The Laird's Lady

She refused to turn around and look at him. Instead she stared fixedly at a silver Celtic cross mounted upon her wall. How could he sound so lighthearted and full of good humor when her whole world had crashed around her ears, her future destroyed by the Scots’ quest for domination?

“My wish,” she ground out through clenched teeth, “was greeted with smug hostility. You threw me in the dungeon rather than listen to me. I have no desire to say anything to you now.”

The heathen did not reply, but Rosalind could hear his footsteps as he moved to the sideboard, followed by the splash of wine into a cup.

“Perhaps ye need another drink, lady. Ye look rather…tense.”

A huge hand reached around her to take her cup from the tray. Rosalind stiffened at his sudden nearness, but still declined to look at him.

When he returned with her drink in hand, however, she had no choice but to do so. He sank onto a low footstool as if he belonged there.

“Here’s to yer health, lass, and to yer very successful recovery.” He clanked his cup heavily against hers and drank the contents down in one gulp.

What did he think he was doing here, making himself at home in her solar, drinking her wine, smiling like a cat that just swallowed the first spring robin? The insolent Scotsman looked a far sight more grand than the last time she’d seen him. When he had ordered her to the dungeon, he had been the very image of a barbarian with his leather cape askew and his blue war paint.

Now he appeared more refined. And surprisingly clean for a heathen. In fact, Rosalind could detect the scent of Gerta’s soap about him. His tunic boasted a fine weave of silk, though the garment had not been decorated after the fashion of noblemen.

His hair shone with cleanliness, as well, falling to his broad shoulders and tied neatly at his nape. Black as sin, the locks seemed indicative of his character. Thick sable brows sheltered eyes that were a clear and vivid blue, perhaps a sign of Nordic ancestry. They should have been raven’s wing dark, too. ’Twould be more reflective of his soul. Still, fine creases around his eyes suggested he was no stranger to laughter. A straight and somewhat prominent nose hinted at pride or mayhap intelligence.

Overall, he was rather pleasing to the eye for a warmongering miscreant. But a fair countenance did not change the fact that he was still a conqueror. And above all, Rosalind craved peace. This was a man to be wary of, no matter what lighthearted jests issued from his mouth.

He seemed to be studying her as intently as she perused him. Attempting to quiet her jittery fears, Rosalind raised her cup to her lips and drank.

“’Tis no Scotch mead, of course,” he commented, his gaze steady upon her, “but ’twill do on a warm eve like this one. Would ye care for some fresh air, perhaps?”

“No,” Rosalind lied, refusing to be affable to a man who’d robbed her of her keep. In truth, she longed to tell him she was not sorry she’d stabbed him, that she would do it again in a heartbeat.

Concern for her people forced her to hold her tongue, along with a healthy dose of good sense that told her not to enrage this man and risk being thrown onto her back and defiled. He might seem trustworthy in that respect, but she could not afford to let her guard down. It was fortunate no lives had been taken in the siege. She would not risk any more by provoking the Scots leader.

“Then we will talk here.” He stood abruptly and paced the length of the solar, his quick gait betraying no sign of the wound she’d given him, which surely must pain him even as it healed.

Her feminine chamber, draped with rich tapestries and gossamer silks, seemed an odd backdrop for a warrior who exuded such maleness. Did he mean to take her chamber for his own and displace her? For a fleeting moment, she envisioned his muscular body reclined on the dark coverlet that graced her bed.

Regrettably, the image was not as absurd as she anticipated. A very clear picture came to mind, burning her cheeks as hotly as if she’d spoken the thought aloud.

“We need to come to some agreement.” His solemn manner assured her he had not somehow divined her misplaced thoughts. “When last we met ye mentioned a ‘peaceful shift of power’ from ye to me. I want to discuss this transition. But first I want to know why this shift of power would come from ye, and nae yer brother, William. Does he hold no authority at Beaumont?” He sat again, waiting for an answer. His eyes never left hers.

She longed to stand, to walk away from him and the peculiar stirring he seemed to arouse in her, but to do so would make her appear intimidated. Her bout of illness had left her too weak to walk steadily, and his presence only made her knees more unsteady.

She found him as disconcerting as his pointed questions. Had he guessed the secret of her brother’s disappearance? “In my brother’s absence, I speak for Beaumont.”

“Tell me again about this strange departure of his.” Malcolm’s hand strayed toward her leg. Startled, Rosalind flinched, but he only picked up the pomander that dangled from a chain at her waist, careful not to actually touch her person. “None of my men saw him leave. How is it possible he escaped our notice?”

Distracted by his keen interest in the keepsake from her mother, Rosalind watched Malcolm as he carefully traced his callused finger over the intricate pattern of Celtic carvings.

She shivered despite the warmth of her room, and warded off the sensation by snapping at him. “Think you I will give away all of our secrets? Perhaps there are ways to and from the keep that you have not discovered.”

“I will discover them all, ye can be sure. No keep of mine will be wrested out from under me.” Allowing the pomander to fall from his fingers, Malcolm rested his elbows on his sprawled thighs. The gesture put his face disturbingly close to her own.

Unwillingly, Rosalind absorbed the warmth of his presence, the heat of his body.

“Ye would do well to learn this now, Lady Rosalind.”

“You must know I do not consider this your keep, therefore when it is wrested out from under you, I will only be regaining what is rightfully mine.” Burrowing her backbone farther into her chair, she created as much distance between them as possible. Not that he scared her, but he definitely unsettled her. She’d begun to trust that he wasn’t here to make a grab for her, or else he would have done so by now.

“Ye mean yer brother will be regaining what is rightfully his, do ye not, lass?” A half smile twitched his lips.

“Beaumont is mine in his absence.” She cringed inwardly at her own blunder and at the laughter in his voice. Cursing her flustered weakness, she vowed to be more careful around him.

“A position ye seem at home with.” He looked around the master chamber meaningfully. “Would ye care for more wine?” One heavy black brow rose with the question.

Rosalind shook her head. Did he suspect her lies? She watched him covertly as he poured himself another cup. The man was completely out of place in her solar with its dried flowers and romantic notions. She guessed him to be a few inches above Gregory’s imposing height. Malcolm’s broad shoulders spanned a vast width, and the muscles at his calves bunched as he walked. A small knife fit into a sheath at his waist.

A warrior to his toes. It occurred to her that he did not look like the sort of craven churl to set fire to a keep and then disappear into the night. She had learned from their conversation that Malcolm liked to keep what he took, for one thing, which an anonymous raider could not do. Just by looking at him she ascertained he was a man accustomed to fighting—something the gutless torch-wielders were not, since they had set blaze to Beaumont and then disappeared into the night.

Thus Malcolm McNair was probably not responsible for the murder of her parents. He still represented the savages who committed the deed, of course, and his conquest of her keep was reason enough to despise him. Just not quite so much as she would have if she had remotely suspected him of the Beaumont fire.

“Getting back to this peaceful shift of power.” He finished his drink and sat before her once again. “I know ye must care for your people, else ye wouldna have been at the parapets wielding a crossbow.”

Rosalind lifted her chin. Did he think to make her feel guilty?

“I find such loyalty admirable,” he continued, surprising her completely. “I understand it was nae yer fault yer brother led ye into a pointless battle. I lay the blame on him for the needless loss of lives in this siege.”

Rosalind was grateful Malcolm glanced away, else he would have seen the guilty flush steal over her features. Given her own losses, she should not mourn the loss of her enemy’s men. Yet guilt pricked her to think men had died because of her actions.

“Because I know ye care for the tenants and servants, I know ye will want to ease their adjustment to my presence.”

Perhaps sensing a protest, he raised his hand to silence her. “I know ye dinna want to face the reality that yer dreaded enemy now rules Beaumont, but ’tis a fact. Ye will only cause distress and mixed allegiances among the people if ye decry me. Would ye honestly want yer tenants to revolt and risk their lives against trained knights of war to preserve ye as their ruler? And dinna mistake me, ’twould be risking their lives.”

“You brute.” Rosalind rose from her seat so that she might look down at him. “How dare you threaten these good people when they have already done everything but kiss your bloody Scottish boot soles.”

He could have stood, as well, and intimidated her, but he remained seated, as if unperturbed by her outburst. Or was he perhaps still feeling some of the sting of the wound she’d given him three days before?

“’Tis well ye know I threatened no one. ’Tis my way of asking ye to lend me yer support and nae rile all yer household. If only ye will allow yerself to be reasonable in this, ye will see the truth of my words.”

“Be reasonable?” Anger churned through her. “I am being more than reasonable allowing you into my chamber. I am being reasonable every moment I do not spit in your face. It is completely unreasonable of you to ever think I will submit like an obedient little maid to a hostile enemy, just because you have the advantage over me at the moment.”

“Ye will risk the people of Beaumont to bolster yer wounded pride?” His voice rumbled with restrained anger and his fingers flexed tightly around his drinking chalice.

“I will not risk my people, heathen.” It occurred to her that at some point during their conversation she had realized she could rail at this man without fearing for the Beaumont folk. Although the warlord might seize her home, he would not vent his annoyance on her people. How odd to think, in this small way, she had already come to trust him. “I shall be rid of you before long. If the king will not come to our aid, Will has other allies to turn to.”

They glared at each other, brilliant blue eyes locked with hers, as the two of them reached an impasse.

“I think our talk is at an end,” Rosalind said finally, spinning away.

Malcolm rose, returning his cup to the tray with a clank. “Nay, Rosalind.”

The low rumble of his voice, the supreme confidence with which he contradicted her, gave her pause. Her heartbeat faltered.