CHAPTER FIVE
R IONA 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 colored 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 favor 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.
With a slight scowl, he turned away from Riona and started walking toward the door again. “Anyway, D’Ortelieu, as I was saying, I told that cobbler I was never going to pay for such shoddy work and he should thank God I didn’t have him arrested.”
“Wheest, what a gomeral,” Uncle Fergus muttered as Percival and the comte went out the door. “Looking at him, it’s hard to believe the Normans ever conquered England.” He shook his head, then grinned at Riona. “Now that he’s gone, let’s go meet Lady Eleanor.”
Riona gladly joined him as he headed for the two women.
She expected Lady Eleanor to smile shyly and blush and not meet her gaze, like the timid girl she seemed in the yard and in the hall last night. Instead, Lady Eleanor turned to them with a friendly smile and listened with pleasure in her bright green eyes as Fredella made the introductions.
“I’m so pleased to meet you,” Eleanor said to them both. She turned to Riona. “I’ve wanted to meet you since I saw you in the courtyard. You looked as if you felt as out of place as I did.”
“Out of place? Nonsense!” Uncle Fergus cried as he slipped his arm through Fredella’s. “You both belong here, although only one of you can have Sir Nicholas. I hope you’re not going to get to fighting over him, because he’s bound to choose my niece if he’s got an ounce of sense. But cheer up, Lady Eleanor. He’s got a brother, I hear, just as handsome if not so rich. Henry, I think his name is.”
When Eleanor blushed and stared at her feet, Riona decided it might be better to leave her boisterous uncle with Fredella and speak to Eleanor alone.
“I’ve never seen a stained-glass window before,” she remarked, nodding at it. “I’d very much like to see it up close.”
“Yes, so would I,” Eleanor swiftly agreed. “What about you, Fredella?”
“Oh, I’ve admired it already,” she said, casting a coy glance at Uncle Fergus, who spoke without taking his eyes from her face. “You two go along and admire it all you like. We’ll wait here.”
Riona didn’t hesitate to head for the altar, and the window behind it.
“Your uncle is a very friendly fellow,” Eleanor noted as they regarded the depiction of the archangel in a flowing blue robe. “Fredella had nothing but good things to say about him, and I confess I thought she must be exaggerating. Now I see she spoke the truth.”
“He can be a bit overwhelming at times,” Riona replied. “But he’s the kindest, sweetest, most generous man I know.”
“I can easily believe it. He’s like Fredella, who’s been a mother to me since my own died.” She gave Riona a sheepish smile. “Although I must confess, I wish Fredella would stop treating me as if I were six years old. No doubt she told you I was too shy to make your acquaintance myself?”
“Aye.”
Eleanor wryly shook her head. “I was very shy when I was little. I used to hide whenever we had visitors. She still thinks I’m going to conceal myself in a cupboard when I see anyone new or unfamiliar.”
“I suppose we must accept the fancies of those who’ve raised us. Uncle Fergus thinks I’m the most wonderful girl in the world and can’t understand that everyone may not share that opinion.”
“I wish my guardian was like your uncle,” Eleanor said wistfully. “All Percival cares about is that I marry someone who’s rich, or popular at court—somebody he can boast about being related to—and the sooner, the better.”
“He could certainly brag about being related to Sir Nicholas.”
“That he could, and he would. I forget how many tournaments Sir Nicholas has won and all the prizes he’s earned, but Percival could tell you. You should have heard him on the journey here. I thought I’d scream or go mad.”
She blushed and looked away “I fear I’ve said too much. I suppose I should be grateful to Percival.”
“I don’t know about that, if he thinks of you as merely something to be rid of, and a way to add to his own reputation,” Riona replied. Once again she was grateful for her relative’s kindness and sent up a silent prayer of thanks.
Eleanor sighed with relief. “I thought you’d understand, although I probably shouldn’t be so outspoken to someone I’ve just met.”
“I probably shouldn’t have spoken to Sir Nicholas in the hall the way I did last night, either,” Riona confessed.
“Oh, I admired you for that!” Eleanor exclaimed. “I wouldn’t have been able to open my mouth in front of all those people, especially with Sir Nicholas looking at me.”
“I don’t think anyone else shared your admiration.”
“Fredella did.”
“Well, that makes two—three, if we count my uncle.”
“Four. Sir Nicholas didn’t seem upset with you.”
Perhaps he’d had notions of seduction even then.
“I had no idea he spoke anything other than French. That was one thing Percival didn’t tell me.”
“Perhaps he didn’t know.” Not particularly keen to talk about their host, Riona glanced back at Uncle Fergus and Fredella. They were laughing and whispering, their heads very close together. “I hate to part them, but if you don’t get to the hall, your cousin might start to wonder where you are.”
“You’re right. I do hope we can spend some more time together, though, in spite of Percival.”
“I’d like that, too,” Riona answered, meaning it. She hadn’t expected to find a friend in Dunkeathe, but she liked Eleanor.
And perhaps having a friend would keep Sir Nicholas away.
“J OSCELIND’S paternal grandmother was the eldest daughter of the Earl of Millborough,” Lord Chesleigh said, continuing his long recitation of the ancestry of his family as he rode beside Nicholas several days later.
They, and the rest of the hunting party, were riding through a grassy meadow on the northernmost hill around Dunkeathe. Nicholas and Lord Chesleigh were trailed by Sir Percival and a somewhat sober Sir George. The rest of the noble gentlemen, save for the two who had already departed with their female relatives and various retainers, came after, along with servants to carry the animals they killed. Ahead were beaters, sent to rouse the game, whether pheasants, or grouse or, if they were fortunate, a stag.
Unfortunately, it seemed as if every bird or animal had somehow gotten word of their approach and fled.
Perhaps it was the noise from the back of the group. Mounted on one of Dunkeathe’s mares, Fergus Mac Gordon was regaling the servants with the tale of a hunting mishap involving a dog, a dirk and a boot. Say what one would about the boisterous Scot, he was entertaining, and he’d been entertaining the men at the back of their party ever since they’d left the castle.
“Joscelind’s maternal grandmother was the daughter of the Duke of Bridgewater,” Lord Chesleigh droned on, “and therefore related by blood to the king himself.”
“On the wrong side of the blanket,” Sir Percival interjected, apparently as tired of Lord Chesleigh’s recitation as Nicholas.
They’d been cooped up inside Dunkeathe by rain and fog for the past three days. When this day dawned clear, Nicholas had immediately proposed a hunt. That wasn’t his favorite pastime—his youth having given him little time to indulge in sport and he still couldn’t quite shake the notion that he had more important things to do—yet he was as eager to ride out of Dunkeathe as the rest of the men who had quickly accepted his invitation. His female guests, led by Lady Joscelind, declined because the ground was too muddy.
He wasn’t sorry. It was wearying trying to be pleasant to all the ladies without making any one of them think they were too far in his favor.
Lady Riona had already left the hall when he’d proposed the hunt, and he could guess why. She didn’t want to be anywhere near him—which was just as well, because he couldn’t afford to be anywhere near her, either. Bedding a thane’s niece, no matter how tempting, and with no promise of marriage, would surely cause a great deal of animosity among the Scots. Therefore, he intended to avoid her as much as possible. He would have sent her home the day after that memorable kiss, except that it might cause grumbling among the Scots, too.
“Wasn’t Lady Joscelind’s grandmother the duke’s dairymaid, Lord Chesleigh?” Sir Percival inquired.
Lord Chesleigh frowned and twisted in his saddle to regard Sir Percival with a cold and angry eye. “William the Conqueror was a bastard, which proves that blood will show itself.”
“Oh, indeed, it will,” Percival said with a mocking smile. “Fortunately, my family carries no such taint.”
“Would you insult my family?” demanded Lord Chesleigh.
“Not your entire family,” Percival retorted as his steed pranced nervously. “Just your wife’s mother.”
Nicholas nudged his gelding between them before challenges could be issued. “Gentlemen, please. I’ll make my choice, as difficult as it’s going to be, based on the lady’s own merits.”
“Here, here!” Sir George piped up, wiping his lips with the back of his gloved hand, having just taken another gulp from the wineskin he’d brought. “If it’s merit you want, my lord, you couldn’t do better than Eloise. She’s a good girl, she is. Not the most lively you’ll ever meet, but who’d want a lively wife? That way leads to trouble.” He made a sodden wink. “Take it from me. A lively woman may be entertaining at night, but in the day, it’s quarrel, quarrel, quarrel.”
Thinking of one bold, lively woman, Nicholas was inclined to think that the nights might provide ample compensation. That kiss—
He commanded himself not to think about that kiss.
“Yes, the apple rarely falls far from the tree,” Lord Chesleigh remarked, speaking quietly so that Sir George wouldn’t hear. “I understand Sir George’s arguments with his wife were legendary.”
“I certainly wouldn’t want an argumentative wife,” Nicholas agreed. “I require peace in my household.”
“Of course you do,” Lord Chesleigh said. “After your years of combat, you wish to enjoy your well-earned prosperity. And I’m sure you won’t want to be troubled by any domestic strife. Joscelind is well able to run a household, my lord. She’ll keep a tight rein on your servants, and your purse strings, too.”
“He makes it sound like a man wants a second steward for a wife,” Percival declared behind them. “Can you see Sir Nicholas asking his wife for money?” He changed to a mocking, high-pitched tone. “Please, my dear, may I have a few pennies for a drink with my friends?”
“He doesn’t want a girl barely out of the nursery, either,” Lord Chesleigh said through clenched teeth. “He surely requires a woman who can manage the household without having to ask about every little thing.”
“I suppose that would be the one advantage to marrying an older woman,” Percival said, his voice full of venom, and as if Lady Joscelind was a crone instead of a woman who, granted, was somewhat older than most when they wed.
Lady Riona was even older than Joscelind, Nicholas guessed, yet he couldn’t think of her as “old.” As for being competent, everything he’d seen in Dunkeathe since her arrival told him she surely would be. The servants were always pleasant, yet deferential, when they served her, and hurried to do anything she asked of them. He’d overheard that maidservant with the mole on her breast whose name he could never remember tell another about some suggestions Lady Riona made regarding the storing of the linens, and it was clear both maidservants were impressed. Even some of the Saxon guards, not normally the most mannerly of men, bowed and touched their spears to their helmets in salute when she passed by.
“Speaking as a man, I prefer youth and beauty in a bride,” Sir Percival declared. “Wisdom will come soon enough.”
“Some never achieve that state,” Lord Chesleigh growled, staring straight ahead.
“Is that comment a reference to me?” Percival demanded.
Maybe suggesting this hunt had been a bad idea. At least in the hall, the men could amuse themselves with chess or games of chance, and there were the ladies to keep them on their best behavior.
A horn sounded.
Twice.
“A stag!” Percival cried, digging his spurred heels into his horse’s sides.
Whether he enjoyed hunting or not, the prospect of a chase set Nicholas’s blood pumping furiously and as Percival’s horse leapt into a gallop, Nicholas spurred his own.
When they reached the beaters, the men excitedly pointed toward a dip in the ground of a bracken-filled meadow. “That way, my lord!” they shouted over the barking and baying of the hounds who were charging toward the edge of the depression. “He’s in the gully! He’s a big ’un!”
The stag leaped into view. It fairly flew over the open and rocky ground, the hounds blurs of brown and black as they gave chase toward a rocky valley.
The valley narrowed and ended in a sheer rock wall, where a little fall fed a spring. The stag, cornered, turned to face the hounds and the men who came after, led by Nicholas and Percival.
The well-trained dogs didn’t attack, but stopped where they were, growling and crouching, some crawling on their bellies in excited anticipation while they awaited another whistle from the huntsmen.
Majestic, powerful and trapped, the stag stood motionless save for the quivering of its flanks. Nicholas knew it would fight to the death, using its great antlers as weapons, yet death would be its ultimate end. The dogs and men were too many, and the stag had no escape.
What sport was there in this? It was like slaughtering unarmed men, something he had always refused to do, no matter who commanded him.
What did any of these noblemen know of being cornered, trapped by circumstances so that all you could do was stand and fight, or die? Had any of them ever known true fear? Had any of them ever smelled the stench of terror that fills a man’s nostrils as he waits upon a battlefield?
Had any one of them ever known hunger or thirst, or deprivation? He doubted it, and he doubted their female relatives had, either.
Not that he wanted to think of women suffering, but how could such women ever understand him and the fears that haunted him in the small hours of the night, when he awoke from dreams of battle, and sleep was lost to him? They wouldn’t be able to comprehend the dread that what he had achieved could be taken away, and not just by death. It could be revoked with the stroke of one man’s quill—the king’s signature on a piece of parchment. And then he’d be as he was before: a penniless soldier with only a noble name and his father’s sword to call his own.
As the huntsman gave the signal for the dogs to attack, Nicholas turned his mount away. He would go back to Dunkeathe and leave the others to deal with their prize.
Riding back through the excited mob, he didn’t see Fergus Mac Gordon among the men or servants.
Perhaps the fellow had decided to return to Dunkeathe. Maybe he was already safely in the hall, drinking his host’s wine and loudly praising his brown-haired niece, whom Percival would no doubt consider too old to be a bride.
The Scot hadn’t seemed all that competent on his borrowed horse. Maybe when the call had sounded and the chase had begun, he’d been unable to keep up with rest.
Or perhaps something worse had happened. It could be that he’d fallen from his horse and was lying injured on the ground.
Or dead upon the bracken.