In the Laird's Bed

Forestalling the argument that appeared imminent from Beatrice, Peter of the Firth dragged his wife into the hall.

“If you are stirred by the dance music, my lord,” Beatrice called over her shoulder with a simpering smile, “I will be most glad to partner you.”

Cristiana would have taken the exchange as an excuse to sidestep Duncan, but he must have sensed her motive, for he clamped a broad hand about her wrist and tugged her back into the shadows behind a giant tapestry.

“Sir,” she protested, yanking her hand back and finding it well caught.

Alarm pricked over her skin. No one could see them here. Would he brutalize her as his half brother had brutalized her sister? He had made no secret of his fury over her choice to break their betrothal.

“We need to speak freely before we dine.” He spoke into her ear, holding her much too close. “I am prepared to do you homage tonight as a peace offering. Will you accept?”

She tried to quiet her alarm by recalling how many important lords and ladies were on the other side of the tapestry. Duncan could not possibly mean her harm. Taking a deep breath, she calmed herself. And in the space of a heartbeat, she noticed the laundered scent of a fresh tunic and the warmth of his powerful form beneath it. His fingers spanned the inside of her arm while his thigh brushed against her skirts.

Her heart thundered at the audacity of his suggestion and his closeness.

“I will offer you shelter and nothing else.” She tried not to think about the last time he’d held her thus. The sweetness of the kiss that had made her long to be a wedded woman back before she knew how faithless a Culcanon could be. For all that Duncan had expressed outrage at her refusal to wed, he’d wasted no time in reuniting with his lover at a nearby keep. “Do not take a charitable action for granted, lest you find your men escorted from my gates with all haste.”

“It would not be wise to rebuff the king’s new ally in front of so many witnesses, Cristiana.” His hold on her eased. “Perhaps you have not received news of the kingdom since your father has been ill, but I assure you, Malcolm is unifying his holdings and carving a new order. The world has changed much in five years.”

On the other side of the tapestry, more guests arrived and a minstrel struck up a bright tune sure to draw the rest of the keep to the hall for holiday revelry.

As early as this morning, a smoothly run supper to distract from her father’s continued absence would have been her biggest concern. Now, Duncan suggested her efforts fooled no one, and worse, her family’s standing might be suffering for the lack of a Domhnaill presence near King Malcolm.

“You forget yourself, sir.” She slid free of his grip and busied her nervous hands by straightening her belt. “The Domhnaills have long been loyal supporters to the crown. And although we never troubled the king with the injury your kin did to mine, it is not too late for us to appeal for justice if you wish to bring the matter to his attention.”

She had not forgotten the hurts her sister had suffered. The humiliation. The bruises. The recollection steeled her spine and deafened her ears to the other memories of that summer when the Domhnaill women had admitted treacherous men into their hearts.

“Cristiana, do not allow old angers to blind you. Domhnaill needs a leader, and if your da does not choose a successor, the king will find one for him.”

The possibility so closely echoed her deepest fears that she felt Duncan had breached her walls for the second time today.

Indeed, she was so rattled that she did not protest when Duncan took her arm to lead her away from the tapestry and into the dim corridor once more.

“I am flattered to be your dining partner this eve,” he announced loudly, as if they’d been in the middle of a conversation. By taking advantage of her tongue-tied state, he’d just claimed the seat beside her at sup.

Cristiana knew she needed to regain her wits before he commandeered the whole holiday revel.

The minstrel’s song had reached a high note and the great hall was nearly full. Laverers circled the tables, offering a basin and towel to diners wishing to wash up.

“A poor traveler will always find a meal and a warm hearth at Domhnaill,” she returned with forced brightness, holding herself stiffly away from him.

How did he know so much about the problems here? Swallowing back her fear, she allowed herself to be guided through the diners, toward the dais. Green pine garland hung from the rafters, infusing the room with the scent of a forest. A jongleur whom she’d named master of the revel was leading the servers in a song of welcome while guests found their seats.

“The hearth is all that is warm these days,” Duncan whispered for her ears alone. “I remember when that was not always so.”

She stiffened.

“You’ve no right—” she began, but cut herself off as a server approached them. The maid carried a heavy flagon of mead, reminding Cristiana of her first duty as hostess.

Duncan must have remembered, as well, for he leaned close again, not bothering to hide his nearness from her guests.

“Perhaps you will recall some of the old warmth when you must serve me?” He eased away from her, but masked his callousness with a low bow over her hand.

Fearing he might kiss her fingers in the courtier’s way, she snatched her hand back at once. But Duncan only smiled and took his seat at the high table.

Cursing him roundly under her breath, she accepted the pitcher of mead and approached the dais. The lady of Domhnaill had always served her guest personally to begin meals in this ancient hall, and Cristiana had no intention of straying from the tradition when she had fought so long and hard to show the world everything ran smoothly here.

“To your health, my lord,” she intoned, even managing to dip her head slightly in his direction as she did so. Thankfully, the forced curtsy helped to hide her burning cheeks.

With hands that hardly quivered, she approached Duncan the Brave and poured him a cup of her finest mead as if her world wasn’t falling apart. As if her father wasn’t dying. As if her beloved sister hadn’t been exiled.

And almost as if Cristiana wasn’t raising her sister’s illegitimate babe in secret.

Chapter Two

The sweetness remained. Yet there was more to it than that.

Duncan rolled the honey mead on his tongue hours later, after the meal had ended and the dancing commenced, trying to identify what was different about Lady Cristiana’s famed brew from the last time he’d had a taste. He watched the lady herself as she bowed serenely to her dancing partner, an elder of her clan who served as a close adviser to her father. Like her mead, Cristiana was more complex than he recalled. Time had erased the softness of girlhood from her face, leaving a more elegant and refined beauty. She moved with grace and ease as she danced, though her serious expression made him think she was more apt to be discussing war strategy than holiday celebrations.

Neither she nor her smooth libation were as simple as a sum of their parts. No single facet could be clearly defined. But the effect of the whole was intriguing. Potent. He could feel the sweet sting of the wine in the pleasing stir of his blood.

Then again, he might be confusing the effect of the woman with her beverage.

“You promised me a dance, my lord.”

The husky feminine voice in his ear was not the one he wished to hear just then. Turning, he was abruptly placed at eye level with Lady Beatrice’s considerable cleavage. She batted her lashes and extended her hand, forcing him to either dance or refuse her publicly.

Or…neither.

“Lady Beatrice.” Replacing his empty cup upon the table, he rose to his feet. “I regret that I cannot, for I must act on a New Year’s tradition right now. But I trust you will not be disappointed in the game.” The custom of a New Year’s game or challenge aided the second part of his plan.

“My dear sirs and gentlewomen.” Duncan raised his voice over the dying strains of music from the last dance. Accustomed to ruling over a hall, he did not mind stepping into the laird’s shoes. “I wish to thank your good lady for sharing the richness of her hospitality and the merry mood of her hall.”

His words were echoed round the room, though not very heartily by Lady Beatrice, who appeared disgruntled about the lack of a dance. Over near the minstrels, Cristiana accepted the praise with a demure nod, but Duncan spied her discomfort over having him here.

But she did not deserve an easy heart after the way she had severed all ties to him on the basis of her sister’s fickle moods.

“And in the spirit of the season,” he continued, hiding bitterness beneath a hearty tone, “I ask your lady’s indulgence of a boon.”

Cristiana’s head whipped up, instantly alert. Her gaze swept the hall, perhaps searching for aid among her father’s men. But who would escort him off the dais now that she had invited him there? Half her guards were full of drink and the other half were wooing maids in darkened corners.

Duncan pressed on, determined to have his way.

“There has been a shadow between our families that I one day hope to lift. For now, I ask only that you grant me a moon and a day at Domhnaill to place a wondrous treasure at your feet.” He quieted his voice in deference to the challenge, the storytelling skills of his Scots ancestors not missing him entirely. “If, at that time, my offering does not suit you, I will leave your keep forever. But if you are well pleased, I ask that our clans forge a new peace and heal the old rift once and for all.”

As he finished his proposition, every eye in the hall turned to Cristiana. To her credit, she schooled her features admirably before attention swung her way. But Duncan had seen the flash of fury that had snapped in her gaze first.

He could not have called her out more neatly if he’d thrown a gauntlet at her feet. The public request for a boon at a holiday was something no chivalrous court could deny. Especially in front of such a large company of royal allies.