In the Laird's Bed

All around them, diners exclaimed over yet another lavish feast for the holidays. The mighty Yule log still burned brightly in the hearth, echoing the flickering of torches ringing the great chamber. The scent of fragrant pine and honeyed mead mingled with the gingered spices of rich sauces and savory tang of roasted meats.

“You could have simply shared your task with the assembled guests when I asked. Or made up some fanciful lie to distract us from the truth.” She did not look at him as she refilled his mead from a flagon left on the dais table. A fat silver ring set with rubies clanked against the hammered metal pitcher.

“I could not risk having the whole keep learn how deadly serious I am about my quest, lest every villager and guest alike would be tearing apart your lands and the structures upon it to join in the hunt.”

“You cannot be serious.” Frowning, she did not wait for him to serve her a morsel of spicy roasted duck, but speared a bit on the tip of her knife. She tested the heat of the dish by putting the bite close to her lip before nipping it off with her teeth.

“You have not guessed the object of my quest?”

Oddly, she seemed to pale at his words. What did she fear he sought? He tucked away that question to mull over another time. For now, he would share his full purpose with her, if only to draw her into the scheme and keep her quiet while he went about the task.

“I cannot possibly imagine—”

He withdrew her eating knife from her hand and set it aside, determined to serve her if only to maintain an appearance of goodwill between them.

“It is not a conversation for the hall, where anyone might overhear,” he confided, choosing a steaming bit of smoked fish for her.

“There is nothing on my family lands for which you could have any rightful claim.” She did not seem to see the bite of fish he waved in front of her.

There could be no doubt about it now. Her skin had lost all color.

Did she have some knowledge of the prize he sought?

“I have as much right to such a treasure as you.” He kept his voice low as he replaced the food on their trencher. “It belongs with the Culcanons as much as any Domhnaill.”

“It?”

He could not name the emotion behind that one incredulous word.

Cursing below his breath, he put his lips close to her ear and whispered the purpose of his quest.

“The old Viking treasure. I’ve discovered a reliable clue to its whereabouts.”

He expected her to be pleased. The rumored wealth of a long ago mutual ancestor had been buried be fore a Viking invasion to protect it. But he had not anticipated the obvious relief that sent a rush of color back into her cheeks and a burst of laughter from her lips.

“You’re searching for a box of trinkets no one has discovered for some two hundred years?” The news seemed to encourage her appetite for she reached to retrieve her knife.

He clamped the jeweled handle to the table and fed her his fish offering instead. She took it without hesitation, her spirits seemingly restored as much as her appetite. By the rood, what had worried her before? What treasure had she feared he would discover at Domhnaill?

“Aye.” One day he would confide how he came by the medallion with the map he wore about his neck. How his people would not make it through another winter without the spoils from such riches.

But if he could not locate the wealth of the crafty old ancestor who’d fathered both the Culcanon and Domhnaill clans long ago, claiming Cristiana’s lands became all the more crucial. She might laugh at the idea of the Viking treasure, but his finding it was her only possible hope of keeping her lands. And even then? He could not imagine walking away from the strength and resources of Domhnaill. If he did not take it now, what warmongering knight might steal it out from under her? Duncan could not afford an enemy lord so close to home.

“My lady.” A harried-looking young maid that Duncan had not seen before approached Cristiana in the hall.

The maid bit her lip and frowned. Her head scarf was askew and dark curls sprang from the side as if she’d been hard at work on a difficult task.

“Yes?” Cristiana stood immediately, perhaps sensing a matter of some import.

Since the meal was well underway, he could not imagine the woman came to report any problem in the kitchen. Could the maid be a nurse to the old laird?

Duncan tensed. Not only had he liked the lord of Domhnaill, but he also found himself resenting any news that would upset Cristiana. How strange that his world had become bound up in hers again so quickly.

“You said you wished me to fetch you any time—”

“Of course,” Cristiana murmured, seizing the girl’s arm as she attempted to withdraw from the table.

Duncan rose to help her, lifting her skirt to clear the bench and not receiving so much as an ill-favored look this time. But then her mind seemed elsewhere.

“I will come with you.” The distracted expression upon her face concerned him.

“No!” both women exclaimed at once. The maid’s eyes went to Cristiana’s as if to judge her expression.

What did they hide?

“A sick room is no place for a warrior whose strength depends upon good health,” Cristiana explained. “One of the children has a fever that could benefit from herbs and I’m the closest thing to a wise woman Domhnaill has. Please do enjoy the minstrels and the dancing.”

Not waiting for a response, she turned on her heel and hurriedly led the maid from the hall.

Something was not right.

Thinking she would surely lead him to the old laird so he could judge her father’s condition for himself, Duncan eased a narrow taper from its place on a hearthside altar and followed the women through the maze of the darkened keep.

“I think the lass sleeps, my lady,” the maid told Cristiana some hours later.

Cristiana held Leah’s delicate form across her lap, her niece’s head cradled to her shoulder as she sang her patient a third lullaby. Her forehead no longer felt as hot, but Cristiana had not fully recovered from the scare of seeing the girl sweating and pale when she’d entered the bedchamber earlier.

Leah had found some ease, however, from a hot broth with soothing herbs.

“I don’t mind holding her a bit longer,” Cristiana assured her, wiping an auburn curl from Leah’s forehead. “My guests have no need of me at this hour.”

“Yet I did not see the young Culcanon laird bedding down in the great hall.” The maid poured fresh water into a bowl by Leah’s bed and folded fresh linen strips to set beside it in case the girl’s skin needed more cooling in the night. “I mention it only because he seemed concerned for you earlier. Perhaps he awaits some word from you.”

Cristiana did not think that was the case. But what if Duncan roamed the keep at night while everyone else slept? Was he treasure-seeking even then? Or could he be searching for something else under cover of night?

A frightening thought occurred. What if his whole tale of seeking hidden riches was, in fact, a careful fabrication intended to conceal what he really sought?

She peered down at Leah, frightened to her toes.

“Very well.” Cristiana eased out from under the warm weight of the child she’d raised as her own. “I will leave her in your care, but please do have someone fetch me if the fever returns or if she seems uneasy.”

“Of course.” The maid rose to tuck the bed linen around Leah’s shoulders. “Good night, my lady.”

Fearing she’d find Duncan lurking just outside the door to the chamber, Leah shared with a nurse and two other children—an older girl who’d come to foster at Domhnaill and a boy some eight summers fathered by one of the knights, Cristiana was relieved to find the corridor clear. He had not followed her.

Unable to hasten her weary footsteps, she wound her way down the stairs of one tower and paused as she neared the great hall. All the torches had been extinguished for the night, but the hearth fire blazed as if recently stoked. Grunts and moans, giggles and sighs of couples in various stages of passion made Cristiana duck her head and hasten toward the staircase to the tower where her own bed awaited.

She nearly ran into a man and woman cavorting in the shadows outside the hall. Her feet tangled with another pair of feet, her skirts catching on the pant leg of a man who stood close to the tower stairs.