LORD OF DUNKEATHE (30 page)

"I don't like him, either, but it wouldn't be him I'd be marrying."

"Yet you'd be related to him."

"Yes, and he has many friends at court, which is where I expect he'll be spending his time once he's got Eleanor off his hands."

"Eleanor seems very young to be chatelaine of Dunkeathe."

"She's seventeen."

"A very sheltered seventeen, I think."

"You weren't much older when you married Adair."

"Lochbarr is not Dunkeathe, and you're not Adair."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Marianne rose and went to him, resting her hand on his shoulder and looking at him with obvious affection and concern. "It means, dear brother, that your castle is much different from Adair's home, and you're a very different sort of man. You should choose a bride who isn't afraid of you."

A woman who would confront him face-to-face, boldly, eyes blazing, chin raised.

"Eleanor's not afraid of me," he protested.

Marianne put her finger to her lips and nodded at the cradle. "Shh. You'll wake Cellach."

"I don't think Eleanor's afraid of me," he repeated in a softer voice.

"Very well, Nicholas, she's not. But she's not happy, either. I've barely seen her smile the whole time I've been here, even when she's talking to you. What do her eyes tell you?"

Nicholas strode to the window again. "They don't talk," he replied. Not hereyes, anyway. Not to him.

"If she was happy, I think you'd be able to see that in her eyes."

The way he could see the affection and desire unfurl in Riona's when they were alone. He had seen nothing like that in Eleanor's timid, wary expression, and she often seemed to avoid looking
directly
at him at all.

"If she doesn't want me for a husband, she has only to say so," he muttered. "I won't have an unwilling bride." He looked at his sister. "You made me see the folly of trying to force a woman into a marriage she doesn't want. If Eleanor doesn't wish to many me, that will be the end of it."

Marianne glanced down at the cradle as Cellach sighed and shifted, then raised her eyes. "Should I assume that Eleanor is your first choice?"

"Either her or Joscelind."

"What of the Lady Riona?"

Nicholas went to the chair and picked up the distaff Marianne had left lying there. He fingered the fleece,
absently
noting its softness and wondering how it compared to that of the sheep Fergus Mac Gordon thought so highly of.

He also wondered if he should tell Marianne that he knew that she'd talked to Riona about him, but decided against it. He didn't want to reveal that he'd been alone with Riona at all. "I could never seriously consider her. Her family is too poor and unimportant."

"That may be, but she's a fine young woman—very competent and quite pleasant. The servants seem to adore her, and I've
noticed
that even the guards at the gate treat her with deference and respect. You'll excuse me for saying so, brother, but given their usual attitude to Scots, that's quite an achievement."

"I cannot marry a poor woman."

"You would rather marry a proud and haughty woman who will make your household a battleground, or a young, frightened girl who's too afraid to even look at you?"

"I can't afford to marry any but a rich woman." Frustrated, he started to pace. "And I'm tired, Marianne. Tired of fighting. Tired of scrimping and saving every ha'penny. Tired of worrying.

"When I have money to pay my taxes and my garrison, when I have friends at court to look out for my interests, then I can rest and be content. If I can also come to love my wife, I'll count that as a blessing. But if not, I'll enjoy the ease I've won by taking her for my bride, and treat her well regardless."

"I only want you to be happy, brother," Marianne said softly, her eyes full of a sorrow that it pained him to see.

"I will be, Marianne," he vowed. "You'll see."

"Who are you trying to convince, Nicholas? Me—or you?"

"This is useless," he declared, heading for the door. "Until you've worked and suffered and strove as I have, you can't possibly understand."

NICHOLAS strode into his solar and closed the door. Hands splayed, head bowed, he leaned on the table and, sighing, closed his eyes.

Like a man utterly exhausted, or bending under a b
urden he no longer wished to carr
y.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

THAT NIGHT, Riona had barely closed the door to Nicholas's chamber before he swept her into his arms. Her toes brushed the stone floor as she clung to him passionately, returning his fervent kiss.

He let her down slowly, her breasts brushing against his chest, his face visible in the small flame from the oil lamp on the table. "I've missed you," he said in a low whisper that made her heart beat with delicious anticipation.

He took off the scarf she still wore to fool Percival, and tossed it onto the chest nearby. She noticed a familiar-looking bundle sitting there, but she forgot it as he trailed his finger from her lips to her chin and then slowly down her neck to the valley between her breasts. She had on the scarlet gown again. She wore it as often as she could because it was his
favour
ite.

"I've missed you, too," she admitted, her body warming as it always did when he touched her. "What's that on your chest?"

He looked down at his tunic. "Where?"

She laughed softly, and for a moment, her mood lightened. "Not there." She pointed at the bundle on the wooden chest. "There."

"Oh, that," he replied.

He went and got it, and as he did, his serious expression filled her with trepidadon and dismay. "Your uncle gave me this, but of course I can't keep it. Will you take it back to him?"

"What is it?" she asked, although deep in her heart, she suspected she knew.

"A feileadh and shirt—my wedding present for when I married you."

She briefly closed her eyes. It was a dagger to the heart, although she knew her uncle had meant well. "He didn't tell me he'd done that."

"He didn't give me a chance to refuse."

Riona took the bundle and set it down on the bed. "He
still
can't conceive that you won't be marrying me."

Nicholas took her shoulders in his powerful warrior's hands and regarded her steadily, his gaze full of a yearning that devastated her, because she knew that there could be no future for them. "I would choose you, Riona, if I could. If I were rich and influential, I

would send all those others packing tomorrow and carry you to the chapel in my arms to make you mine."

"But you can't," she said, her heart aching, her voice steady. "And you must beware Lord Chesleigh when you choose Eleanor. He's
ambitious
and dishonest, and he'll stop at nothing to get what he wants."

She couldn't tell Nicholas directly about Lord Chesleigh's threat to her uncle's life, but she would do what she could.

"Percival's influence should counter anything Lord Chesleigh can do," he replied.

"I'm not so sure. You must be prepared to fight Chesleigh, whether in court or in
battle
, after you marry."

Nicholas nodded, and she knew he would heed her words.

"Enough of such grim talk," she said with false cheer. "I don't want to ruin our last few nights with worries about villainous Normans. I'd rather talk about you."

Nicholas seemed anxious to shake off the weight of heavier matters, too, as he smiled. "Oh? Perhaps I'd rather talk about you, and what I'm going to do with you when I carry you to my bed."

She backed away from him. They had so little time left, she would enhance her store of memories while she could. "Not yet. First, my lord of Dunkeathe, I have a boon to beg."

He frowned, and she regretted worrying him. "I'd like to see you in a feileadh before I leave Dunkeathe, that's all. Would you put it on for me now?"

His smile held relief at her simple request. "You'd like to make a Scot of me?"

Trying to maintain this lighter mood between them, she returned his smile. "A feileadh'svery comfortable, or so Uncle Fergus says."

"A bit breezy, though, don't you think?"

"I wouldn't know. I've never worn one. Will you put it on for me, Nicholas? Just for a little while?"

"Your wish is my command, my lady, except that I don't know how to wrap the plaid properly," he replied. "Adair tried to explain it to me once, but I confess I didn't really listen."

"I'll help you." She ran her gaze over him. "The shirt first?"

"Very well, my lady. The shirt first."

He undid his belt and tossed it onto the table. After pulling off his tunic, he set that beside the belt, so that he was wearing only his breeches and boots.

Her mind strayed to thoughts of making love until they were both satisfied and exhausted, and she had to leave to return to her own chamber.

He drew on the white shirt, which smelled faintly of lavender, then discovered that he couldn't get his arms into the sleeves. "It doesn't fit," he said, his words muffled by fabric as he struggled to get it on.

"Your shoulders are too broad," she replied, hurrying to help him.

She didn't resist the urge to blatantly caress him while she did.

"Are you trying to make this more difficult?" he asked as he continued to struggle with the garment.

"Not particularly," she replied, caressing him again.

When he succeeded in getting the shirt off and tossed it onto the chest, she tilted her head to admire him. "Let's not bother with a shirt."

"Wanton wench—and if you keep looking at me like that, I'm going to pick you up and carry you to the bed right now."

"Then I won't look at you," she pertly replied. "Or you can keep your breeches on until I've got the fabric around you."

He started to undo the tie of his breeches. "If I'm to wear that plaid, I think I should wear it as the Scots do, and that means naked underneath—or so Adair's informed me. Don't you think I should?"

Her cheeks warmed with a blush, and the memory of his naked body. "If you wish."

He shook his head as he got one boot off. "If you wish."

"I won't stop you."

"When you look at me like that, it makes me want to kiss you." He got the other boot off and kicked it into the corner. "Of course, there seems to be very little these days that doesn't make me want to kiss you."

She put the fabric on the floor and started to unroll it. "What are you doing" he asked.

"I've got to spread this out."

"What, on the floor?"

"It's too long for the bed."

"Ah, the bed."

His deep, husky voice alone could make her moist and ready for him. But although she would gladly make love with him now,

she did want to see him in a feileadh—another recollection to take with her when she went home.

By the time he had his breeches off, she had laid the fabric out so that it was flat on the floor, stretching from the window nearly to the door.

"Is this going to take a long time?" he asked as he stood wearing nothing but a smile, and shamelessly displaying the extent of his eagerness to make love with her.

She raised a brow. "Can you not control that, my lord?"

"I'm naked and I'm with you, so no, I can't."

"Peacocks have their tail feathers and you have that. I suppose both are impressive displays of manhood."

"Suppose?"

"I've never seen a naked man aroused, except for you," she confessed as she crouched and made a series of folds in the center of the fabric.

After she finished, she pushed the center together, so that it was narrower there, and slipped his belt underneath the narrow portion.

"Now, if you'll just lie down here where the belt is, I'll wrap the fabric around you," she ordered, pointing to the center.

He didn't immediately do as she said. "That floor's going to be damn cold." He raised a brow. "Or is this a clever scheme to cool my ardor?"

Considering how long he could love her before he climaxed, she doubted that would happen. "I'm sure that takes more than a cold floor."

"You may be right," he said as he lay down on the fabric. When he was flat on his back, she stood at his feet. "If somebody were to come in now, you'd present an interesting spectacle," she noted.

"Are you going to stand there and make fun of me now that you have me completely at your mercy and looking ridiculous, or are you going to show me how to wear this?"

"Much as I'd love to stand here and admire you all night, I don't want you to catch a chill. Please raise your arms."

He did, and she knelt and pulled the right side of the fabric across his torso. She also lightly—and quite deliberately—brushed his penis with the back of her hand as she did.

"Brazen hussy."

"If your little soldier is going to stand at attention and get in my way, that's not my fault."

"Little soldier?"

"Big soldier," she amended as she drew the left side over the right, surreptitiously caressing him again. "Now you may fasten your belt and stand up."

"My big belt," he muttered as he obeyed. "On my big feet."

"I don't think your feet are particularly enormous. As for the other parts of you, I'll just have to take your word that they're impressive."

"In that case, I assure you, my lady, I'm very impressive. Bards are going to sing songs about me someday," he said as he rose.

The feileadh looked like two overlapping skirts, held in place by the belt. He frowned as he looked down. "Are you sure this is right?"

"You have to adjust the part hanging over your belt, that's all."

"How do I do that?"

"I'll show you." She took hold of one side of the overhanging fabric, and arranged it so that the extra fabric wound from his waist across his back, to drape over his left shoulder. "There."

She stepped back to admire her handiwork. And him.

He looked even more magnificent and handsome in the feileadh than she'd imagined.

"Do I meet with your approval?" he asked as she stood staring at him. "Do I look like a Scot?"

She didn't answer with words. She launched herself at him and took his mouth with a heated kiss, grinding her hips against him in blatant, brazen invitation.

He instantly responded with equal
fervour
, clasping her to him.