Tempt Me With Kisses (5 page)

“Yes,” she answered. Again she managed to sound calm and businesslike despite his disconcerting presence.

“I’ll send Ganore back.”

Anybody but her! “I would prefer another maidservant, if you please.”

For a moment, she feared he was going to insist, but instead, he conceded with a nod. “I’ll have Rhonwen come help.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

He sauntered over to the battered chest in the corner—mercifully away from the bed—and lifted the lid. “Ganore will get used to it.”

“It?”

“You.”

Hardly flattering to be an “it,” but again, what else could she expect?

Given that kiss, something more, her heart argued.

She silenced that hopeful little voice. This marriage was a bargain, and if he craved her body, that was no more than to be expected.

He pulled out a pile of clothes, then shoved the lid closed with his elbow so that it fell with a thunk. “Ganore doesn’t approve of red-haired women, or Scots, either.”

“She made that very plain.”

“Redheaded women are the devil’s chosen, to hear her tell it. And a Scot cheated her once out of half a mark when she was young. She’s borne a grudge against your entire country ever since. Unfortunately, her notions seem to get more set and settled with age.”

Fiona sat on the bed. “So I should not take her rudeness as a personal insult, then?”

“Well, how you take it is your business,” he said, coming closer. “But with that red hair of yours she would feel the same way if you were the queen of Wales. In that case, she’d probably tell everybody you had bewitched your way to the throne.”

Was that a jest? She couldn’t tell.

She also thought it had been a mistake to sit on the bed as he loomed over her. He cocked his head and studied her until she felt like reminding him it was rude to stare. “I am the lord here, Fiona, not Ganore. I decide what I do, and whether or not anybody else approves is not important.”

She suspected that he was setting limits and boundaries with her and making his leadership plain, just as she had with Ganore. “I understand, my lord.”

A look passed across his face, as if
he
didn’t understand, but it was just as quickly gone. “Since we are to be wed, call me by my name.”

“Yes, Caradoc.”

Again that look crossed his face, and then he frowned. “I am not a harsh overlord, Fiona, and I do not expect to be harsh with my wife, either.”

For the first time since he had accepted her offer, she felt that she could breathe, and for the first time since she had seen him today, she saw something of the quiet youth who had captured her attention. “I remember you as a boy, Caradoc, and if I had not believed that to be so, I would never have come here.”

Something flickered in the blue depths of his eyes. Pride and pleasure, she thought, and inwardly she exalted that perhaps he was not so unreadable as she had feared. She rose so that she faced him, and as she did, she wondered what else she could say that would make the quiet boy appear again, if only in his eyes.

He went to the door. “I shall see you below in the hall for the evening meal.”

He paused on the threshold and looked back at her. “I should warn you, Father Rhodri’s grace is probably not going to be a pleasant one. He does not approve of my betrothal, either.”

If so many objected, and despite his vow that he alone decided what he did, he might yet change his mind and call off the marriage. But as if he could read her thoughts he said, “He does not rule Llanstephan either, Fiona.”

Trying to let his words lift the burden of dread that had settled upon her, she nodded and walked toward the window.

Then she waited, her whole body tense, to see if he would offer words of solace or encouragement, or perhaps take her in his strong arms again and press his warm, surprisingly soft lips to hers, to have his wonderful mouth tease hers into opening like a bud coming into flower so that his tongue could slip inside—

The heavy door closed with a thud.

She glanced over her shoulder. She was, indeed, alone.

She should be glad he had gone and that he had not tempted her with more amazing kisses. She should be more wary of him. It had been years, after all. He had changed, and so had she. He was no longer a boy, and she no longer a maid.

Therefore, it was better he had gone without a kiss or caress, so that she did not have to struggle against the astonishing desire he aroused and act the affronted maid. For her past to remain in the past, she must convince Caradoc she was a virgin still. Then he would not be curious about the man who had taken her maidenhead, and as good as sent her here.

Ask of me no questions, and I shall answer with no lies
.

At the clatter of hoof beats on the cobblestones, she again looked into the courtyard. A dark-haired woman in a blood red cloak rode hell-bent through the gate, her head bare, her black hair loose and tousled, her red cloak streaming behind her like a pennant in the breeze. She yanked the white beast to a halt, and despite its prancing, jumped nimbly down. She tossed the reins to one of the stable boys who came in answer to her call, and then hurried into the hall.

Cordelia, Caradoc’s sister.

Fiona recognized her by her manner as much as her looks and the raven hair. As a girl, Cordelia could barely sit still. She never walked, always ran, and teased her brothers unmercifully.

Connor had teased back. Caradoc had looked pained, as if she gave him a stomachache, and he never said a word.

She had assumed Cordelia would be married and gone from Llanstephan by now. Dismay filled her as she realized she was not, for she could well imagine that Cordelia’s reaction to news of her brother’s betrothal and impending marriage would not be cries of gladness.

Another battle was probably going to be waged there, too.

Sighing, she turned and leaned back against the sill.

The marriage had not happened yet. She could always leave.

And go to some strange place to be preyed upon by other men seeking only a rich wife?

She pushed off the sill and marched toward her chest. She threw open the lid and yanked out a linen sheet.

For good or ill, the bargain had been made and sealed. It would take more than a sister’s disapproval and a servant’s animosity to make her break her word and flee.

A chill fog shrouded the stone buildings of Dunburn. The bell in the village church tolled a death knell, and a small group of the bereaved huddled in the churchyard. Otherwise, few souls ventured outside.

However, neither the weather nor the solemn clang of the bell dampened the spirits of the boisterous band of young men whose sudden appearance on the main street shattered the hushed calm. Oblivious to the sullen mourners, they pulled their equally high-spirited horses to a halt outside a tavern near the wharf and wooden piers. Light oozed out of the small windows and beneath the rough door of the stone building and, like the laughter from within, was almost immediately smothered in the mist. They dismounted, their cloaks and
feileadh mor
swinging about their legs clad in buckskin
cuarans
.

“Wait for me here. I willna be long,” declared one of them, his voice loud in the street. He was a comely fellow, with red-gold hair that waved about his face, and brown eyes that could be pleasant if he was happy, or cruel if he was not.

“You’d better not be,” his stocky friend warned as he took hold of the reins of his friend’s horse to lead it through the wide arch to the stable in back. “King William expects us back ’ere the week is out.”

Iain MacLachlann laughed, and it was boastful and vain, like the man himself. “Since he knows I’m bringing him a thousand marks from my bride’s dowry to buy back more land from that Norman bastard Richard, he won’t begrudge me the delay.”

His companion made a low, appreciative whistle. “I ne’er knew Fiona MacDougal was worth as much as that,” Fergus muttered, “or I might have courted her myself.”

“Aye, but you didn’t, and I did, so she’s going to marry me. I’ve made certain of it, too, so don’t go sniffing round her skirts.” Iain’s hand moved beneath his black cloak, toward the hilt of his sword.

“No fear of that,” Fergus quickly replied. “No need for temper, either.”

Iain smiled, but there was no mirth or joy in it. It was a threat, that smile, as much as if he held a knife to Fergus’s throat.

“I willna be long,” Iain repeated before turning away. “I haven’t been here for over a month, and my bride-to-be will surely be missing me,” he finished with a hint of a smirk lifting the corner of his sensual mouth, which was almost feminine in its fullness. “Later, for King William’s sake, I’ll tear myself away.”

Careful not to slip on the slick cobblestones, Iain started down the street. He wrapped his cloak tighter about himself and silently cursed the mist that dampened his hair and wet his face. Much better it would have been to rejoin King William’s court without stopping in Dunburn, but he needed to see if his future bride had sold all the fleece her father had left in store. The major portion of her dowry must be in coin, easily transported. The property here in Dunburn he would rent out, to provide a steady source of income after they were married.

Mercifully it was but a short way from the tavern to the large walled enclosure that housed both MacDougal’s warehouse and the living quarters, which the old man had shared with his daughter before he conveniently died.

A man who craved power had to be willing to make sacrifices to get it, and if that meant marrying a merchant’s daughter for the dowry she would give him, so be it. A wise man who wanted the merchant’s daughter would also do what he must to ensure that she was his, even going as far as seducing her.

Fiona MacDougal had taken some persuading, but at last she had succumbed.

Thus it was with a feeling of immense confidence and satisfaction that Iain MacLachlann pounded his fist on the MacDougal gate and waited for a servant to let him in.

His foot tapping impatiently, he waited some more, then pounded again.

Strange.

Fiona’s servants were better trained than this.

The fog became a steady drizzle, further souring his mood. He would have cursed and returned to the tavern save that soon he would have Fiona on her back beneath him.

Iain smiled to himself as he thought of the night they had finally shared in her bed. A surprising woman, Fiona. He had never guessed she could love so well.

But then, he knew what he was doing when it came to bedding a woman.

At last, as even the taking of Fiona began to lose its appeal, he heard the shuffle of footsteps crossing the puddled cobblestone yard. The grill in the smaller door in the gate creaked open. An unfamiliar man’s head appeared in the aperture. The fellow’s face was wrinkled and weather-beaten, and a thick thatch of matted gray-blond hair stuck out from beneath a sodden hood.

“Who are you and what do you want, banging fit to wake the dead?” the big oaf demanded, his slightly German accent marking him as a loathsome Saxon.

What in the name of Scotland was Fiona doing hiring a Saxon? He would have the impertinent lout dismissed.

“I am here to see Fiona MacDougal,” he announced. “Let me in.”

Beneath his grizzled brows the man’s watery blue eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Don’t know nobody by that name.”

Although all Saxons were stupid, this dolt must be simple in the head, too. “Fiona MacDougal, fool! The woman who hired you.”

“I’ve been Heribert of Hartley’s man for neigh on ten years.”

His soaking cloak now weighing on his shoulders, Iain didn’t trouble himself to hide his impatience. “Who, in God’s name, is Heribert of Hartley?”

“Who wants t’know?”

“A kinsman of King William of Scotland,” Iain haughtily retorted. A distant kinsman he was, but a kinsman nonetheless.

“Heribert of Hartley be a wool merchant,” the Saxon grudgingly explained. “He bought this place to ship his wool south a month ago.”

Iain couldn’t believe his ears. “Then where is Fiona MacDougal—the woman who owned this property?”

“Oh, her. She left Dunburn a fortnight back.”

Once over the initial shock, Iain’s mind worked swiftly. As Fiona was her father’s legal heir, she had the right to sell the property. But the wench had done so against his very specific wishes. “When did you say this was?”

“The sale was a month past and she left a fortnight ago,” the man repeated as he started to close the grill.

Iain swiftly shoved his gloved hand in the opening. “Not so fast, my friend.”

Marshaling his talents other than martial, Iain made his expression sorrowful.

“Have a little mercy,” he pleaded as if his heart was broken, “and forgive my manner. Fiona is my betrothed. We quarreled the last time I was here. I had to leave on business for the crown before I could make up with her, and I’ve only just got the chance to come back. Now I find she’s gone and left.”

“Women,” the Saxon muttered, shaking his head as if he would never understand the creatures.

Although pleased with his clever deception, Iain was careful not to display his satisfaction. “You have no idea where she went?”

“No.”

“I tell you what, my friend,” Iain suggested with his most persuasive manner, “if you let me rest a bit and try to get the wind back in my lungs, I’ll stand you an ale for my thanks.”

The man’s eyes gleamed at the thought of a free ale, and after he fumbled about with the keys, the gate swung open.

His shoulders slumped as if overwrought, Iain followed the man into the small gatehouse. A tiny hearth glowed with burning peat, and nearby stood a table and chair. Iain took the chair and the man waited by the hearth. Steam and the stink of wet wool and sweat arose from the Saxon.

“Nobody knows where she went?” Iain asked again, hating the fellow for his Saxon stench, and the devious Fiona even more.

“Lot o’ talk in the taverns about how she cleared out so quick and mysterious,” the Saxon replied. “Hired a guard as far as York, they say, and then after that…?”

He shrugged his brawny shoulders.