that would hurt him, and herself, the least. “He’ll want a Norman bride.”
“Well, he was born a Norman, I grant you,” Uncle Fergus reflected as he rubbed his bearded chin. “But he’s a Scots lord now. Dunkeathe was his reward from Alexander—our king, not the English one. King Alexander’s taken two Norman wives, too, so why shouldn’t a Norman wed a Scot? And didn’t Sir Nicholas change the name of his estate back to Dunkeathe from that ridiculous Norman name, Beauxville or Beauxview or whatever it was?”
“But he was a mercenary, a hardened killer for hire.”
“Aye, he was a fighter, and poor, as well,” Uncle Fergus said. “I can respect a man like that, who’s made something of himself.”
“He’ll no doubt want a wealthy bride.”
“Aye, and we’ve no money for a dowry,” Kenneth added.
Although it was true that they had almost nothing in the way of gold or silver, Riona cringed when she saw the stunned disbelief in her uncle’s blue eyes. “What, there’s nothing?”
“Not much,” Kenneth replied, his resolve slipping into prevarication. “I’ve been trying to warn you—”
“Aye, aye, so you have,” Uncle Fergus said, his brow furrowing. “I didn’t think it was as bad as all that.”
Riona had rarely seen her uncle look so worried, and she hated being a cause of distress to him now. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t—”
“Aye, what does the money or lack of it matter in the end?” Uncle Fergus declared, smiling once again as he interrupted her. “If it was some other woman, it might, but you’re the prize, my beauty, not a bag of coins.”
She tried another reason. “Uncle, I don’t know anything about running a Norman’s household.”
“What’s to know? You’ve been running mine since you were twelve. Besides, from what I hear about Norman women, they’re a poor lot. Spend all their time at embroidery and gossip.”
Not wanting to remind him that the Mac Gordon’s shining glory had dulled in the past one hundred years, Riona refrained from noting that running the household of a minor Scots thane with a small holding was very different from managing that of a Norman overlord with a vast castle and estate. “Most of them must be more industrious. It surely takes a great deal of time and effort to run the household of a lord.”
“They can’t be any better at it than you’ll be,” Uncle Fergus replied confidently. “You’re the most clever girl in Glencleith. Look how fast you learned the Normans’ language.”
“Who’ll look after things here if I’m gone?”
That gave Uncle Fergus a moment’s pause—but only a moment. “The smith’s daughter, Aigneas, will do for a while, until Kenneth finds himself a wife. She’s a bright lass.” His father winked at Kenneth. “I don’t think you’ll mind that, eh, my son?”
As Kenneth blushed, his father addressed Riona. “We’ll have to suffer a bit, it’s true—you’ve spoiled us something fierce, Riona. But that’s a sacrifice we’ll have to make. It’s time we thought of your happiness, not our own. The rest of our people might better appreciate how good you’ve been to them over the years, too.”
In spite of her uncle’s kind and flattering words, Riona had another reason not to go. “Sir Nicholas will want a young bride. I’m too old.”
“You’re no flighty, giggling girl, I’ll grant you—but that’s a point in your favor,” Uncle Fergus replied.
He hoisted himself to his feet. Giving her a woeful half smile, he gently took hold of her shoulders. “Riona, my beauty, it’s past time I quit being so selfish and keeping you here with me. I should have been more encouraging, maybe, to some of those young lads who started to come ’round when you were younger, except there wasn’t a one I thought deserved you. But you should have your own home, with a husband who loves you and children to honor you.”
When she started to protest, Uncle Fergus interrupted her. “There aren’t many I’d consider for you, but this one I would. He’s not a spoiled gentleman who’s never done so much as a hard day’s riding. He’s worked for what he’s got and your sweetness and wisdom will make things smooth between you.
“As for the dowry, or lack of it, it’s love that matters, not money. Once he meets you, he’ll surely fall in love with you. And while we’re poor, our family name is an old and respected one.
“What harm can it do to go meet the man? If you don’t like him, we’ll come straight home again.”
Uncle Fergus spoke so kindly and looked at her with such love, she felt like a brute for not instantly agreeing that she should try to marry Sir Nicholas of Dunkeathe, or do anything else Uncle Fergus asked of her.
Her uncle slid a glance to her cousin. “While we’re at Dunkeathe, you’ll be in charge of Glencleith, Kenneth. It’s about time you had some practice.”
Kenneth’s face lit up with excitement, and Riona realized that between the coming of Aigneas and this chance to lead, all of his former objections were done away with.
She couldn’t fault Kenneth for that. He was young and keen to find his way, and this would indeed be good practice for him. As for Aigneas, Riona wasn’t sure of the depth of Kenneth’s feelings for her, or hers for Kenneth. This might be a way for them to find out how deep their affection went.
His father gave Kenneth a little frown. “Aigneas’ll stay with her father and just come to the hall in the day,” he warned.
Abashed, Kenneth didn’t meet his father’s gaze. “I expected as much,” he mumbled.
“Good. And there’ll be no sweet-talking her into giving you more salt for your dinner. You’d think we were as rich as the king, the way you sprinkle that about.”
As Kenneth frowned, Riona thought of something else. If she went to Dunkeathe with Uncle Fergus, that would mean several days they wouldn’t be in Glencleith, eating their own stores. Her uncle would be someone else’s guest rather than an overly generous host.
“All right, Uncle,” she said. “You’ve convinced me I should at least go and see this paragon of a Norman.”
Uncle Fergus hugged her, fairly beaming. “That’s my beauty! And if he doesn’t pick you, he’s a fool and not worthy of you anyway.”
Riona wasn’t nearly so sure of that, and it might be a little embarrassing for her to find herself being compared to other women and no doubt found lacking, but if going to Dunkeathe made Kenneth and Uncle Fergus happy, and saved them some money, surely she could endure a bit of discomfort.

“WHAT DID I TELL YOU, Riona, eh?” Uncle Fergus cried as their cart came over the ridge of a hill a few days later.
Beyond lay a river valley, and standing to the east of the river was Castle Dunkeathe, a massive feat of masonry and engineering that had to impress anyone who saw it.
Around it, other, much smaller buildings comprised a sizable village, and there were farmsteads along the road leading to it, as well as fields of barley and oats, and meadows for grazing sheep and cows. The hills around the valley were wooded and Riona supposed the overlord and his friends hunted there with their hounds and hawks.
It made quite a contrast to Glencleith, which had some of the poorest, most rock-strewn land in the country.
“Did I no’ say it was quite a fortress?”
“Aye, you did, and aye, it is,” Riona murmured as she studied the huge edifice that had been years in the making.
Two thick stone walls and a dry moat comprised the outer defenses. Towers had been constructed along the walls to watch the road and the river and the hills beyond. The gatehouse was like a small castle itself and dwarfed the wagons passing under the wooden portcullis.
She couldn’t begin to fathom how much stone and mortar it had taken to construct it, or how many men, or the cost. Sir Nicholas must have been paid very well by King Alexander, and with more than the ground this castle stood upon.
He must have an army of servants as well as soldiers and archers, too. There were times it was difficult to keep things running smoothly on her uncle’s small estate, so she could only imagine some of the difficulties the lord of Dunkeathe must encounter. But then, he would have a steward and others to help him.
Perhaps the rumors of Sir Nicholas’s prowess in battle and tournaments weren’t exaggerations, after all. If he came from the humble beginnings her uncle claimed he did, he certainly had achieved a great deal, if one measured success by wealth and this fortress alone.
“We’re not the only ones who came in answer to the news of his search for a bride,” Uncle Fergus noted, nodding at the other carts and wagons already on the road ahead of them.
Several of these vehicles were richly decorated and accompanied by guards. Other men, cloaked and riding beautiful horses decked in colorful accoutrements, rode with them, and Riona assumed these were noblemen. More wagons held casks of what was likely wine or ale, and baskets or sacks of foodstuffs—enough to feed a multitude by the looks of it.
Just how many women was Sir Nicholas expecting?
Riona tried not to think about that, or compare those people and their wagons to her uncle’s rickety cart and their old gray horse. She wouldn’t worry about her dress, or her uncle’s Scots attire.
“King Alexander must have been very pleased with Sir Nicholas’s service,” she said as they approached the mighty gatehouse.
“Aye, I heard he was vital in putting down the last rebellion,” Uncle Fergus replied. “And he’s bonny to look at, so they say,” he reminded her with a wink. “Braw and rich and handsome—that’s rare.”
At the gatehouse, two armed soldiers stepped into the road, blocking the way. Both wore chain mail with black tunics over top, and carried spears as well as swords sheathed at their waist. Several soldiers patrolled the wall walk above, as if Sir Nicholas was expecting to be under siege at any moment.
Yet the times were peaceful enough, and it would take a large army, much determination and a lot of effort to capture this castle. Riona couldn’t think of any Scot who had such a force at his disposal, or who’d willingly rebel against Alexander now, for to move against the Norman would be a move against the man who’d rewarded him, too. Perhaps this show of force was just that—a show, intended to illustrate to all and sundry the might and power of the lord of Dunkeathe.
“Ere now, what’s this?” one of the soldiers asked, his accent revealing his Saxon heritage as he eyed them suspiciously. “Wot’s in the wagon?”
Riona wasn’t impressed by the man’s insolence. They should be addressed with more respect, no matter how they were dressed, or the state of their cart and horse.
“Our baggage,” she answered shortly. “Now if you’ll be so good as to move out of the way—”
“I don’t take orders from the likes o’ you,” the soldier retorted. He ran another scornful gaze over them, his sandy brows furrowing. “Who do ya think you’re foolin’?” He turned to his fellow soldier. “’Ere, Rafe, they must think we’re bumpkins or sommat.”
Uncle Fergus’s hand went to the dirk in his belt. “What are these louts saying, Riona?” he asked.
While he’d learned Norman French, Uncle Fergus had never troubled himself to learn the language of the Sassenach. He’d always left it to Riona to deal with merchants or traders from the south.
The last thing Riona wanted was a confrontation between her uncle and these likely well-trained and probably vicious soldiers. Uncle Fergus had been a fine fighter in his day, but that was long ago.
“Leave this to me, Uncle,” she said as she climbed down from the cart. “I’ll speak to them and make sure they understand who they’re talking to.”
The thin guard gestured at the cart with his spear. “You’ve come wi’ somethin’ to sell, I’ll wager, and likely aiming to cheat. Well, whatever it is, his lordship ain’t buying.” Still using his spear as if it were an extension of his hand, he pointed down the road. “Turn around and go back to the bog you come from.”
Riona tried to keep a rein on her temper as she marched up to them. “This is Fergus Mac Gordon Mac Darbudh, Thane of Glencleith,” she declared as she stopped in front of the soldier and shoved his spear aside.
“Oh, this man in the skirt’s a thane, is he?” the guard replied with a smirk. “Thane of the Bog of Bogworth, I think. And who’re you? His daughter? Or his…something else?”
Riona’s lip curled with disgust and she drew herself up to her full height. “He’s my uncle. I am Lady Riona of Glencleith, and you will let us pass, or I’ll tell your overlord of your insolence.”
The stocky man’s eyes widened. “You’re a lady, are you?”
A look of sudden comprehension came to his beady black eyes and he grinned as he nudged his companion. “Look ’ere, Harry. She says she’s a lady—come to marry Sir Nicholas, no doubt.” He tilted back his head and called up to the soldiers on the wall walk. “Did ya hear that? She thinks she’s got a chance for Sir Nicholas!”
As they burst out laughing, Riona turned on her heel—and discovered Uncle Fergus right behind her.
“That’s it,” he declared, reaching for his dirk. “I don’t know what they’re saying, but I’m sure it’s rude. I’m going to teach these Sassenach some manners.”
She put her hand on his arm to prevent him from drawing his weapon. “Don’t bother, Uncle. They’re not worth the trouble. Come on, let’s go meet their master.”
Uncle Fergus hesitated and for a moment she feared he would indeed try to fight the more heavily armed and younger soldiers. But then, to her relief, he nodded. “All right,” he grudgingly agreed. “He’s more important than these worthless louts.”
Wondering how they were going to get inside the castle, Riona walked back to the wagon and climbed onto the seat. As Uncle Fergus joined her, she looked at the two soldiers, who were still standing at the gates, smirking and laughing, and got an idea.
She raised the reins and briskly slapped the horse’s back, not hard enough to hurt, but sharp enough to startle. With an indignant whinny, the mare broke into a run. Just as startled, Uncle Fergus gave a yelp and grabbed on to the seat.
“Out of the way!” she shouted to the soldiers.
One shoved the other into the moat, then fell after him, their mail jingling as they rolled down to the bottom.
Serves you right, she thought as their horse slowed to an anxious trot once they were through the gatehouse and into the open space of the inner ward. She glanced back, fearing the men at the gates or on the walk would give chase. She heard someone shout to let them go and leave them for Sir Nicholas to deal with.
Not the most comforting of thoughts, but at least she hadn’t let the soldiers send them away like unwelcome beggars.
“Oh, my beauty, they’ll be remembering you!” Uncle Fergus exclaimed as he started to laugh.
She wasn’t sure that was a good thing. “I shouldn’t have lost my temper. Charging them like a warrior queen wasn’t very ladylike.”
Uncle Fergus patted her on the knee. “They were rude and insolent, and it’s not as if you hurt them. When you’re Sir Nicholas’s wife, you can have them sent away.”
If this was the sort of fellow the lord of Dunkeathe commanded, she certainly didn’t want to be the lady of Dunkeathe. Indeed, it was all she could do not to ask to go home right now. This fortress was too enormous, too intimidating, too Norman by far.
They reached the second imposing gate. Through it she could see the courtyard—and a mass of wagons, servants, horses and soldiers. The noise they made was like waves on the shore, rising and falling, punctuated by the occasional neigh or a brusque order.
Riona steeled herself for another confrontation with insolent Sassenach, but this time there was just a single man standing beside the entrance. He was of middle years, Riona guessed, and definitely not a Scot, for he wore the dress of a Norman and had his light brown hair cut in that peculiar style they favored, as if someone had set a bowl on their head. He was holding a wax tablet and a stylus, so she assumed he must be some kind of clerk.
“The kitchen’s to the left of the hall,” the man said when Uncle Fergus pulled the horse to a halt.
Maybe he wasn’t a Norman, after all, for he spoke Gaelic very well.
“That’s good to know if I get hungry,” Uncle Fergus replied, clearly trying to control his temper. “I’m Fergus Mac Gordon Mac Darbudh, thane of Glencleith, and this is Lady Riona, my niece. We’ve heard about Sir Nicholas’s quest for a bride.”
The man’s eyes betrayed his surprise, but he quickly recovered. “I see. Have you some proof of your title?”
This was something Riona hadn’t foreseen. She was envisioning an ignominious retreat past those Saxon guards when Uncle Fergus said, “If it’s proof you need, I have the king’s charter. I’m guessing a royal document with the king’s seal will be good enough for you?”
Riona stared at him with surprise. He hadn’t said anything to her about bringing the charter; nevertheless, she was relieved to be spared any more embarrassment.
“Aye, it will be,” the man said as Uncle Fergus climbed down from the cart.
He rummaged through the worn leather pouch that held his clothes. “Ah, here it is,” he said as he pulled out a parchment scroll and unrolled it. “Sealed and signed by Alexander himself.”
The man examined it a moment, and Riona realized she was holding her breath.
“Everything seems to be in order,” the man said. He handed back the parchment to Uncle Fergus, who rolled it up again, and wrote their names on his tablet. “Welcome to Castle Dunkeathe, my lord, my lady. I am Robert Martleby, Sir Nicholas’s steward.”
“Delighted to meet you, Martleby,” Uncle Fergus replied in his usual jovial manner.
“I’m pleased to meet you, too, my lord. Now, if you’ll be so good as to carry on into the yard, the head groom will tell you where you may stable your horse and put your, um, conveyance.”
“What about our quarters?” Uncle Fergus asked.
“There’ll be someone in the ward to direct you,” Martleby replied.
“Excellent!” Uncle Fergus exclaimed as he got back on the cart.
He lifted the reins and clucked his tongue, and the cart rumbled over the cobblestones into the inner yard. Once inside, the noise was overwhelming, worse than the celebrations of May Day and a market combined. There had to be a hundred people there, some still in their wagons, others mounted and more already on the ground. Servants dashed between the people and vehicles, and various soldiers milled about in small groups. Drivers shouted at each other as they tried to maneuver the wagons that held not just guests, but their considerable baggage, too.
Thank heavens trying to organize this crowd wasn’t her responsibility, Riona thought. For once, she could just sit and wait to be told what to do, instead of having to figure out how to do it.
On the other hand, it was frustrating, too. Forming a line to speak to the man in charge would be one solution to some of the confusion. Setting servants to direct the drivers toward the stables would have been another. Assigning one servant to each guest, to see to their baggage and accommodation, would have lessened the chaos, too.
It took Uncle Fergus a while, but eventually he managed to get their horse and cart off to one side, away from the more crowded center. The odors coming out of the building closest to them told Riona they must be beside the kitchen.
“Now, Riona, which one of these fine gentlemen do you suppose is Sir Nicholas?” Uncle Fergus asked, scratching his beard as he surveyed the yard.
“I have no idea,” she answered, her gaze going from one richly attired man to another. None of them looked like her idea of a hardened mercenary.
Uncle Fergus nodded at a haughty man of mature years, mounted on a gray horse. “What about him?”
“How old is Sir Nicholas?”
“Aye, you’re right. That fellow’s not young enough. Maybe that one there?” Uncle Fergus gestured at a man who was certainly young, dressed in bright yellow damask and mounted upon a white horse with very elaborate accoutrements of silver, like his master’s spurs.
“He doesn’t look the sort to have ever been a soldier,” Riona warily replied.
Frowning with concentration, Uncle Fergus nodded. “Aye. That one wouldn’t want to muss his clothes and fighting’s a bloody, sweaty, messy business. Maybe him?”
Riona followed his pointing finger to a man standing in the middle of the yard surrounded by several well-dressed men and a few soldiers who all seemed to be asking questions at the same time. He was dark haired, but not exactly young, and he appeared distinctly harried as he gestured at the stables as if in answer to their queries. “I think he must be the head groom,” she said.
“I think you’re right,” Uncle Fergus agreed as he started to get down off their wagon. “And since he’s the fellow I’m supposed to see about stabling our horse and putting our cart somewhere, I’d best go speak to him. I’ll try to find out about our quarters, too, while I’m at it. Stay here, Riona, till I get back. And keep an eye out for our host. I’m sure he’s here somewhere, greeting his guests.”
Riona wasn’t so sure about that, although Sir Nicholas would be guilty of a breach of good manners if he wasn’t. But since she had nothing else to do anyway, she nodded and waved a little farewell as Uncle Fergus set off through the crowd.
Wondering how long he was likely to be, and what Sir Nicholas was really like—for she didn’t doubt Uncle Fergus’s description was overly favorable—she turned her attention back to the people in the courtyard.
Several servants were unloading the wagons and taking chests and bundles into a large building on the other side of the yard that looked like a barracks, save for the narrow arched windows. Perhaps they were family apartments and servants’ chambers.
Beside that was another long building, which she guessed was the hall.
In addition to the kitchen, there were stables and other buildings that were probably storehouses of some sort, and an armory. She suspected there were more buildings that she couldn’t see to accommodate the garrison.
Maybe Sir Nicholas was looking out of one of the windows in the second floor of the apartments, watching them, smugly pleased to see all the people who’d come, and exulting in their urge to have one of their family meet his approval.
Maybe he was in his solar, trying to figure out how he was going to pay for the food necessary to feed this multitude, and where they were going to stay. Imagining a brawny, not overly intelligent ex-soldier worriedly scratching his head and puzzling over food was amusing, but not very likely. Sir Nicholas was obviously rich, as this castle attested, so he would surely not be concerned with such mundane matters.
Perhaps he’d gone out hunting, getting away from the hustle and bustle until all was settled. Then he could return in a flurry of hoofbeats, weapons, hawks and a swirling cloak, like a great hero coming home.
Well, there’d be at least one person in Castle Dunkeathe who wouldn’t react with awe and delight, she thought, even if she did have to admit to a certain curiosity to see the man who could create all this fuss and bother over a potential marriage. Maybe he was quite a prize, given the number of people here.
She wondered which lady might win him. That one, just disembarking from her blue wagon? If she proved to be younger than she was, she’d be surprised. The brown-haired one walking into the hall? She, too, was finely attired, but she certainly couldn’t be called graceful. And Riona could hear her giggling all the way across the yard.
Perhaps that very young, very pretty, dark-haired young woman wearing a lovely blue velvet cloak trimmed with red fox fur seated on a palfrey. Although she was as expensively attired as any and mounted on a very fine horse, she looked lost and lonely and more than a little frightened. She also didn’t look much more than sixteen.
The poor thing probably didn’t want to be here, either. Feeling sympathetic, Riona gave the girl a friendly smile when she looked Riona’s way.
The girl’s eyes widened with surprise. Still smiling, Riona shrugged her shoulders, as if to say, “I don’t know what I’m doing here, either.”
The girl returned her smile, until the young man in yellow damask approached her and commanded her attention. He helped her dismount and then they went into the hall.
When they were gone, Riona idly surveyed the wagons and people left in the yard. She noticed a man she hadn’t seen before leaning against the stable wall, watching the activity in the courtyard, just as she was.
He couldn’t be a nobleman, for he wore only a leather jerkin without a shirt beneath, exposing his broad chest and arms. The rest of his clothing was likewise simple and nondescript—brown woolen breeches, a wide belt with bronze buckle, scuffed leather boots. It was obvious from the way his breeches clung to his thighs that more than his arms were muscular, and his lean, dark features proclaimed him a mature man in his most powerful prime.
He must be a soldier off duty waiting for an order, or the person issuing them. He might even be a Scot, for although he wore the dress of men from the south, his dark brown hair hung to his shoulders—a far cry from the style favored by the Normans.
In his watchful stillness, he reminded her of a cat. She’d known a feline to sit outside a mouse hole, unmoving, unflinching, for an entire morning waiting for the mouse to show itself. She didn’t doubt this man could wait with the same sort of patience for his prey. Sir Nicholas must pay his soldiers well, for surely a warrior of that sort didn’t come cheaply.
One of the maidservants, a pretty woman with a mole on her breast, hurried past. The man glanced her way, which wasn’t surprising. What was surprising was the way the pretty servant reacted. Instead of smiling flirtatiously, as she had with several other men, both noble and servants, she became wary, perhaps even frightened. She quickened her already brisk pace and hurried past Riona.
The man’s gaze followed the servant—until it met Riona’s.
It was like being pinned to the ground and studied at leisure. Never had she been subjected to such intense scrutiny, from anyone. Never had she been so taken aback and flustered by a man’s look.
She immediately averted her eyes. Yet in the next instant, she regretted her trepidation and commanded herself not to be so silly. Why shouldn’t she meet his gaze squarely? It wasn’t as if she were a servant or hireling that he had any power over.
So she boldly raised her eyes to return his steadfast gaze, determined to keep looking at him until he looked away. Their gazes met, and held.
He slowly raised one dark brow.
Did he think he was going to make her look away with that unspoken interrogation? Did he think she would give him the victory in this strange little game? Never!
She leisurely arched her own brow.
His other dark brow rose.
Once more, she mirrored his action.
He slowly started to smile.
So did she.
Still keeping his gaze upon her, the man lowered his arms. Then he pushed himself off the wall and sauntered toward her.

CHAPTER TWO
HE WAS COMING TOWARD HER? By the saints, what was he going to say, or do? Maybe he was going to suggest…improprieties.
Riona’s breathing quickened as she told herself she’d ensure he understood that she was a lady of virtue and honor. She wasn’t a servant to whom he could make insolent suggestions.
And she shouldn’t be blushing like an addlepated girl as he continued to stroll toward her with that leisurely yet purposeful stride.
If she quit staring at him, perhaps he’d be satisfied and leave her alone.
“You there!” a woman called out imperiously.
The soldier halted and they both turned toward the wagon from whence the voice came.
It sported a painted canvas covering that had an opening at the back like the flaps of a tent, now held apart by an apple-cheeked, middle-aged maidservant, her hair covered by a white scarf, her dress one of dark brown wool. Seated beside the maidservant was a pale young woman with blond hair wearing a gossamer veil of white silk kept in place by a thin gold coronet. Her neck was long and slender, and the square bodice of her dark green silk gown was embroidered with golden thread. As for her features, she would have been very beautiful, had her ruby-red lips not been drawn up into a disdainful sneer.
“Yes, you,” she said in a haughty drawl as she addressed the solider. “Come here.”
He did as he was ordered.
The rich beauty raised a bejeweled hand. “Unload that,” she commanded, gesturing at a nearby wagon containing several wooden chests and boxes. “Ask my father, Lord Chesleigh, where they should go. And see that you don’t break anything, or I’ll have you whipped.”
“As you wish, my lady,” the soldier replied, his voice low and deep and as powerful as the rest of him.
By his accent, he was not, and never had been, a peasant.
Perhaps he was in charge of the garrison here, although why he’d stoop to such manual labor was a mystery.
Riona continued to watch as he undid the rope across the back of the wagon that prevented the boxes and chests from falling out. One by one, he lifted the pieces of baggage and set them neatly on the cobblestones, his muscles bulging and his jerkin stretching across his broad back. Even when he was nearly finished, he’d barely broken a sweat.
The older nobleman Uncle Fergus had suggested might be Sir Nicholas joined the young lady at the wagon.
“Be careful with those,” he unnecessarily ordered the soldier before he addressed the lady. “I must say I’m most disappointed with our host. He should be here to greet us.”
“It’s just as well he’s not, Father,” she replied. “I’d like to change my gown before I meet him.”
“We’ve only been allotted two small chambers,” the nobleman grumbled.
“I’m sure that once you explain what we require, he’ll gladly provide it. You are Lord Chesleigh, after all.”
With that, the young woman put out her slender hand for him to help her, the golden rings on her fingers flashing in the sunlight. Rising with regal dignity, half crouching because of the canvas covering, she had to bend over before setting foot on the stool another servant hastened to set in place.
To give the beauty her due, she managed to invest even that activity with grace and dignity. As she straightened, her gown fell into smooth, fluid folds below her slender waist and the golden embroidery of her gown twinkled in the sunlight, while the gilded girdle about her slender hips shone. With her other hand, she held up her dress, exposing one delicate leather slipper before she stepped onto the ground.
It seemed almost a wonder she would deign to walk on anything so ordinary as cobblestones.
Lord Chesleigh glanced at the soldier. “Ask Martleby where the baggage of Lord Chesleigh and his daughter should go, and see that it’s taken there.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Lord Chesleigh ran an imperious gaze over the man. “And be quick about it.”
The Norman lord then swept past the soldier as if getting within three feet of him might stain his garments. His daughter followed at a more graceful pace.
Instead of tending to their baggage, however, or calling for assistance, the soldier turned and started toward Riona.
She tried not to squirm or give any sign of dismay, even if she was dismayed. And excited. Which she shouldn’t be. She should try to be dignified when she explained that she wasn’t a servant or merchant come to trade.
He stopped about a foot from her wagon and regarded her steadily with dark, inscrutable eyes whose gaze never wavered. Again, she felt entrapped by it, and him. Although the sensation should have been unpleasant, it wasn’t. It was…thrilling.
“Would you like me to help you with your baggage, too?” he asked in that deep, slightly husky voice that seemed to offer its own temptations, and convey more than a simple question.
What, in the name of the saints and Scotland, had come over her?
Before she could give an answer—any answer—a movement on the wall walk above made them both glance up at the guard there. With a look akin to panic directed toward the man on the ground, the guard immediately snapped to attention, and Riona realized this fellow facing her was most definitely not a common foot soldier.
A relatively young and handsome man who looked like he’d been trained in arms and combat, and one of whom all the hirelings seemed afraid….
Of course.
“No, thank you, Sir Nicholas,” she replied, giving him no sign that she was puzzled and curious. “I’m sure you’ve got plenty of other things to do.”
His brows lowered. “As a matter of fact, I do.”
“Then please, don’t linger here chatting with me. My uncle and I can manage our baggage quite well.”
The man she was now quite sure was Sir Nicholas of Dunkeathe bowed stiffly, then turned on his heel and strode away, leaving Riona to ponder why a Norman nobleman would pretend he was not.

A SHORT TIME LATER, the lord of Dunkeathe stood looking out the narrow arched window of his solar surveying the yard below, which was now almost clear of wagons, horses and guests.
The room was as austere as the man himself. No tapestries graced the smooth stone walls. An unpainted wooden chest with leather hinges and bronze lock that held the tithe rolls and accounts of the estate stood against the wall. The rest of the furnishings were likewise simple and plain, and the floor was bare. On a table near the door stood the only articles of any beauty—a silver carafe and two finely worked silver goblets.
His hands clasped behind his back, Nicholas watched the young woman who had guessed who he was, or perhaps found out some other way. Since he’d left the courtyard she’d gotten down off the rickety cart, but she hadn’t ventured from its side. She must still be waiting for her mistress or master to tell her where to go.
“Ten ladies, with their noble relatives, twenty-six servants, and one hundred and ten soldiers have arrived,” his steward noted behind him. “That’s two more ladies and their entourages than we’d expected.”
Which one of the nobles did that bright-eyed, brown-haired young woman belong to? Nicholas wondered. She wasn’t a servant of the complaining Lord Chesleigh and his beautiful daughter, or they would have chastised her for speaking to an unknown man.
She’d been amazingly and boldly impertinent to him in a way few women, and no servants, ever were. Indeed, she’d been so bold and intriguing, he’d been very tempted to suggest she join him in his bed. Her bright sparkling eyes seemed to promise passion and desire and excitement.
He wouldn’t have, of course. He’d never in his life seduced a servant. And he certainly shouldn’t now, when he was supposed to be wooing a wife.
Robert Martleby delicately cleared his throat, reminding Nicholas that he was still there.
Nicholas forced his mind to the issue at hand and turned to face his steward. “In spite of the unexpected arrivals, you’ve seen to it that all the guests and their servants have been accommodated?”
“Yes, my lord. We’ve had to pitch tents in the outer ward for several of the soldiers. I had some of ours join them, so there would be no accusations of poor treatment, and to keep an eye on them, as well.”
Nicholas nodded his approval. “You’ll have to find larger quarters for Lord Chesleigh and his daughter. He wasn’t pleased with those you assigned him. He thought they were too small.”
Robert frowned and studied the list in his hand.
“Does that present a problem?”
“Perhaps I can switch his chamber with that of Sir Percival de Surlepont.”
“That would put Sir Percival’s chamber next to mine?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Very well. See that the change is made—and make it sound as if that was a mistake that had to be corrected, and that this is some sort of honor to Percival instead of an inconvenience, or being done in response to a complaint.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Who did Percival bring?”
Robert’s gaze returned to the tablet. “His cousin, Lady Eleanor.” He raised his eyes to regard Nicholas. “Apparently he is her nearest male relation.”
“What’s she like?”
“Pretty and modest.”
Nicholas recalled the young women in the courtyard, but no one in particular came to mind. The only two women he could remember with any clarity were that bold maidservant and the haughty daughter of Lord Chesleigh. “How old is Lady Eleanor?”
“Seventeen.”
He didn’t want a girl for a wife, but a woman capable of taking responsibility and leadership of the household. He had no desire to have to deal with a shy, fearful bride on his wedding night, either.
That impertinent, brown-eyed maidservant with the thick braids down her back, and the little wisps of hair that escaped to dance upon her intelligent brow, wouldn’t be shy. His blood warmed as he imagined how she might react if he took her in his arms and captured her mouth with his.
“Sir Percival assured me her dowry would be substantial, my lord.”
Once again Nicholas commanded himself to stop thinking about that servant. “I’ve heard the family is quite rich.”
“Yes, my lord, they are, and a sizeable dowry will go a long way toward solving any difficulties…” Robert flushed and let the words trail off when he saw Nicholas’s disgruntled expression.
“We’ve enough ready coin to get us to Lammas and through a wedding, don’t we?” Nicholas asked. “The wool must have brought in something.”
“Yes, it did, my lord, but I must point out that the expense of this…this…”
“I have to entertain my guests in the style they expect,” Nicholas replied as Robert floundered for the word to describe his overlord’s method of finding a bride. “I won’t have them thinking I’m desperate—which I’m not.” Not yet, anyway. “It’s your responsibility to see that no one suspects I’m running short of funds.”
“You’re not yet in dire straits, my lord,” Robert assured him.
“Good. By Lammas I should have a bride in hand, or at least a betrothal agreement and promise of a dowry. Who else has come?”
“Lady Mary, the daughter of the Earl of Eglinburg, Lady Elizabeth, sister of the Duke of Ansley, Lady Catherine, daughter of the Comte D’Ortelieu, Lady Isabelle, ward of Sir James of Keswick, Lady Eloise, daughter of Sir George de Chillery, Lady Lavinia, second cousin to the Duc D’Anglevoix, Lady Priscilla, niece of the Abbot of St. Swithins-by-the-Sea who came with her brother Audric, and Lady Joscelind, daughter of Lord Chesleigh of Kent.”
Ah yes, the beautiful—and proud—Lady Joscelind and her equally proud and arrogant father. He wondered what they’d do when they discovered they’d been ordering their host about as if he were their lackey. That should prove interesting—although, given their natures, they might take offense that he hadn’t identified himself. He’d have to ensure that he gave them a believable explanation.
Nicholas strolled back to the window and saw that the maidservant was still standing by the cart. She shifted her feet, as if her patience was wearing thin. “That’s only nine,” he noted, glancing over his shoulder. “Who’s the tenth?”
“Nobody of any consequence, my lord. In fact, I probably should have denied them admittance to the courtyard, but the fellow did have a charter and you had said that all women of noble birth were to be considered. His niece meets that qualification.”
Nicholas raised an inquisitive brow, just as he had in the courtyard. That serving wench had then done the same, surprising and secretly amusing him more than he’d been amused in…well, a long time. “Who is this nobleman with a charter you don’t think should be here?”
“A Scot, my lord, the Thane of Glencleith. I asked those of our men who are Scots, and it seems he’s the holder of a small estate to the north. Politically, he’s completely unimportant, and I understand he’s quite poor.”
“Only one Scots noble came?”
“Yes, my lord.”
Only one—and he was a lord in this country. Clearly it didn’t matter to the Scots that he’d changed the name of his estate back to the original one, or that his sister had married into one of their clans. He was still, first and foremost, a representative of the Normans and their unwelcome intrusion into Scotland.
Yet whatever they thought, he’d earned Dunkeathe and recalcitrant Scots or no, he’d keep it. If he had to marry for money and influence to ensure that, he would.
A fist pounded on the door. Nicholas wheeled around just as the door flew open and a short, brawny, gray-haired, bearded, potbellied Scot wearing one of their skirted garments bustled into the room.
Before Nicholas could demand an explanation, the intruder came to a halt, put his hands on his hips, and smiled at them both. “Here you are!” he cried in heavily accented French. “Delighted to make your acquaintance, my lord. I thought you’d be in the courtyard greeting your guests, but obviously Normans have a different idea of politeness.”
He looked around the room before his gaze settled again on Nicholas. “Wonderful castle you’ve got here. This chamber’s a bit bare, but when you’re married, your wife will change that.”
Nicholas’s first thought was that the man was half-mad, while Robert looked like he was going to faint.
“My lord, I—I—” the steward stammered, clearly aghast and at a loss to explain what was happening.
The fellow seemed harmless, if audacious. “Welcome to Dunkeathe,” Nicholas replied, giving Robert a look to assure him he wasn’t angry.
Robert recovered the powers of speech. “My lord, this is Fergus Mac Gordon Mac Darbudh, the Thane of Glencleith.”
The poor, politically unimportant Scottish noble.
Whatever Nicholas thought of the man personally, and no matter how poor and seemingly unimportant he might be, Nicholas knew he had to be diplomatic. He’d lived in Scotland for a decade, and he still couldn’t fathom the complicated relationships between the clans. It could be that this man had relatives who were far more politically important than he himself.
Therefore, he put a smile on his face and calmly inquired, “Is there something I can do for you, my lord?”
“It’s not what you can do for me,” the boisterous Scot replied. “It’s what I can do for you. I’ve brought you the perfect bride.” He smiled with immense, and quite sincere, satisfaction. “My niece, Riona. She’s a very fine girl, my lord—no man could do better when it comes to marriage. She’s a sweet lass, and she’s been the joy of my life since she came to me when she was two years old and her sainted parents died.
“She’s run my household since she was twelve, too,” he continued before Nicholas or Robert could get a word in. “The servants follow her orders without question and while she keeps them in good order, they love her. I’ll wager there aren’t many Norman ladies so beloved by their servants as my Riona is.
“And she’s clever, too. She keeps all the accounts and knows where every penny’s spent. She’s saved me many a penny, too, I can tell you—although that won’t mean much to you, for there’s plenty in your purse, I know. But still, no man wants a wasteful wife. Granted she’s not got a large dowry, but what’s that to a man of your wealth, eh? What are a few more coins in the purse if your wife’s making your life a misery? Riona could never do that. She’ll be a bride any man could be proud of and I wouldn’t offer her up to just any man, either.”
With that, he folded his arms over his chest and beamed as if he’d just saved Nicholas from a fate worse than death.
Unfortunately for Fergus Mac Gordon, his niece could be the most wonderful of women, but if she was poor, she had no chance of becoming Nicholas’s bride. The personal attributes of his wife were considerably less important to him than the dowry she would bring.
Nevertheless, the man was probably as proud as all the Scots were, and he’d likely be insulted if Nicholas refused to consider his niece from the start, so he had best not be too quick to dismiss her.
“I thank you for bringing your niece to Dunkeathe,” he said politely, “and I’m sure she’s a very fine young woman. I assure you, I’ll take all the qualities of every lady into account before I make my choice. Now if you’ll excuse me, my steward and I have other matters to discuss.”
“Of course you do!” the Scot cried. To Nicholas’s relief, he didn’t seem a whit dismayed by this polite dismissal as he backed toward the door. “You’re a very busy fellow, I’m sure, with this great pile of a castle to tend to. So many soldiers, too—an army you’ve got, although who’d dare to attack you here? The man would have to be mad.”
Then, just as abruptly as he’d entered, he was gone.
It was like the calm after a maelstrom. Or before a storm.
“My lord, I do beg your pardon,” Robert said, clearly horrified by what had just happened. “I had no idea he’d do that, none whatsoever!”
At the sight of Robert’s red, indignant face Nicholas had to turn away and look out the window again, for he felt the most unusual urge to laugh.
He noticed the maidservant was still standing by the cart. “I take it you personally didn’t invite him to join us here?”
“Absolutely not, my lord!”
“Then it’s not your fault.”
“I’ll inform him at once that he cannot remain here, my lord.”
“I didn’t say he had to leave. He’s still the only noble Scot to come, and I don’t think it would be wise to do anything that might cause him to depart before I make my final choice. The ties of blood and family go deep in this country. He may be of little importance, but he might have relatives who are, and they could stand against me if he feels insulted.”
“I haven’t heard that he has any relatives who might cause us trouble, my lord.”
“The ties between clans are complicated. I can’t remember half the clans my sister’s related to now. It would be better to take no chances, so I should at least make it appear that I’m considering his niece.”
Suddenly, the stocky Scot came rushing into the courtyard and headed straight for the maidservant.
“Riona!” he called out, waving. She waved back and hurried toward him eagerly.
God’s rood, was that young woman the thane’s niece? That woman he’d been trying not to imagine in his bed?
“So, here you are, brother. I should have guessed you’d be holed up here instead of talking to the bevy of beauties who’ve come to vie for your hand.”
Nicholas briefly closed his eyes and prayed for patience before he turned around.
His younger brother strolled into the room and threw himself into Nicholas’s chair and put his feet on the table. Like his brother, Henry was strong and well-muscled, a warrior in his prime, and now he sat smiling smugly as if he had not a care in the world.
Which was quite probably true.
“You may leave us, Robert,” Nicholas said, subduing his envy of the brother who’d never shared his struggles.
“Yes, you may leave me to bid farewell to my brother,” Henry said with a wave of his hand, “although I must say, Nicholas, I’m rather tempted to stay a few more days. I had no idea your net would gather such a fine catch. Mind you, that one with the giggle…” He shuddered and shook his head. “Not quite what I’d want to wake up to every morning.”
“I didn’t think you cared who you woke up with as long as you’d enjoyed yourself the night before.”
Henry laughed. “Well, I’d care if she was my wife, which is why you won’t find me sending out word that I’m in the market for a bride, with all and sundry welcome to come and vie for my hand. Really, brother, you make it sound like you’re nothing more than a stallion ready for breeding.”
Nicholas took two long paces and swiped his brother’s feet from the table. “Keep your muddy boots on the floor.”
Henry regarded him with annoyance. “Pardon me for not realizing you were getting so fastidious in your old age.”
“That table cost more than I made the first six months of my service with the Duc D’Aubreay. You may be able to forget when we were poor, but I don’t.”
“I don’t forget.”
“Good.”
Henry got to his feet. “So I do understand why you want a rich wife from a well-connected family.” His temper, so easily roused, was dying down, as it always did. Eventually. “God’s blood, so do I. It’s the method I question, Nicholas.”
Nicholas poured himself some wine from the silver carafe. “I see nothing wrong with having women come to me, instead of running all over the countryside trying to find a bride.”
“I suppose it does make it easier—but wouldn’t it be cheaper to go to them?”
It certainly would, but Nicholas didn’t want anyone to realize he had financial troubles, not even Henry. “It’s not the expense.” He poured wine in another goblet and handed it to his brother. “I don’t want to be long from my estate.”
Henry took a drink and looked over the rim of the goblet at Nicholas. “If this were my estate, I’d get away as often as I could. The weather alone—”
“I don’t mind the rain, especially when I have a castle in which to dry off,” Nicholas replied as he sat in his chair.
“That does make a difference, I suppose,” Henry said, leaning back against the table. “But there’s the Scots to deal with. They’re stubborn and coarse, the lot of them.”
“That’s what Marianne said before she married one of them,” Nicholas noted. “Our sister seems quite happy now.”
Henry sniffed and took another drink of Nicholas’s fine wine. “She’s a woman, and we both know women are slaves to their hearts. Would you marry a Scot?”
“I’d certainly consider a Scot if she had a large dowry and was from an important family.”
“I really think you would at that.”
Nicholas’s temper flared. “I do live in their country, and it was a Scot who gave me this estate.”
Henry put the goblet down on the large table. “You’d better be careful, or you might wind up more Scots than Norman, like Marianne. You’ve already let your hair grow long, the way they do.”
“It saves time,” Nicholas replied. “However, I doubt I’ll ever be mistaken for a Scot, whoever I marry, and as for our sister, she seems content, and I’m happy to have her husband for an ally. I need all the allies I can get in this country.”
Henry, who wore his hair in the Norman fashion, took a long drink, then wiped his lips. “Surely the woman herself should count for something.”
“Naturally,” Nicholas said as he set down his goblet. “She’ll have to be able to run a household without pestering me about expenses or petty squabbles among the servants.”
“You must want her to be pretty,” Henry said. “Or do you intend never to see her by daylight? Or candlelight? Or torchlight?”
“Of course I don’t want to marry some old hag. But as long as she’s not repulsive, her looks are immaterial to me.”
Henry didn’t hide his skepticism. “You used to be more discerning. In fact, you used to be quite fussy in that regard. Considering this is a woman you’ll have to make love to several times if you’re to have heirs, I’m surprised to hear you claim otherwise.”
“All I wanted from a whore was to slake my lust. This is different.”
“Exactly,” Henry cried triumphantly, “because presumably, she’ll also be the mother of your children. You don’t want a bunch of ugly brats, do you?”
“I want my sons to be courageous, honorable men, and my daughters honorable, demure women—as their mother should be. What they look like is less important.”
“We’ll see how serious you are about your future wife’s appearance when you make your choice,” Henry said as he pushed himself away from the table. “Now give me your hand. It’s time I was on my way if I’m to reach Dunbardee before nightfall.”
Nicholas rose and clasped his brother by the forearm. “Safe journey, Henry.”
“If I hear anything of significance at court, I’ll send word,” Henry replied. “I do know what you did for me, Nicholas, and I won’t forget. Anything I can do to help you, I will.”
Nicholas regarded him with surprise, taken aback by this unexpected expression of sincere gratitude.
Henry sauntered to the door. “Farewell, brother.” He paused on the threshold and gave Nicholas a sarcastic smirk. “Whatever you do, don’t sell yourself short.”
The warmth engendered by Henry’s words of appreciation fled.
“I’m not selling myself.”
Henry replied with aggravating condescension. “Of course you are, just as the women will be. But there’s no need to lose your temper, brother. That’s the way of the world. Goodbye, and good luck.”

AFTER HENRY had left him, Nicholas again went to the window, hands clasped behind his back. The sun was past midday. Henry would have to ride swiftly if he was to reach Dunbardee. He’d enjoy that. Henry was young and he’d always been reckless—because he could afford to be. He hadn’t had to pay for their sister’s time in the convent. He hadn’t had to ensure that his brother had the best training and arms, while he managed with whatever he could afford after their needs were met. Henry had never slept in stables to save the cost of a night’s lodging at an inn, or gone without food.
Henry hadn’t been the one to promise their dying mother he would always look after his brother and sister, a vow he’d willingly made and done his best to keep.
Henry didn’t know that as the years of struggle had passed, Nicholas had vowed to do everything he could to rise in the world, to a place where he’d be rich and respected, safe and secure, where no one could take anything away from him, or threaten him or his family.
With that in mind, he’d trained and fought and won this estate by dint of his skill at arms alone, without the benefit of noble patronage or connections.
Yet even so, that wasn’t enough to rest and be content, not in this world. To hold it, he needed a rich wife from a powerful family.
And, by God, he’d get one.

CHAPTER THREE
JOINING HER UNCLE, Riona came out of the chamber made over to her use while they were in Dunkeathe. Together they were going to the hall to enjoy the special feast in celebration of St. John the Baptist’s Day and, so Uncle Fergus said, to welcome all the guests in fine Norman style.
Since their two small rooms were farthest from the hall, it made more sense to leave the building by the guarded outer door than go along the upper corridor. Riona suspected their rooms were really intended for the body servants of the household or the guests and had been pressed into service because so many had come to Dunkeathe.
The size and location didn’t trouble her a bit. The chambers were more than large enough for herself and Uncle Fergus, and they had the additional virtue of privacy. At home, she shared a teach with several other women of the household; here, since she had no maid, she had the chamber to herself. Tonight, she wouldn’t have to listen to Maeve snore, or hear Aelean get up to use the chamber pot. She wouldn’t be bothered by Seas and Sile whispering for what seemed an age before they fell asleep. Tonight, she would be blissfully alone, in welcome silence.
“I wonder what they’ll feed us,” Uncle Fergus mused as they strolled through the courtyard. “I’ve heard the Normans drown everything in spicy sauces.”
“I’m sure there’ll be something we’ll like,” Riona assured him as she linked her arm though his.
The air carried a whiff of smoke from the bonfires being kindled in the village to celebrate Midsummer’s Day.
“Aye, I suppose,” her uncle replied. He slid her a wry glance. “I’m also wondering what you’ll think of Sir Nicholas.”
Riona tried not to betray any reaction at all, but she couldn’t subdue a blush. “He’s probably a very impressive soldier.”
“Oh, aye, he’s very impressive. A fine fellow.”
Uncle Fergus looked particularly pleased, as if he were contemplating a great secret. Her suspicions aroused, she immediately asked, “Did you meet him?”
And if so, what did Sir Nicholas say to you?
Instead of answering her question, Uncle Fergus ran a studious gaze over her simple dark green woolen dress. “I should have bought you a new gown.”
“This is more than good enough,” she said, smoothing down the gown with her hand. “I’d feel uncomfortable in silk or damask or brocade. Did you meet Sir Nicholas earlier?”
“Something smells good,” Uncle Fergus noted as he pushed open the doors of the hall and ushered her inside, still not answering her question.
Which was momentarily forgotten when Riona entered the magnificent, and crowded, hall. It was easily sixty feet long and thirty feet wide, with a raised dais at the farthest end and pillars down its length to support the high roof. Wide beams rested on corbels carved to resemble the heads of various animals. A long table covered in white linen stood on the dais, along with carved chairs. A colorful tapestry hung behind it, and more decorated the walls. The rushes beneath her feet released the odor of rosemary and fleabane.
More than finely dressed nobles filled the room and created the noise. Here, as in the courtyard, what seemed a bevy of servants hurried through the hall, some still setting up tables and covering them with linen, others lighting torches. Hounds wandered about, snuffling at the rushes and looking around expectantly, often in the direction of a door that led to the kitchen, for wonderful odors wafted to her from that direction.
More than once the servants collided, argued and cast annoyed looks at their fellows. A few of the younger servants appeared utterly confused, and had to be pointedly reminded about what they were to do.
There was no woman who seemed to be in any position of authority here, only the steward they’d met at the gate. Standing in the corner near the dais, he looked harried and rather lost. Obviously he wasn’t prepared for this responsibility, or maybe he was overwhelmed by the number of guests.
She could have told him that the tables should have been set up much earlier, with the linens to come shortly before the meal was served. More specific directions would help bring better order to the rest of the activity, and the younger servants should only be entrusted with the most basic of duties.
She wondered how well the kitchen servants were organized, until it occurred to her that none of this was her concern. She was a guest here, like all the other nobles.
Suddenly, everyone simultaneously stopped talking and moving, and turned to look at her and Uncle Fergus. Disappointment flickered across their faces and was soon replaced by scorn and derision.
“I suppose they were expecting Sir Nicholas,” Uncle Fergus remarked. He didn’t seem to notice that people were looking at them as if they were spattered with mud. Or dung. “I don’t see him here, but there’s Fredella.”
He smiled at a woman dressed in a plain gown of dark blue wool, with a simple leather girdle about her ample waist, and a square of linen on her head. Her garments, as well as her friendly face, suggested to Riona that she wasn’t a lady, but perhaps a servant of one of them. Either that, or they weren’t the only poor nobles who’d come to Dunkeathe.
Whoever she was, it was like Uncle Fergus to make friends with anyone and everyone, rich or poor, peasant or noble—another reason she loved him.
“She’s the servant of Lady Eleanor, the cousin of Sir Percival de Surlepont,” Uncle Fergus explained, nodding at a man on the other side of the hall. “He’s that overdressed puppy we saw in the courtyard and that’s Lady Eleanor beside him.”
Riona instantly recognized the young man who’d been wearing yellow damask. Lady Eleanor was the pretty girl who’d seemed so unhappy. She didn’t look any happier standing beside her cousin in the hall, attired in a gown of deep red cendal trimmed with gold, like the circlet on her dark brown hair. Sir Percival had changed into a tunic of peacock blue, trimmed with brilliant green, and he had a large gold chain around his neck. His boots alone—leather dyed scarlet and embossed with gold and silver—would likely pay for her uncle’s wine for a year.
All the nobles were similarly dressed in sumptuous, colorful and expensive garments, embroidered with lovely threads of bright colors. The quality and number of materials was mind-boggling, and as for the cost, Riona could probably feed their entire household for half a year on what it cost for a single gown one of these ladies wore, not to mention the gold and silver and costly gems they wore on their fingers or around their necks.
“If you’ll excuse me, Riona, I’ll go say hello to Fredella. She was very helpful to me when I was looking for the fellow in charge of the quarters.”
Uncle Fergus didn’t wait for Riona to agree, but bustled off toward the older woman. Since she couldn’t call him back without attracting more unwelcome attention, Riona moved to the side of the hall and surveyed the gathered nobles.
Across the chamber, Lord Chesleigh, in a long black tunic, held forth about the rising cost of wine to a small group of noblemen. One of his listeners had a very bulbous red nose and he swayed so much that Riona suspected he’d been into the wine already. A younger man, not so brilliantly attired, hovered on the edge of another group as if he were too shy to join it, yet didn’t want to leave. A lady in that small gathering kept glancing at him as if she wasn’t sure if he should go or stay, either.
“What can Sir Nicholas be thinking, letting that fat little Scot stay?” a haughty and unfortunately familiar female voice drawled nearby, so loud and imperious, Riona couldn’t ignore it. “I wouldn’t believe it, except that his steward told me it’s true.”
Lady Joscelind, in gold brocade, with her blond hair covered in a shimmering veil, stood with a small circle of young women several feet closer to the dais, her back to Riona. The one who giggled was among them, and another who looked rather sickly. A third wasn’t exactly slender. The last wasn’t particular attractive, but she seemed less impressed with the beautiful Lady Joscelind than the others.
“If that’s a Scots noble, we’d be doing their peasants a favor ruling their country,” Lord Chesleigh’s daughter continued, raising her slender hand in a languid, yet graceful, gesture before she let it drop. “And who’d want to stay here anyway? The people are such savages, and the weather! My father tells me it rains nineteen days out of twenty.”
It was bad enough the vain creature had disparaged Uncle Fergus. Now she was disparaging Riona’s country, too?
Glaring at the beauty, Riona marched toward the little circle.
“But if Sir Nicholas chooses you, you’ll have to live in Scotland,” the sickly looking young woman simpered, likewise not seeing Riona bear down upon them.
The other women did, and if Lady Joscelind had been less determined to express her opinions, she might have realized something was amiss.
“Only a part of the year,” she smugly and obliviously replied. “We’ll be spending a great deal of time at court.”
“England is welcome to you,” Riona snapped as she came to a halt behind her. “We don’t want you here.”
“Of all the impudence!” Lady Joscelind exclaimed, whirling around in a blaze of silk and thick perfume to meet Riona’s glare with one of her own. “How dare you interrupt our conversation?” She waved her away. “Be about your business, wench, and be glad I don’t have you punished for your insolence.”
“Oh, aye?” Riona replied, raising her brow as she crossed her arms, ignoring the other women who exchanged shocked or wary glances. “You think you wield such power over me?”
“If I don’t, somebody here must, impudent wench.”
“I answer to no one here, except Fergus Mac Gordon Mac Darbudh, Thane of Glencleith.”
Lady Joscelind smirked. “So you belong to that comical fellow, do you? Well, go tend to him, then.”
“My lady, do you not know who I am?” Riona asked, her voice low and firm and full of contempt.
Lady Joscelind’s smooth white brow furrowed with annoyance. “I neither know, nor care.”
“You should.”
Lady Joscelind’s cheeks turned pink, but her haughty demeanor didn’t alter. “Whoever you are, you hussy, I am Lady Joscelind, the daughter of Lord Chesleigh, and you had best remember that.”
“I am Lady Riona of Glencleith.”
“Lady Riona?” the beauty scoffed, running a scornful gaze over Riona’s garments. “I don’t believe it. You’re nothing but a servant.”
“Whether you believe it or not,” Riona replied, “Sir Nicholas and his steward know that it’s true.”
Lady Joscelind’s eyes narrowed with suspicion, yet when she spoke, she was still scornful and dismissive. “If you are who you claim to be, I assume you’ve come here to meet Sir Nicholas. You think you stand a chance of impressing him?”
“As it happens, my lady, I’ve already met him. And so have you, although you didn’t know it.” Riona smiled without mirth. “I don’t think you made a very favorable impression.”
Lady Joscelind’s jaw dropped, then indignantly snapped shut. “I should think I’d remember being introduced to Sir Nicholas.”
“I didn’t say you’d been introduced. I said you’d met him.”
Riona spotted Uncle Fergus coming toward her with Fredella in tow. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I should join my uncle, whose family have been thanes and chieftains here since before the Normans existed.”
She started to leave, then turned back. “Oh, and I’ll remind you that Sir Nicholas holds this land by the grace of Alexander of Scotland, not Henry of England, so if there’s a court he and his wife should attend, it’s that of Scotland. That’s provided he even picks you, of course,” she finished with another smile that suggested she found that highly doubtful.
Then, she swept away from the Norman ladies, leaving Lady Joscelind to wonder how and where she’d met the lord of Dunkeathe.
Riona wished they hadn’t come here. She wished Uncle Fergus had never heard of Sir Nicholas’s plans to find himself a wife. Most of all, she wished the king had never invited the Normans to Scotland at all, or paid mercenaries to serve him, even if rebellion and rival claims to the throne were part and parcel of the history of her land.
When she reached Uncle Fergus, who seemed completely unaware that anything untoward had happened, he pulled Fredella forward. “Riona, my beauty, this is Fredella.”
Fredella’s smile was nearly as jovial as Uncle Fergus’s. “I’m delighted to meet you, my lady, and I’m sure Eleanor will be, too,” she said. “My mistress is a shy girl, but she’ll want to be introduced to you.”
“We’d be delighted to meet her, too, wouldn’t we, Riona?” Uncle Fergus answered for her.
Remembering the smiles she’d exchanged with the younger woman, Riona had hope Lady Eleanor wouldn’t prove to be another Lady Joscelind. “Aye, I’d be happy to meet her.”
“Not now, though,” Fredella whispered with a worried frown as she drew them both away to the side of the hall.
“Why wait? She’s here and so are we,” Uncle Fergus said, not bothering to lower his voice.
“Because Sir Percival’s with her. He, um, doesn’t think much of the Scots, I’m afraid,” Fredella replied, her plump cheeks coloring.
Uncle Fergus glowered at Sir Percival. “Doesn’t like Scots, eh? Because we don’t fuss with our hair and spend more on a tunic than many a poor family earns in a year?”
“Neither Eleanor nor I share his prejudice,” Fredella hastily assured him. “My own mother was a Scot, you see.”
Uncle Fergus stopped glaring at the Norman and gave her a smile. “Was she now?”
“Yes, from Lochbarr.”
“A fine place, that,” Uncle Fergus said, his anger lessening. “And the Mac Tarans are a fine clan.” He gave Riona a significant look. “That’s the clan Sir Nicholas’s sister married into.”
“Oh, you’ve heard of them, have you?” Fredella asked.
“I don’t think there are many Scots who haven’t,” Uncle Fergus replied. “A fine group of fighters always come out of Lochbarr.”
“Eleanor’s often longed to go there, to see the things I’ve talked about,” Fredella said, “but that Percival wouldn’t let her. She’s hardly been able to see anyone, either. To keep her pure, he says, as if she had no virtue or modesty to speak of. She’s been raised better than that, I can tell you, by me and her dear sainted mother.”
“She’s an orphan?” Riona asked.
“Since she was ten. That’s when that Percival got the charge of her. If you ask me, he’s got more love for those ridiculous boots of his than he does for his cousin. He’s just waiting for somebody rich to offer to take her off his hands. He makes me want to spit!”
“Poor bairn,” Uncle Fergus murmured.
Riona shared his sympathy. She could imagine how her life might have been had her kindly uncle not taken her in. Yet in a way, she also envied Lady Eleanor, who had at least known her mother. Riona had no memory of hers, who had died in childbirth, or her father, who had died of a fever a short time later.
A sudden stir near the steps leading from the hall to the apartments made Riona turn. The mighty lord of Dunkeathe strode toward the dais. Now he was finely dressed in a black, thigh-length tunic and breeches and polished boots. His hair was still the same, though—long and waving to his shoulders, like her countrymen—and he still had the same angular handsome features, and those eyes that seemed more hawk than human. Yet in those clothes, with the attention of everyone in the hall upon him, he looked more like a prince than a soldier. How could she ever have assumed he was anything but a noble lord? The only common thing about him was the sword hilt sticking out of the scabbard attached to his belt. It was exceptionally plain, just a bronze crossbar wrapped with leather, as any foot soldier might possess.
She looked to Lord Chesleigh and his daughter, to see if they recognized him. The Norman nobleman was staring at Sir Nicholas as if he was seeing an apparition; his daughter’s face was bright red, and although she lowered her head, Riona saw enough to know that she was flushed not from shame, but with indignant anger.
That didn’t bode well for a match between the lady and the lord of Dunkeathe, unless Lord Chesleigh and his daughter thought him worthy enough to overlook what had happened in the courtyard.
Sir Nicholas came to a halt in the center of the raised platform, in front of the high table. “My lords and ladies, knights and gentlemen, welcome to Dunkeathe. I am both flattered and delighted to see so many of you here.” He made what was, she assumed, supposed to be a smile. “I especially welcome the young ladies, although there are so many of such beauty, grace and accomplishments, I am overwhelmed.”
Riona didn’t believe that for a moment.
Sir Nicholas turned to his steward, who was standing at the left side of the dais, a wax tablet in his hands. “If you would begin, Robert.”
The man consulted what was obviously a list. “My lord, may I present the Duke of Ansley and his sister, Lady Elizabeth.”
A man of middle years, with a sizable belly and attired in a long blue robe, hurried forward, leading a lady likewise plump, wearing a gown in an unflattering shade of burgundy. Sir Nicholas bowed, as did the nobleman, while the lady made her obeisance.
There were no smiles exchanged, and the lady was clearly nervous.
The steward proceeded to introduce all the ladies and their relatives one by one. The woman who’d been less impressed with Lady Joscelind was Lady Lavinia, the second cousin of the Duc D’Anglevoix, who had the longest, most arched nose Riona had ever seen. He also seemed a bit put out, darting annoyed glances at the steward and the man who’d just been introduced. Clearly D’Anglevoix felt he should have been called first.
The round-eyed Lady Priscilla, who came next, giggled the entire time she stood before Sir Nicholas, and the young man beside her looked as if he’d gladly gag her as he led her away. The Earl of Eglinburg, who likewise hadn’t missed many meals, strode forward so quickly, his daughter, Lady Mary, had to run to keep up with him, for she was short while he was tall.
Sir George, he of the bulbous red nose and swaying gait, slurred a greeting and nearly fell over when he bowed. His daughter, Lady Eloise, who was neither pretty nor plain, looked understandably and completely mortified, while Sir Nicholas’s expression didn’t change a bit.
Lady Isabelle blushed bright red when she was introduced, no doubt not just because of the inscrutable visage of their host, but also because her guardian, Sir James, tripped on her silk gown as he led her forward. Next to be called, the Comte D’Ortelieu looked as if he considered this whole exercise rather beneath him, while his daughter, Lady Catherine, turned as white as her gown and seemed about to swoon at any moment.
None of them, it seemed, recognized Sir Nicholas from the courtyard.
Then Robert Martleby summoned Lord Chesleigh and his beautiful daughter. His expression haughty, Lord Chesleigh strode forth, escorting Lady Joscelind. For a moment, Riona thought he might chastise his host. Instead, the man bowed and said in a hearty voice that was only slightly condemning, “My lord, this is a very great pleasure, but you should have declared yourself in the courtyard.”
That caused a bit of a flutter among the other guests.
“He was in the courtyard?” Uncle Fergus loudly whispered. “Where? I didn’t see him.”
Maybe her uncle hadn’t met Sir Nicholas after all. “By the stable. He wasn’t dressed like that.”
Uncle Fergus chuckled. “Clever man, to watch the ladies before they knew who he was, to see how they really are.”
Riona’s gaze darted back to the man on the dais. Was that why he’d done that?
“I should have enlightened you, but I was not properly attired to receive my noble guests,” Sir Nicholas replied, “and I couldn’t refuse the request of so graceful and beautiful a lady.”
Riona was somewhat amazed Lady Joscelind didn’t clutch her father’s arm to steady herself when the lord of Dunkeathe addressed her in that deep, seductive voice.
As for Sir Nicholas’s excuse, Riona could more easily believe Uncle Fergus’s explanation. She suspected there were very few things that could embarrass a man like Sir Nicholas, and she was sure his clothing wouldn’t be one of them.
Any offense clearly forgiven, Lord Chesleigh smiled with genial bonhomie. “Nonetheless, my lord, you must accept my apologies for any inadvertent offense.”
Sir Nicholas’s next words, spoken with no real contrition, convinced Riona there was indeed another motive for his behavior. “As you must accept mine for not introducing myself.”
Lord Chesleigh fairly beamed as he reached for his daughter’s hand and drew her forward. “May I present my daughter, Joscelind.”
She made a deep obeisance and when she rose, presented a charmingly flustered countenance. “I also beg your pardon, my lord.”
“Think no more about it, I beg you, and please, consider Dunkeathe your home while you’re here.”
If ever a man could make a woman swoon with his voice alone…
“And a very fine fortress it is,” Lord Chesleigh said. “I commend you, my lord.”
Sir Nicholas gave him another very small smile, and a brief bow. “Thank you.” Then he glanced at his steward.
Lord Chesleigh and Lady Joscelind took the hint and moved away.
After a quick look around the hall to see if there were any other ladies waiting to be introduced, Uncle Fergus started forward. “Come on, Riona, our turn next.”
She had no desire to parade in front of all these people and be presented to a Norman lord like a fish on a platter. Unfortunately, Uncle Fergus was already hurrying forward, so unless she wanted him to call out for her to hurry up, she had no choice but to follow. As she did, she reminded herself that if she had no wealth, fine clothes or beauty, she still had much to be proud of. Her uncle and cousin loved her, she was as noble as anyone here and she had one considerable advantage they lacked.
She was a Scot.
“Fergus Mac Gordon, Thane of Glencleith,” the steward announced. “And his niece, the Lady Riona.”
“Ach, we’ve already met!” Uncle Fergus cried, grinning at the lord of Dunkeathe as if they were boon companions.
They had met! When? Where? Why hadn’t he told her?
As her uncle looked at her and gave her a wink, she had her answer. He thought he’d been helping and kept this for a surprise.
In spite of his kindhearted motive, she wanted to groan with dismay, especially when Sir Nicholas’s expression didn’t alter, and snickers and disapproving murmurs reached her ears.
“As if anybody would want to marry her,” Lord Chesleigh said behind her.
His scornful words lit her pride and roused her anger. Who was this Lord Chesleigh to speak so arrogantly? These men and their mute relatives were all here like beggars at this man’s whim.
She would show them what Scots were made of, and that they were the equal of any here, including their host. She didn’t care what any of them thought of her, even Sir Nicholas, with his grim face and arrogant method of finding a wife.
So she gave Sir Nicholas a bright smile and said, in Gaelic and in a voice loud enough to carry to the far reaches of the hall, “Good evening, my lord. Don’t you look different in your fine clothes. I might never have recognized you, except for the hair.”
Surprise flared in Sir Nicholas’s dark eyes and there were more incredulous whispers behind her. They were all surely wondering what she was saying.
Let them wonder.
“My uncle didn’t tell me you’d met, but I should have expected it. He’s a very friendly fellow.”
“Yes, he is,” the nobleman replied, clearly recovered from his surprise—and in unexpectedly good Gaelic.
That took her aback, but she tried not to show it. He was the one who was supposed to be thrown off guard. “I didn’t realize you spoke our language so well, my lord,” she lied, for she hadn’t expected him to speak it at all. “I’m most impressed.”
“I suspect there’s a great deal about me you don’t know.”
God help her, that voice of his was like temptation incarnate, and his gaze was so steady, she felt as if he was staring into her very soul, looking for the truth.
But she wasn’t about to let him intimidate her here anymore than she had in the courtyard when she thought he was just a soldier. “I daresay you’re right. I can only guess why you were skulking about the courtyard this morning instead of greeting your arriving guests.”
His eyes narrowed very slightly. “I wasn’t skulking.”
“Whatever you were doing, I’m sure you had your reasons,” she replied, telling him with her tone and eyes that she didn’t believe his reasons would be sufficient for her.
His steward coughed.
She knew an attempt to interrupt when she heard it, and she’d said enough to show them all that she was proud of her heritage and the country that bred her. “Come, Uncle,” she said, slipping her arm through his. “Let’s leave Sir Nicholas to his other noble guests.”
As they walked away through the crowd of muttering Normans, Uncle Fergus laughed softly. “He fooled everyone except my clever girl. You showed him some Scots spirit, too. He’s got to be impressed.”
Riona didn’t care if Sir Nicholas was impressed or not, or what he thought about her. She couldn’t imagine living in this place among the Normans and their Saxon soldiers, and certainly not with him.

CHAPTER FOUR
AS THE SERVANTS carried away the remains of the baked apples, Nicholas turned to Robert, seated to his left at the high table. To his right was the elderly priest who had taken residence in the castle after the chapel had been completed. Father Damon greatly appreciated the ease of his duties ministering to Sir Nicholas, as well as the household and garrison. The lord of Dunkeathe was certainly no stickler on religious matters.
Robert stopped looking at the table where the beautiful Lady Joscelind and several of the other guests were sitting. Nicholas couldn’t blame the man for being distracted; so might he have been, if he hadn’t encountered Lady Joscelind in the courtyard.
“I’m going to give the garrison commander the watchword for tonight,” he said, rising. “If my guests require more wine or food, or music, it should be provided.”
“As you wish, my lord. And the watchword is…?”
Nicholas gave his steward a small smile. “Restraint.”
Robert’s eyes widened, then he flushed. “Forgive my lack of attention, my lord. I’m not used to being among so many nobles and several of the young ladies—”
“Are quite attractive,” Nicholas replied evenly. “I might be worried your eyesight was going if you weren’t distracted. I should return shortly.”
He begged Father Damon to excuse him, and then left the dais. In truth, he was happy to get away from his guests for a little while. He, too, wasn’t used to being around so many nobles who weren’t also trained fighters waiting for a battle or a tournament. These high-ranking men were the same sort who’d treated him with scornful disdain before he’d earned his castle, with the possible exception of young Audric, who seemed a quiet, modest fellow.
As Nicholas made his way through the tables and the cloying odor of perfume, he nodded greetings to his guests. Whatever he thought of them personally, they were all powerful and important in their way, and he wouldn’t offend them if he could help it. He’d come perilously close with Lord Chesleigh. He should have had the good sense to stay by the stable wall and not let himself be intrigued by a bright-eyed woman sitting on a ramshackle cart.
The boisterous Scots thane was seated toward the back of the hall, in a place that should have told the man, if he had any perception at all, that his niece was unlikely to be the object of Nicholas’s favor.
Where was she?
Perhaps she was tired from her journey, or from upbraiding him in front of his guests.
He should be angry about that. He’d certainly been angry when she’d first spoken, but he’d found it difficult to stay angry when she faced him with that vivid, defiant fire in her eyes and spoke to him not with coyness or even deference, but as if she were his equal in pride, if nothing else. He’d noted the regal carriage of her head that would befit a queen, and that she looked more noble in her simple gown than any of the ladies in their fine clothes and costly jewels.
It was a pity her family was poor and unimportant, for she would likely prove worth the wooing.
Once outside, he drew in deep breaths of the fresh air slightly tainted by the smell of smoke from the Midsummer bonfires. The courtyard was too far from the village for noise to reach him from the celebrations, yet he didn’t doubt there was much merrymaking and many games being played, with far more good humor and joy than that shared by those feasting in his hall. His guests, though, weren’t friends or well known to each other, so what else could he expect?
He passed by the kitchen and glanced over the fence into the garden. It was a fairly large one, and normally provided enough for the needs of his household. An apple tree, now finished blooming, stood in the center like a guardian, as he was guardian of the people on his estate, watching over them as he’d watched over his brother and sister.
Someone was beneath the apple tree—a woman, seated on what looked like an overturned bucket.
It was the Lady Riona, gazing up at the sky through the leafy branches as if seeking heavenly portents. Or perhaps she was unwell.
Determined to find out why she was alone in the garden, he opened the gate and stepped inside. She quickly turned to look at him, then simultaneously jumped up and cried a warning.
Sucking in his breath, he instinctively and immediately drew his sword from his scabbard and crouched into a defensive position, ready to strike his attackers.
Who weren’t there, he realized as he swiveled on his heel, looking first one way, then the other.
His ire roused like his blood, he glared at the lady as he lowered his weapon and demanded, “Why did you cry out?”
She met his gaze squarely. “You were going to crush the rosemary.”
The rosemary?
He looked down at the row of plants at his feet, then brought his stern gaze to bear on her. “I’m used to warnings in battle or tournaments to save me from bodily harm or even death, not the potential squashing of a plant. In future, a simple word of warning would do, not a cry as if there are assassins on the walls.”
“If there had been an assassin, I assure you, my lord, I would have shouted louder. Forgive me for alarming you.”
She made him sound like some timid girl who saw a mouse. “I reacted as I was trained to do,” he said as he sheathed his sword.
“So did I,” she replied, calm and cool and apparently not a whit embarrassed or ashamed that she’d made him think he was being attacked. “At home, the garden is one of my responsibilities.”
“And do you stand guard over it like an anxious mother hen? Are you handy with a slingshot?”
“I was speaking in general terms, my lord. I take care of my uncle’s household, and that means I have to prevent waste and loss wherever possible.”
She was still remarkably calm in spite of his obvious anger, and he suddenly felt like he was tilting at a wooden dummy who neither feared nor favored him.
“Your uncle informed me that you run his household,” he said, walking toward her, this time mindful of the rows of plants. “He also claims you’ve done so since you were twelve years old.”
“That’s quite true,” she answered.
“My steward says yours is not a rich estate, so I presume you haven’t many servants to supervise.”
“No, we don’t,” she confessed without rancor or embarrassment, “so I do a good deal of the work myself and have little time for leisure. As I was sitting in your garden, I was enjoying having nothing to do.”
He thought of his early years as a soldier for hire. How he’d cherished every peaceful moment, every hour he had free to do with as he pleased. Then he recalled how he’d wasted some of those hours in brothels and taverns, and the memories soured. “I feared you might be sick and wanting some fresh air, although the night air may be doing you more harm than good.”
“I’m not used to such a crowd and the noise they make. I wanted to have some peace and quiet, that’s all.”
From the direction of the barracks, the soldiers who’d finished their meal started singing a bawdy ballad, loudly. The shouts of a very angry and frustrated cook chastising the spit boy, the scullery maid and incompetent servants in general filled the air. At the same time, the door at the entrance to the hall opened, and Sir James and Sir George came stumbling out, obviously drunk and laughing uproariously at some shared jest.
Nicholas raised a brow, just as he had that morning when he’d wanted to see what that boldly staring maidservant—who was no maidservant—would do. “This is your notion of peace and quiet?”
She laughed softly, a gentle rising sound of mirth that he found most pleasant. “It was quieter here than your hall, my lord.”
Sir James and Sir George staggered toward the well near the kitchen. Not wanting to have to talk to them, hoping they’d go back to the hall or retire for the night, he moved closer to the apple tree and its shadows, and her. “I should go and give the guards the watchword for tonight.”
“Ah yes, the very many guards.”
What did she mean by that? “I worked and strived for many years for what I possess, my lady, and I intend to keep it.”
“Obviously.”
He didn’t appreciate her tone. “The Scots king himself gave me this estate. If you aren’t pleased by that, you should complain to him.”
“Somehow, I don’t think he’d much care what Riona of Glencleith has to say about it.”
She stayed where she was when he joined her beneath the trees. The movement of the leaves made the moonlight shadows dance across her face.
Wanting to see her more clearly, he inched closer. “Your family has no influence with the king?”
“My family has no influence with anybody,” she freely admitted.
The only other woman who’d ever been so frankly honest with him was his sister—yet the thoughts he was having about Lady Riona were far from fraternal.
“How exactly did you guess who I was this morning?” he asked, no longer able to contain his curiosity. “Or did someone tell you when you arrived?”
Again, she answered without hesitation, as boldly as he’d come to expect. “You weren’t doing any work, although there was plenty for the servants to do, and I saw how the other servants and guards responded when they saw you. I realized you must in a position of some power or command, and I remembered what my uncle said about you.”
Which was? Nicholas wondered, even as he told himself the opinion of an impoverished Scots thane was completely unimportant.
“Your uncle claims you’re very clever,” he noted, “and given that you were the only person to realize who I was this morning, I’m inclined to agree.”
That brought a smile to her face.
She wasn’t a beauty, like Lady Joscelind, or even what he’d call pretty, but there was a vibrancy to her features, a liveliness and spirit, that fascinated him, especially when she smiled. Her bold responses were far more interesting than any coy answers from Lady Joscelind and her kind, too.
“They also weren’t expecting you to be dressed like a soldier and unloading baggage carts,” she continued. “Neither was I. I’m curious, my lord, as to what prompted that act of subterfuge?”
He suddenly wasn’t so proud of what he’d done, or why. “You heard me give my reason to Lady Joscelind. I wasn’t properly attired.”
She regarded him with such outright and unabashed skepticism, he blushed.
It had been many years since he’d felt his face warm like that, and he was glad they were in the shade of a tree at night. “You could say I was getting the lay of the land,” he admitted.
Her eyes narrowed. “I thought you were looking for a wife, not a fight.”
“I was sizing up the players before the game commences.”
She frowned even more. “It may be a game or amusement to you, my lord, but it certainly isn’t to these nobles and the women.”
Her words startled him. He hadn’t given a moment’s thought to what the women involved would think of his plan—until now. Yet he wasn’t about to confess that to this slip of a Scot, no matter how she looked at him. “I’m not doing this for my amusement. I require a wife, and I see nothing wrong with inviting suitable women to Dunkeathe and choosing the best among them.”
“And you will decide who is ‘best’?”
“Who better? She will become my bride, after all.”
“Yes, she will.”
He could decipher nothing in her eyes or voice to tell him whether she thought that a worthy goal. Yet after what had passed between them in the courtyard, he was sure she found him attractive.
Determined to prove that to himself at least, he sidled closer and dropped his voice to a lower, more intimate tone. “So, what exactly did your uncle say about me?”
“Clearly he told me enough to guess who you were.”
“So now you will prevaricate, my lady?” he replied, inching closer, willing her to be attracted to him, to feel the same sort of desire that was waxing in him. “After the boldness you’ve displayed, I’m disappointed.”
She straightened her shoulders and that bold fire once more kindled in her eyes. “Very well, my lord. Uncle Fergus said you were young, skilled at arms and handsome.”
He’d have to thank the man. “And you, my lady? Now that you’ve met me, what do you think of me?”
“That you’re one of the most arrogant men I’ve ever encountered.”
It was like falling into a freezing stream.
Before he could think of a suitable response, the door to the kitchen banged open, and a shaft of light nearly caught them. With a gasp, Riona ran farther back into the garden, to a place by the inner curtain wall deep in shadows.
Not willing to let this conversation end with her condemnation, Nicholas followed her to her hiding place, standing directly in front of her so that she was blocked from sight by his body. She was breathing rapidly, her rising and falling breasts pressing against her gown.
Her hair smelled of spring blossoms, natural and wholesome.
His annoyance lessened.
A servant hurried past without seeing them, yet when he was gone, neither of them moved.
“You don’t find me the least bit attractive or intriguing?” he whispered.
“No.”
“I think you do.”
She looked to either side, then tilted her head to regard him with unwavering steadiness. “I have no particular interest in you at all. We’re here because my uncle was convinced we should come, and I didn’t have the heart to refuse.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Which would be further proof of your arrogance, if I needed it.”
“Then why have you stayed in the garden?”
“Because I saw no reason to flee. Should I be afraid of you, my lord?”
God’s rood, she had an aggravating way of accusing him. “Of course you needn’t fear me. I’m a knight sworn to protect women, not harm them.”
“Perhaps you should remind some of your fellow Normans of that part of their oath.”
He didn’t want to discuss the vows of Norman knights. Despite her words, he wanted to take her in his arms and kiss her until she was dizzy. Or begged him to take her to his bed.
“What of your potential brides, my lord?” she continued. “What if you’re seen here in the garden with me? I don’t care what your Norman friends think, but shouldn’t you? They probably already question your judgment for allowing my uncle and me to stay. What will they conclude if they hear we’ve been together, and so intimately, too? And what of the ladies? They may think twice about offering themselves to you.”
His annoyance kindled into anger. “This is my castle, and I will do what I will.”
“Not if you’re to get yourself the sort of bride you’re after,” she replied, apparently not a whit disturbed by his tone. “I can hear them now.” She continued in a slow, haughty drawl, in an amazingly accurate imitation of Lady Joscelind. “And the fellow had the effrontery, the audacity, the sheer bad taste, to actually talk to that poor Scot and his niece—and be alone with her, too. Really, what can he be thinking, consorting with those outrageous barbarians?”
“My guests are well aware they’re in Scotland when they’re in Dunkeathe,” he retorted.
“They may be able to tolerate staying in your fortress, but they have no respect for the Scots.”
“I have,” he replied, not willing to be lumped in with the other Norman noblemen. “My sister married one.”
“I had heard, my lord, that you didn’t approve of her marriage.”
His jaw clenched before he answered. “In the beginning, I didn’t. But I’ve come to admire and respect my brother-in-law and his people. I’m also grateful to your king, who gave me this estate. The woman I marry will come to respect the Scots, too,” he finished firmly.
She still seemed unimpressed. “Yet I can’t help noticing, for all this supposed respect you feel for the Scots, that you neither said nor did anything to demonstrate that respect to your Norman guests when my uncle and I were in your hall.”
“Because I saw no need,” Nicholas countered. “You were managing quite well on your own. As for your uncle, I treated him with no disrespect, even when he barged into my solar while I was discussing business with my steward.”
Her gaze faltered at last. “You must forgive my uncle his enthusiasm. He means well and—”
“And I mean what I say,” Nicholas interrupted. “I think the Scots are a fine people—for the most part. I don’t forget that my sister’s own brother-in-law betrayed her and her husband, and that there were many in their clan who sided with the traitor.
“I also don’t forget all the years that I was poor and treated just as you have been, by Normans like my guests. Never think that because I say nothing, I do not see. That because I don’t chastise my guests, I condone what they do.
“But God’s blood, Riona, I’ve served and fought and struggled for too long to give a damn about gossip. If I want to linger in my garden on a moonlit night, I shall.”
He took hold of her shoulders and pulled her close. “If I want to be alone with you and talk to you, I will. And if I want to kiss you…”
He captured her mouth with his. His lips moved over hers with torrid heat as the desire he’d been trying to contain burst free.
For a moment, she was stiff and unyielding.
For a moment, until she began to return his kiss with equal fervor. Her arms went around his waist, pulling him closer, enflaming his passion further.
She was bold in this, too, just as he’d imagined. Daring and more stimulating than any woman he’d ever kissed, her lips and body filled with the same fire as her eyes. He could feel the need coursing through her, as it was through him.
His tongue pressed her lips to open, then smoothly glided inside. Her embrace tightened.
Drunk with desire, aware only of his need to feel her warmth around him, and the throbbing surge of completion, he moved his hand to seek her breast.
The instant he touched her there, she broke the kiss and pushed him away. Her eyes wide with dismay, her lips swollen from their passion, she stared at him as if he were a loathsome thing.
Without a word, not even another condemnation, she shoved her way past him and marched out of the garden.
While Nicholas stood where he was, panting and frustrated. God’s blood, he never should have entered the garden.
Restraint, indeed!

THE FIRST RAYS of the morning sun were lighting Riona’s chamber when she heard a soft tapping at her door.
“Riona, my dear, are you still asleep?” Uncle Fergus called quietly as she shook her head as if to rid it of the remnants of her dreams.
What little sleep she’d had after fleeing the lord of Dunkeathe and his kiss had been restless and disturbed. First, she’d dreamt of a great black crow with beady eyes carrying her off in his clawed foot. Then a sleek black cat had stalked her through the hall and corridors and apartments of Dunkeathe. Then, finally, she’d dreamt of Sir Nicholas himself, tall and dark and inscrutable. He’d swept her up in his arms and carried her to his bed covered in a thick black fur. He’d laid her upon it and then…
“I’m awake,” she said, opening the door to her uncle. She’d been awake and fully dressed since dawn.
He bounded into the room like an eager puppy and seemed to fairly bounce as he went to the window and threw open the wooden shutter to look out into the courtyard below.
“A fine morning, my dear,” he declared, gesturing at the window. “That’s a good sign, eh? Three days without rain, and warm to boot!”
How was she going to tell him that they had to leave? She couldn’t reveal exactly why she wanted to leave so urgently. It was too humiliating. She should have had more restraint, more self-control, more pride.
Or maybe she’d been too proud. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have lingered in the garden, thinking she could hold her own against the lord of Dunkeathe. She wouldn’t have been so sure that her scorn for his Norman arrogance would protect her against the other feelings he aroused.
Because it hadn’t.
And there was more to fear than losing her uncle’s respect if she told him what had happened in the garden. Uncle Fergus might accuse Sir Nicholas of dishonorable conduct and challenge him to combat.
If Sir Nicholas accepted that challenge, her uncle would probably die.
“It’s a fine day for a journey, too,” she began.
“Journey? Oh, aye,” Uncle Fergus answered absently, still looking out the window. “But all the women who want a chance for Sir Nicholas had to be here by St. John’s Day.”
“I was thinking, Uncle, that it would be a good day to go home.”
When he didn’t answer, she realized he hadn’t heard her because his attention was focused on something outside. Wondering what it could be, she went to the window and followed his gaze to see Fredella bustling toward the apartments, and carrying a bucket.
Clasping her hands nervously, she tried again. “Uncle, I don’t think we should stay in Dunkeathe after the way we’ve been treated.”
Uncle Fergus stopped looking out the window to regard her with surprise. “Sir Nicholas has treated us very well,” he said, nodding at the chamber, which was indeed quite comfortable, as was the bed.
If she hadn’t had that disturbing encounter to relive over and over, if that same excited, yet shameful, heat hadn’t coursed through her body every time she remembered that kiss, if she hadn’t had those disturbing dreams, she would have slept very well indeed on the soft featherbed.
“I wasn’t speaking of Sir Nicholas,” she clarified. “His other guests have been very rude to us.”
Uncle Fergus took her gently by the shoulders and gave her a kindly smile. “They’re just jealous.”
Shaking her head, Riona moved away. “They don’t respect us, or our country. I don’t want to stay here to be the object of their scorn.”
Following her, Uncle Fergus gave her an incredulous look. “Who cares what those ignorant Normans think? We know better, and so does Sir Nicholas. He’s been respectful, and he’s related to the Mac Tarans.”
He sat on her bed and patted a place beside him. “Come here, my girl, and listen to me,” he said gravely.
When she joined him, he put his arm around her. She laid her head on his shoulder, as she’d done many times before when she was troubled or upset.
“Riona, the Normans are generally a sad lot,” he said. “Conceited and arrogant and rude. Yet whether we like it or not, because of our king and the rebellions he’s had to deal with, they’re here to stay. That doesn’t mean we have to like them, of course, and who could? But there are a few worth getting to know, ones worth respecting, ones who could help Scotland. Sir Nicholas is one such Norman. As for the rest…” He blew out his breath as if snuffing a candle and waved his hand. “Ignore them, as I do. Why give them the satisfaction of having even that little bit of power over you?”

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/margaret-moore/lord-of-dunkeathe-39927090/) на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.