In the Laird's Bed

“And rob my daughter of her rightful place? ’Tis bloody well bad enough that Edwina has lost her Domhnaill home. I will not leave you with nothing after all I’ve done to make this fortress the strongest in the east. Your man shall be laird, girl. And every man who has ever served under me knows that is my wish.”

She nodded mutely, touched by his declaration even as she recognized it for the confused rambling that it was. Her visits here were frustrating, but she never left feeling unloved.

“Thank you, Da.” She hugged her father hard, grateful for every day she still had him.

“Go rest your head, lassie. You’ve had a long day.”

Nodding, she stoked the fire in the grate before slipping from the room. She would make sure Keane was beside her sire when Duncan met him so that the laird did not have to do more than greet him. She could not have her father give his confused blessing on a marriage that could never take place.

No matter how strong a guardian Duncan might be for Domhnaill, Cristiana did not trust him. He’d come back to this keep for secret reasons he had not shared. She knew it in her veins.

Nay, she would not trust Duncan. Not with her heart, not with her father’s legacy and most certainly not with the little girl who deserved the warmth of a family’s love. What might Duncan and his brother do if they learned Cristiana had been harboring their heir for more than four years? Would they declare war on Domhnaill to get her back?

Or worse, was there a chance they spread their seed so carelessly that one more child bearing their distinctive green eyes would not matter to them at all?

For her niece, Leah’s, sake, Cristiana refused to find out.

Duncan would turn this keep inside out to find what he sought.

He arose before the dawn the next morning, determined to make his time at Domhnaill as brief as possible. By the time he broke his fast and dressed warmly to fend off the frigid damp blowing in off the water, the sun’s first rays lit the token he wore about his neck. He held up the medallion to the study the map worked in metal. The cryptic figure he believed matched some landmark on Domhnaill property.

A chill lingered on the breeze that had naught to do with the sea as he stalked farther from the stark gray walls. Unease lurked behind the keep’s strong facade, a sense among the people that their leader had grown weak. Cristiana could make merry all the new year to hide her clan’s shortcomings. But it did not change the fact that Domhnaill was ripe for the taking.

Duncan’s eyes roamed over the stones of the keep in search of a pattern in the rock that might match the figure on his medallion. It was one of many possibilities for what the map might signify. And the task of studying stone walls did not require nearly enough of his attention to keep him from thinking about Cristiana.

About how she’d been ready to wed five years ago.

By the rood, he would never forget the heat of the kiss they’d shared even though she’d been naught but an innocent maid. They’d been left alone to walk in the gardens, their families preoccupied with details of Edwina’s marriage contract. Cristiana had not hesitated to take his arm when he led her through the fruit trees to a bench by an old wishing well.

Oddly, she had not recalled that it had been her to lead him there, since it had been that same day that Donegal had dishonored Edwina. Cristiana had accused Duncan of kissing her to distract her from keeping an eye on her sister. But it had not been so. Cristiana had been eager to be with him, her eyes bright with excitement as she drew him into the trees.

Not seeing any pattern in the stones now, Duncan found his feet picking out the path to that well. He needed to cover a lot of ground in the next moon if he hoped to find the treasure, so it made sense if he spent some of today taking in the lay of the land.

Breaking through the thicket of overgrown fruit trees, he spied a new building between the orchard and the well. A squat, round tower, the structure was too far from the keep to be a kitchen. Yet the smoke of a stoked fire puffed from a hole in the roof.

What construction had the old laird undertaken? Surprised at this sign of ambitious growth, Duncan made sure his medallion was hidden beneath his garments and approached the building, boots kicking up freshly fallen snow.

He tried the door, expecting it to be locked. Instead, the barrier swung open easily and the scent of sweet mead rolled toward him in fragrant waves. The scent of Cristiana.

Indeed, this was her domain. And she must have risen with the dawn like him to be at her work so early. But there she stood, all alone and toiling over a table, her shoulders bent to some work he could not yet see. She had not heard him enter, her full attention devoted to whatever project she labored over.

The building was a brew house unlike anything he’d ever seen before. It functioned as far more than a mere corner of a kitchen where special cauldrons were set aside for mead-making. The entire, fine structure appeared dedicated to Cristiana’s brewing gift.

A hot fire burned in the center of the room, the blaze surrounded by protective stones to contain it. Some of the exterior wall of the tower was stacked with wood, but most of the walls were lined with other cauldrons.

The tower’s only low windows were placed above a worktable near where Cristiana stood. The skin-covered openings allowed the dawn’s light to spill over clay pots of dried herbs and spices. He could see now that she’d cut some sticks of cinnamon into smaller pieces, her hands dusted in fragrant powder.

“Cristiana.” He spoke softly so as not to startle her, but her name became an intimate sound on his lips.

Startled anyway, she whirled around as if expecting to see a field full of marauding Danes.

“Duncan.” Clutching a hand to her chest, she seemed to quiet her heart by force. “I am usually alone out here at this hour.”

Her cheeks were flushed from the heat of the fire as she turned back to her worktable. An amethyst-colored kirtle swung about her feet as she moved, the fabric falling in time with her rhythmic cutting.

“You tend your potions well, Cristiana.” He stepped deeper into the chamber, taking in the rainbow span of flowers drying on the rafters.

The scent of spices and dried berries mingled with the tang of yeast. Being in the brew house was like stepping into a late summer day with the rich warmth of the harvest all around.

“The Domhnaill mead is prized in trade. But I must use care in the making, since I can only obtain a certain amount of honey. Once I run out, I cannot replenish my stores until spring, so I dare not burn any.”

Carefully, she scraped the worktable clean of the cinnamon she’d cut, swiping the last of the powder into her hand. When she’d gathered all she could, she brought it to a pot on the far wall and scattered it over the surface of the brew.

No wonder she carried such an enticing smell on her person at all times. She must absorb the fragrance right through her skin.

“Your father has invested a great deal in this trade.” Peering up at the ceiling, he noted the excess rafters for additional space to dry herbs out of the way of the boiling cauldrons. Mortars and pestles, cups and small jars lined the shelves of an open cupboard.

“Our mead sells for a very good price. In turn, full coffers keep the men paid and attract strong alliances.” She rinsed her hands in a bowl of water kept on the hearthstones and dried them on a linen rag tied to her girdle.

“Your father has not raised a fighting force in many years,” he observed, pacing the perimeter of the structure to view the contents of the fermenting cauldrons. “His coffers must overflow with the excess. He could have made you a fine marriage long ago.”

The dowry Duncan was to have received for her five years ago had been more than generous, especially considering his sons would have ruled Domhnaill one day. What would the laird offer to the man who wed Cristiana now?

“I do not think finding a husband for me is part of his purpose.” Holding back her plaited hair in one hand, she bent over the cauldron in the center of the chamber and sniffed delicately.

The fabric of her tunic dipped away from her breasts as she leaned forward, presenting him with a view so beguiling he stopped cold in his pacing. A jolt of undeniable interest sparked. To lust after her was foolishness. She was no experienced woman to choose a man for pleasure’s sake. She was an unwed maid, who must make a good marriage. A highborn one at that.

And he would suffer the fires of hell before it would be him after the cold way she’d dismissed him.

But the knowledge did not stop the heat streaking through his veins at the sight of her tempting, creamy flesh. The moment ended too soon as, straightening, she took up a spoon and stirred the concoction. He struggled to recall what they’d been discussing.

Ah, yes. A husband.

“Only a fool of a sire would ignore the need to see you wed. And your da is no fool.” A stubborn, hard man perhaps. But other than the misstep with the broken betrothal, the old laird was a keen ruler. Or at least, he had been.

Perhaps she had sensed his gaze on her because she paused in her stirring to peer up at him. Though they stood many steps distant, he could feel the moment the air between them grew charged. As a virgin untouched, would Cristiana even know the source of such heat?

“I choose not to marry.” Her words were so at odds with everything he’d been thinking, it took him a long moment to understand what she’d said.

“Impossible.” He drew closer, telling himself he wished to judge her features and seek out the lie. Yet he knew he was pulled toward her by a power beyond his control. She fascinated him despite their mutual mistrust. “Your father has no sons. He has no choice but to ally himself—his people—with a strong clan who can protect the legacy of his lands.”

She removed the spoon from the spinning, bubbling brew beside her and hung the instrument from a hook near the pot’s handle.

“He will choose his successor when the time is right. I do not need to wed to secure our fate.”

She spoke madness. Her father indulged this? He would question the old man about it when he obtained an audience with him, since it would make Duncan’s work here easier if he did not have to fight off a suitor for control of Domhnaill. For now, he would have answers of a different sort from her.

She stared up at him with that steady, gray gaze of hers. She had become a practical woman. Efficient. Hardworking. But he remembered another facet of her. A passionate, unrestrained side that she’d locked down like it never existed after that day by the wishing well.