Authors: Margaret Moore
If she hadn't had that disturbing encounter to relive over and over, if that same excited, yet shameful, heat hadn't coursed through her body every time she remembered that kiss, if she hadn't had those disturbing dreams, she would have slept very well indeed on the soft featherbed.
"I wasn't speaking of Sir Nicholas," she clarified. "His other guests have been very rude to us."
Uncle Fergus took her gently by the shoulders and gave her a kindly smile. "They're just jealous."
Shaking her head, Riona moved away. "They don't respect us, or our country. I don't want to stay here to be the object of their scorn."
Following her, Uncle Fergus gave her an incredulous look. "Who cares what those ignorant Normans think? We know better, and so does Sir Nicholas. He's been respectful, and he's related to the Mac Tarans."
He sat on her bed and patted a place beside him. "Come here, my girl, and listen to me," he said gravely.
When she joined him, he put his arm around her. She laid her head on his shoulder, as she'd done many times before when she was troubled or upset.
"Riona, the Normans are generally a sad lot," he said. "Conceited and arrogant and rude. Yet whether we like it or not, because of our king and the rebellions he's had to deal with, they're here to stay. That doesn't mean we have to like them, of course, and who could? But there are a few worth getting to know, ones worth respecting, ones who could help
Scotland
. Sir Nicholas is one such Norman. As for the rest..." He blew out his breath as if snuffing a candle and waved his hand. "Ignore them, as I do. Why give them the satisfaction of having even that
little
bit of power over you?"
"So you have noticed what they were doing?"
Uncle Fergus laughed. "How could I not? I'm not blind or deaf."
"Doesn't that make you want to go back to Glencleith?"
"Not a bit of it. Just the opposite. I'll not let a Norman think he can sneer me out of a place. Besides, they only make themselves look foolish and petty with those antics, and I'm sure a man like Sir Nicholas isn't impressed."
"No, he—" She fell silent, lest she have to explain how she happened to know how Sir Nicholas felt about scornful, derisive Norman nobles.
"Now cheer up, Riona," Uncle Fergus said with a merry grin as he lowered his fatherly arm and got to his feet. "Don't fuss about the Normans and their haughty ways. Any Scot's worth a hundred of them any day, as Sir Nicholas has to know. I'll wager he's sorry he wasn't born a Scot himself."
Riona wondered if Sir Nicholas was ever sorry, about anything.
"Now come along, my beauty. We mustn't be late for mass. Then we'll see what sort of things these Normans eat to break the fast."
Although she wasn't in any great hurry to be anywhere near the dark, devilishly attractive and
seductive
lord of Dunkeathe, Riona
could think of no reason she couldn't go to mass, short of feigning illness, and it was too late for that.
AT NEARLY the same
time
, Lord Chesleigh's daughter sat in front of her dressing table, finishing her toilette in no calm and placid frame of mind.
"I don't know why we bothered to come here," she declared to her father, her voice crisp and shrill.
Lord Chesleigh frowned as he came farther into the large chamber full of chests and opened boxes, their contents spilling onto the floor. "What's the matter now?"
"Don't you know? We've been made to look like fools!"
"When have I ever looked like a fool?"
"When we arrived!" she cried, smacking her palm down on her dressing table, rattling and shaking the small jars of costly perfumes and unguents and secret little concoctions to add whatever bloom might be missing from her cheeks and lips. "When our host tricked us into thinking he was nothing but a servant. When he didn't immediately reveal himself, and apologize."
Her father regarded her coldly. "There's no need for this display of temper, Joscelind, and certainly not to me. Sir Nicholas is well aware of who we are and that we're not fools. Why else do you think he did as you asked? Why else do you think he
apologized? We are most certainly going to stay here and you're going to marry Sir Nicholas."
"He's just a minor knight in
Scotland
," she protested, rising to face her father. "You always promised me I would marry a courtier."
"Use the mind God gave you, Joscelind," her father replied with a hint of pique as he crossed his arms over his long moss- green tunic and the thick gold chain that dangled around his neck. "Sir Nicholas will never be a minor anything tot long. He proved himself far more than a minor mercenary. Are you blind to this fortress and the men he commands? With his experience in
battle
and his wealth, Sir Nicholas is going to be important wherever he happens to live."
"Surely there has to be somebody in London I could marry instead, in Henry's court."
"I don't know what cause you have to complain. Isn't he young and handsome? I saw the way you looked at him."
"But what about that Scot?" Joscelind flung the last word at him like a curse. "I think he actually preferred her to me. Me!" She stamped her delicate foot. "I won't stay here to be humiliated!"
Her father shrugged. "You could find them in bed together, and it wouldn't mean a thing except that he's a man and she's a whore —which wouldn't surprise me in the least, considering the breed she comes from."
Joscelind raised her chin. "If she's the sort of woman to appeal to Sir Nicholas, I don't want him. I do have my pride, Father."
Anger flaring on his face, Lord Chesleigh covered the distance between them in two long strides. He grabbed her arms and held her in a viselike grip. "Listen to me, girl. You're going to stay here and you're going to do everything you can to get that man to marry you. I haven't hired the finest teachers, and given you all these clothes and jewels for your pleasure. You were raised to many the man I choose, and by God, so you shall!"
Joscelind's eyes
filled
with tears from the pain. "I want my husband to be of use to you," she whimpered as he released her. "How can he be if he lives in this wilderness?"
"Because a man who can lead an army out of Scotland may one day have the chance to seize the kingdom. Henry's angering the English nobles by
favour
ing his wife's French relatives, and one day, he'll go too far. There'll be a rebellion."
Joscelind regarded her father with a mixture of hope, greed and awe. "You think Nicholas may become the king of England?"
"Not Nicholas," her father declared, annoyed. "Me. Nicholas can provide men and arms, and he knows how to lead men into
battle
, so he'll be a very useful ally. If he's my son-in-law, so much the better, for his fate will be tied to mine whether he wills it or no, and he'll have to do his best to see that I prevail.
"So, while he may seek to sport with that Scotswoman, it's not who the man beds that's important. It's who he weds. He'll marry you, Joscelind, if you make an effort and don't act like a shrew in front of him. You're the most beautiful woman here, and I'm willing to pay a considerable dowry. Sir Nicholas must also be aware of my influence at court."
"But if he prefers Lady Riona—"
"I have ways to deal with anyone who gets in the way of my plans. Your part is to do all you can to win him, or I'll marry you to some rich old man and be done with you."
Joscelind blinked back tears. "Yes, Father," she whispered. "I will."
CHAPTER FIVE
RIONA STOOD BESIDE her uncle at the back of the small chapel. It wasn't a large building, yet it had a very beautiful and surely expensive window of
coloured
glass depicting St. Michael, the warrior angel, winged and carrying a sword. In a niche at the right side stood a lovely statue of the Madonna cradling her infant son. The altar cloth was silk, and the candlesticks silver.
Riona suspected some of those attending mass were there because it was expected or they felt the need to impress their host. Sir George stood as close to the door as possible, as if he wanted to make a speedy exit, and Sir Percival yawned prodigiously throughout the service.
Some of the ladies were probably making petitions to Heaven and whatever saints might be listening to be selected as Sir Nicholas's bride. Riona, however, prayed for an end to the lust Sir Nicholas inspired within her, and the strength to keep her distance, as she should have done last night.
Her gaze strayed to their host, who was wearing a different black tunic of coarser wool. He was at the front of the chapel, beside Lady Joscelind and her father.
No wonder she'd dreamed of a black cat, for once again, he stood nearly motionless, watchful and attentive as the elderly priest led them through the service.
Uncle Fergus nudged her. "There's Fredella," he whispered.
Startled, and yet happy to have her wayward thoughts interrupted, she followed his gaze. Fredella was standing to the left of Lady Eleanor, who looked as fresh as a spring blossom in a gown of bright blue samite. Her cousin was with them.
Fredella looked over her shoulder, smiled and blushed when she saw Uncle Fergus, who lifted his hand and waggled his fingers in a shy sort of wave, as if they were two youngsters instead of a mature man and woman.
Riona looked down to hide her smile as the holy service came to an end. It had been over ten years since Uncle Fergus's wife had died. He had grieved a long time, as had all who'd known the kind, gentle Muire-all, and she wouldn't begrudge him another chance for happiness. Neither, she was sure, would Kenneth, especially if he thought his father's new wife would curb his overly generous hospitality.
"Thank God that's over," Sir George muttered in a voice loud enough for everyone around him to hear. "I'm parched."
Lady Eloise, who stood beside him, gave him a warning look.
"Last night Fredella said to wait for her after the mass this morning," Uncle Fergus whispered to Riona. "She'll bring Eleanor to meet us, if she can get her away from that Percival. Let's go over by this pillar, so the vain puppy doesn't see us."
As they moved, the lord of Dunkeathe started down the aisle toward the door, the sister of the Duke of Ansley on one arm and Lady Joscelind on the other, followed by their male relatives, and Sir Nicholas's steward. It was quite clear neither lady was precisely pleased with this arrangement, and yet each was too outwardly polite and inwardly intent on keeping his
favour
to show it.
Then, suddenly, he looked at Riona.
Holy Mary, Mother of God, it was as if no
time
at all had passed since last night. As if he was still alone with her in the garden, seducing her with his voice and his eyes and his incredibly passionate kiss.
To her chagrin, he strolled closer, albeit still with the other two ladies on his arm. "Good morning, my lady, Mac Gordon," he said to them. "I hope you slept well."
Did he think she was going to blush and stammer and look away?
The blushing she couldn't help, but it signified the heat of anger, not embarrassment, as she faced the man who'd kissed her in the garden. "I did," she lied. "And you, my lord?"
"Not very well," he said. "There are too many distractions in Dunkeathe these days."
He smiled at both women before looking back at her.
"Perhaps an apothecary can suggest a potion," Riona replied.
"Aye, that's the trick!" Uncle Fergus cried. "I know one." He rubbed his beard and ruminated. "Well, I used to." He grinned and shrugged his shoulders. "But now that I think of it, it tasted like old boots."
Sir Nicholas smiled, although there was no warmth or pleasure in his eyes. "Then I shall forego it."
The ladies at his sides shifted
impatiently
.
Sir Nicholas inclined his head in farewell and escorted the ladies from the chapel.
"Now isn't he a fine fellow?" Uncle Fergus jovially declared as they watched them go. "Fine manners, too. And he likes you, Riona. That's obvious."
But why? Riona thought with displeasure. Why did Sir Nicholas pay her any attention? If it was only to bed, that was hardly a compliment.
"Here comes Sir Percival," she murmured, nodding as that nobleman, who was deep in discussion with the Comte D'Ortelieu,
sauntered down the aisle. Lady Eleanor and Fredella moved toward the statue of the Holy Mother.
Sir Percival caught her eye. Before she could move away, he came to a halt and smiled with such smug
satisfaction
, it was all she could do not to curl her lip. "Good morning, my lady. Don't you look fetching today."
Clearly he seemed to think she would be pleased by his flattery. No doubt he was the sort of man who believed any woman should be delighted by his notice.
"Thank you," she replied without an ounce of enthusiasm.
He waited
expectantly
, until he finally seemed to comprehend that she didn't intend to say anything more.