In the Laird's Bed

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Epilogue

Prologue

The scent of her beckoned.

Even from the desolate rocky outcropping beneath the guard tower of Domhnaill, Duncan the Brave caught Lady Cristiana’s fragrance on the wind. The intoxicating smell was no herb-laden soap or rose-strewn bath, however. It was the scent of her fabled mead that rolled down the cliff side, surrounding Duncan and his men in a cloud of steamed clover and honey.

Who could have guessed a woman who brewed such heavenly delights would refuse a man shelter?

“Tell her I ask in the name of Christian charity,” Duncan called to the surly guard who did not wish to admit them to the ancient seat of the Domhnaill family. The grizzled old keeper of the gate had left Duncan’s men waiting many long, cold minutes while he exchanged messages with his hard-hearted lady.

“’Tis the laird who does not wish to shelter his enemy,” the guard returned, even as Duncan knew the man lied. Rumors of the old laird’s poor health had traveled far. He did not rule his own keep anymore. “He bade me inform you there is a monastery nearby—”

“On the other side of a mountain,” Duncan pointed out, giving his frustration vent. “Tell your laird and his heartless daughter that I will gladly hand over my armor for the chance to thaw the icicles from my cloak until the storm passes.”

Curse the Domhnaill pride.

In the five years that had passed, they had not for given the wound suffered by their family when Duncan’s brother had tested the bridal bed with Cristiana’s sister before their nuptials. They’d declared the marriage contract void and took the lovers’ act as a declaration of war, widening a long rift between their clans.

Wind whistled down the rocks, swirling in erratic bursts around his men’s feet and lifting the horses’ manes to blow wildly. Icy snow had fallen hard all day, making their march north impossible. Duncan had no choice but to seek shelter and wait out the storm.

Just as he’d planned.

Above them, the old guard disappeared and—after a few more moments—a new face appeared through the frosty veil of snow. The figure leaned through the guard-tower window, prompting a long fall of cinnamon-colored hair and gold silk scarves over the casement. The heavy fur hood she wore over her head did little to contain the lush, unbound locks in the fierce weather.

The mistress of the mead herself.

Cristiana of Domhnaill did not greet him with a smile.

“You will submit every last blade and arrow, sir,” she commanded in a tone that suggested she was not accustomed to being disobeyed. “And even then, you will find our hospitality is limited for oath-breakers.”

“You look well, my lady.” Duncan bowed in the saddle, a difficult task considering his bones had frozen stiff a few leagues back. “I’ve no doubt your hospitality will be as generous as your forgiving heart.”

“I’m pleased we understand each other. I will lower the bridge, but you must await my men for the disarming before you set foot upon it.” At her words, the bridge mechanism gave a mighty creak, the big gears moaning in protest. “We sup late to welcome the new year and you may join us then. I have guests within, sir, and would not have admitted you except that I cannot afford to appear uncharitable.”

In a swirl of golden veils and cinnamon strands, she departed, leaving the day colder still in her wake. She was not present to see Duncan’s satisfied grin.

“Our gamble has rewarded us with success.” He crossed himself in gratitude, since the risk could have been a lethal one. For although he’d hoped to plead a traveler’s need for admittance to the Domhnaill stronghold, he had not anticipated how quickly the cold and snow would come upon them. The unforgiving Highland winters had laid more men low than enemy blades.

Beside him, one of his best knights snorted.

“You call it success that we’ve been lured into the lap of the enemy with naught to defend ourselves?” Ronan the Lothian eyed the armed guards riding over the lowered drawbridge with suspicion. “I’ve always known you were hell-bound, Duncan, but I thought you would at least go to your death with sword raised and curses flying.”

“Some battles cannot be won with a blade.” Un buckling his sword belt, Duncan hoped he could trust his instincts on Cristiana’s character.

He’d known her only briefly five years ago, but she’d once pledged herself to him with a sweetness he’d never forgotten. Had it not been for his brother’s actions, both he and Duncan would have been wed to Domhnaill women for many moons by now.

Calamity would not have befallen his people. The men and riches of this keep would have protected his lands.

Ronan scowled as he withdrew an ice-encrusted dagger hilt from a strap at his thigh.

“Aye. And in this case, your enemy might be subdued with the only sword you’ll still possess when we are finished here.” Ronan lowered his voice as the Domhnaill guards drew closer to retrieve the growing pile of steel.

Divested of all his weapons, Duncan guided his horse up onto the bridge planks.

“’Twas such a tactic that created trouble last time.” He’d never understood why the Domhnaills felt the need to break a betrothal contract for their daughter, when the union had only been consummated early.

Their excuse had been that Donegal was too rough in the taking. But what pampered virgin did not complain thus after her first time?

Nay, insufferable Domhnaill pride had cost them all dearly. Even Cristiana, whom Duncan had treated with naught but fairness, had cried off their betrothal. She’d somehow convinced her father that the Culcanon family had come to Domhnaill only to further the long rift between the families, and that Duncan would surely treat her unkindly one day if they were to be man and wife. The old laird—even then, well ruled by his daughters—had called off the alliance and refused the marriages. And that action had marked the beginning of all the problems that had torn apart Duncan’s clan these past three years.

But not for much longer. With a secret token concealed on a thong beneath his tunic, he possessed a key to solving the matter of his ravaged lands and divided people. A map that would lead him to the long-buried wealth of a generations-old ancestor whom he shared with Cristiana. All he needed was enough time to search it out before she banished him from her keep forever.

Chapter One

The steaming scent of cloves and ginger sprinkled on her latest brew brought Cristiana none of the usual pleasure. She breathed in the fragrant bouquet wafting over the boiling honey and water, testing for the right mix of heat and herbs to her most popular mead. But although the balance smelled fine now, she feared this batch would be bitter in the end. In her experience, the best meads were brewed when her heart was light and, right now, worry weighed her down more heavily than the ice-coated fur she’d worn outside into the storm.

The presence of an enemy under her roof had not been far from her mind this past hour as she’d hastened to oversee final preparations for an elaborate meal. She had to run the keep for her invalid father while maintaining the duties of a lady, since her mother had died many years ago and her sister had been sent far away after being ruined by Duncan the Brave’s callous kin.

How dare he call upon her now after siding with his brutish half brother? Cristiana would be hard-pressed to hide her secret from Duncan while he took shelter here.

Stirring the bubbling mead mixture one last time, Cristiana left the squat brewery tower her father had built to encourage his daughter’s gift. He had tried to dissuade her from mead-making for years, declaring the interest to be the purview of lesser men’s daughters. But when the lords of the realm began requesting it for purchase and foreign kings sent gifts to obtain a small store, her sire had seen the wisdom of indulging her.

Now she raced through the keep to attend her guests, knowing she would not have time to change before the meal. It had been all she could do to hide the evidence of her secret from her new visitor and his men. The preparations had been hasty and not as thorough as she would have liked, but her temporary arrangements would hold at least until after they supped.

The New Year’s feast had always been celebrated at Domhnaill with great festivity, and Cristiana could not afford any changes in routine that would hint at her family’s struggles.

Wiping her brow of the perspiration accumulated from her dash to the great hall, she straightened a tapestry and measured what else was left to do before the meal. Quickly, she handed off her fur cloak to a giggling server who pinched and teased a squire of one of the guests. Cristiana gave the maid a stern look that held the promise of more work if she did not mind herself.

“You were that young once, my lady.”

The rich roll of a deep male voice came from behind her, startling her even as it called forth a wealth of memories that made her feel foolish. Oh, how she had craved that voice in her ear once upon a time.

Turning, she faced her enemy full-on without the safety of her guard tower and a moat separating them.

Duncan the Brave, the legitimate son of Malcolm Culcanon, rose from a seat he’d taken in the shadowed corridor outside the great hall. His shoulders blocked the light from the nearest torch, casting his tall, formidable frame into a dark outline. Five years had taken little toll on his handsome features. Women all over the Highlands vied for his attentions ever since he’d been a youth. Cristiana herself had found him most pleasing when they’d met. The keenness of his dark green gaze mirrored his fine intellect. His close-cropped brown hair lacked the flowing beauty of more vain men, but Cristiana appreciated the cleanliness apparent in the sheen of it. Most of all, she admired the warrior strength of him, his chest so solid, it felt as if he wore chain mail upon it or rather, it had once upon a time when she’d ventured a touch. She’d hardened her heart to this arrogant man and all his family long ago.

“Fortunately, I was never that foolish.” She turned from him to welcome two other guests who’d been invited for the winter revelry, a neighboring lord and his lady, who had supplied Domhnaill with men and allegiance for generations.

“Duncan!” the velvet-swathed mistress, Lady Beatrice of the Firth, gushed with delight upon recognizing Cristiana’s companion. She clamped a heavily jeweled hand to her breast as if to quiet her heart. “How good to see you. We have heard about your success in driving the Normans from our borders—”

“We must take our seats,” her husband interrupted, his low tone laced with warning. “Duncan has only sought shelter because of the storm. No doubt, he is weary with travel.”