In the Laird's Bed (11 page)

“We need a sword,” she explained, as the bag pounded Cristiana’s back with a thud.

God save them.

She would have laughed at the outrageousness of her daughter’s request if she hadn’t been scared to death. Sprinting through the old orchard trees, she thought hiding was useless, since the snow would show their tracks anyhow. Still, she took cover behind a thick, fallen trunk, using the travel bag as a small barricade to hide Leah on as many sides as possible. The blanket Duncan had wrapped her in was still about her shoulders, so Cristiana spread it over the girl to hide her completely.

Meanwhile, the noise of the approaching horses had slowed and changed into a clank of swords and men’s shouts. Cristiana peeked over the dry, decaying bark to see Duncan circle his horse in a hard turn about an enemy rider. She could not tell how many there were as snow fell from trees and was kicked up from horses’ hooves, shielding the scene in a frosty cloud. But she could see the occasional flash of steel glinting in the dull winter sun and she prayed each time that it was Duncan’s sword on the winning end.

How could one man, no matter how skilled, fight off so many?

“He is a great warrior,” Leah observed beside her, the child’s tiny chin resting upon a smooth notch in the trunk where the bark had been stripped clean. “Is he to be my father?”

Cristiana’s heart clenched at the wonder in the child’s voice while Cristiana shook with fear beside her. Emotion welled up so strong and fast. Love for her daughter. Praise for the miracle of a child who could feel hope in the face of danger. Fear for the man who might never love her but who would risk his life to save her.

“God willing,” she whispered, surprised at the tears burning the backs of her eyes as he drew Leah closer and squeezed. “He wishes to be your father. You see how hard he fights to protect you?”

But Leah was no longer watching. She wriggled in Cristiana’s arms to see behind them.

“Look, Mother!” she whispered excitedly, pointing to the south.

Riders flying the Culcanon standard bore down on them. Her heart dropped as she recalled King Malcolm’s letter that accused Donegal of fighting under Duncan’s standard. Could the half brother’s forces attack them from two sides?

“Get down,” Cristiana ordered, shoving Leah safely back under the blanket as she searched the saddlebag for a weapon.

There was no sword, of course, but there was a small dagger. Cristiana withdrew it, planning to use it on anyone who tread close enough to touch them. Anyone who threatened Leah would have to shed blood before to see it through.

She vowed if they made it out of this alive, she would not yearn for love in her marriage any longer.

But remaining dispassionate about a man who would lay down his life for Leah would not be easy.

Duncan fought the final man to the ground, leaving him with a wound to the thigh that would not permit him to remount.

The mist of snow cleared now that all the horses had run off save his. There had only been four men to stave off, their numbers having been initially decreased by the men-at-arms that had guarded the west flank of the traveling party. Duncan had not recognized them. If Donegal was assembling bands of brigands to thieve the king and harass travelers, he was not using men from Culcanon lands.

Turning, Duncan peered back to the east, to where he’d left Cristiana and the little sprite. He saw Cristiana’s horse rooting about the snow for grass, unconcerned with the turmoil nearby.

Behind the palfrey, however, the scene was not so tame. Riders bearing the Culcanon banner circled the place in the forest where Cristiana should be. But
this was not any of Duncan’s men. He knew from the spears they carried—simple weapons that were not the kinds of arms his men had brought on this journey.

The sweat had not begun to dry on his back from the first battle. He could not possibly take on so many and win.

Still, he could not allow them to take the women without a fight. Rage flared in his chest, his anger spurring his heels as he urged his mount toward those menacing riders. Where in Hades were his men? And how big was this group that attacked them?

From the corner of his vision, he spotted movement from the north. Even without turning, he knew these riders were his men. To an ear long trained to distinguish the sounds of war, the cacophony of his knights speeding over the landscape was as unique as a babe’s cry to its mother. There was a snap to Harold’s rich cloak in the wind, a hissing whip of Gerard’s sword as he rode with it already poised for striking, a jangle to John the Fat’s spurs. Duncan raised his own sword to ensure the men recognized him and understood Cristiana was surrounded by traitors.

He lifted a war cry to the heavens, bellowed from the soles of his feet. His men picked up the battle cry as they rode in from the north, their voices magnifying his and filling the glade with an ancient warning. Not even the heathen Vikings had misunderstood it
when Duncan’s ancestors unleashed the predatory call on the invading Norsemen.

The throng of enemy riders seemed to take their measure, their helm-covered heads whipping about to see from whence the sound came and—perhaps—attempting to gauge the size of the oncoming threat. At the center of the riders, on the ground, he spied Cristiana.

Defiant and proud, she stood alone.

Where was Leah?

Had they already taken the child? He rechanneled the chill of fear into propelling strength. Coaxing one last burst of speed from his warhorse, Duncan set his course for the south end of the circle, helping his men to pen the enemy in. They could retaliate with a threat to Cristiana, but they were already too late. Duncan’s best crossbow shooter had already felled two of the enemy.

In a desperate retreat, the remaining riders fled to the east, their horses kicking up snow and dirt. Cristiana sank to the ground, throwing herself on a pile of blankets.

A heap of wriggling blankets. Reining in his destrier, Duncan reached her first and spied Leah emerging from the dark woolen covering that had hidden her from the enemy.

Never in all his days had he felt relief so strong. The force of it almost knocked him from his mount. Cristiana was safe. Leah remained safe.

In all the ways that counted, the two females clinging to each other and crying in the orchard were his family now.

After a quick gesture to his men to secure the perimeter and account for the fallen, Duncan slid to the ground to pull Cristiana and her daughter into his arms. His child now. He needed to feel them, warm and alive.

“You are unharmed.” He drew Cristiana close and kissed the top of her head.

Stiffening, she straightened and clutched Leah tighter. Her icy glare was unmistakable.

Apparently, she did not share his gratitude at finding her betrothed alive.

“This is a fool’s errand and I will attend you no longer.” She kept her voice low so Leah would not hear. “Those men were armed to the teeth and they sought something they could not find. Whether they have heard rumors about Leah or not, I cannot say. But I insist we return to Domhnaill at once.”

S
he had not won her way.

Cristiana paced outside the Culcanon great hall, where Duncan had been shut in with his men every since they’d arrived at his family’s stronghold. She had never visited this keep before, but even she could tell the fortress had been recently picked clean of its treasures. There were shadows on the walls showing the outlines of where tapestries had recently hung and fresh gouges in the heavy timber fortifications where iron torch holders had been pried loose from their settings. Metalwork of some sort had been torn off the dais table in the hall—something she’d seen in the brief moments she’d had a glimpse of that space before a maid showed her to a small quarter for Leah.

Her daughter had been happy to meet other chil
dren. The Culcanon keep was home to several boys and girls close to her in age. Leah had quickly joined a group of young girls who’d been sharing a doll and cakes by a warm hearth.

And while Cristiana had been pleased that her daughter could adjust so easily to new surroundings, Cristiana had been reluctant to follow the maid to the laird’s chamber, where her things were already being unpacked.

Apparently, no one thought twice about installing Cristiana in the laird’s bed even though she’d exchanged no wedding vows with Duncan. Instead, she’d watched over the corridor outside the great hall, waiting to give him a piece of her mind.

She must have fallen asleep in the chair where she sat near a family of cats prowling the hall in search of dinner. The small candle she’d set beside her on a table in the corridor burned low by the time Duncan emerged. It had to be past midnight. All her feline companions snoozed contentedly near her feet.

“You must be exhausted,” Duncan announced, his eyes raking over her as she stood.

Oddly, her skin warmed as if he’d touched her. How could her body respond to him so immediately, even when her brain had warned her how dangerous entangling her heart would be?

“I am not too tired to force you to hold up your end of our bargain.” She scooped her small candle off the table and blew it out, unwilling to part with
precious beeswax in a keep where torches were few and far between. “You promised you would keep Leah safe, and given how unstable your relations are with Donegal, that means allowing her to return to Domhnaill.”

She pressed the candle into her palm, careful to keep the melted wax in its well until it cooled and hardened.

“Did I not prove today that she is better off close to me? And I must be here.”

“Donegal will not attack Domhnaill.” She and Leah would be safest there.

For that matter, Cristiana’s heart would be safest there, as well. She could not fall prey to Duncan’s appeal if she was many leagues apart from him. Perhaps the time away would help her to shore up her defenses against him. She might have allowed him into her keep, but she still had the option of barring her heart from his disarming smile.

“Donegal will raid wherever I am not.” He gestured expansively to the defaced walls all around them, the torch he carried flaring as he drew it through the air. “He is not afraid to accost the king’s men. What makes you think he will quail at the sight of Domhnaill walls, especially when he has every reason to bear your father a grudge.”

“My father?” The notion surprised her more than anything, but she could understand his reasons immediately.

“He withheld Donegal’s betrothed. No matter how you view it or how your father viewed their early consummation, the vast majority of overlords in the land would have enforced the bridal contract. Can we agree on that much at least?”

Unsure of herself, she recalled the feeling of helplessness today in the orchard and knew she must listen to Duncan’s counsel. Whether she willed it or nay, Duncan’s sword arm and battle strategy were her best defense for Leah.

She shook her head mutely.

“Come.” He enveloped her in one thick arm and guided her toward the stairs. “You must rest.”

Foreboding forced her feet to be still on the cold stone floor.

“I cannot take up residence in your chamber with out having submitted to a priest’s blessing.”

“By the saints, you are stubborn.” Duncan handed her the torch and, thinking he meant to send her off to another chamber on her own, she took it. Of course, he proceeded to sweep her off her feet and carry her in the direction she’d refused to walk. “I claimed you and Leah as my own in front of every noble of note at Domhnaill before your guests departed for their homes. We are already wed in the ways that count.”

Knowing she was too tired to think straight, Cristiana argued no more. Her head lolled to the side, resting on his shoulder in spite of herself.

“I will make a stronger case tomorrow morning, perhaps.”

“You will be too enamored of my lovemaking tomorrow morning to argue.”

Desire curled through her like the wisps of smoke spiraling off the torch flame as they moved through the deserted keep. Everyone but his men seemed to be fast asleep, and they’d left the knights behind in the great hall to bed down on the floor.

“You do not command me,” she reminded him, feeling too helpless by half.

“Lucky for me, no commands will be required.” His grip tightened on her thigh as he cradled her to his chest.

With his other hand, he spanned the side of her rib cage, his fingers straying close to the softness of her breast. Because she held the torch aloft, she had no defense against the subtle roaming of his palms.

Heaven help her, her whole body hummed with anticipation of more of that touch. As he hurried his pace up the squat, dark tower’s steps, a medallion at his neck slid free of his tunic, the metalwork intricate and heavy.

“I have seen you wear this often,” she remarked, her face still burning from his blatant sensual threat. She was not sure if she wished to distract him from touching her tonight, but she did not think she could discuss what they were about to do in the open manner that he could. “Is it a family piece?”

“It is the map to the Viking treasure. I have been meaning to show it to you.” He told her, his expression utterly solemn as he reached a huge door at the top of the stairwell. Even here, the ironwork had been removed from the door, as had the torch well. Rough-hewn planks served as reinforcements to the entry now.

“You’re serious.” She did not try to hide her surprise. “You honestly believe an ancient treasure hides at Domhnaill?”

She lowered the torch as he kicked open the door and brought her through the archway. Vaguely, she noticed the stark emptiness of the chamber that might have been lush at one time. Rough linens and a woolen coverlet had been thrown over the bed.

He settled her on the center of the pallet carefully, mindful of the torch in her hand. He took it from her and deposited the base into crudely fashioned iron ring that appeared newly installed. A low fire had been laid in the hearth, but with the walls robbed of tapestries, the chill in the chamber was fierce.

“Of course there is a treasure. Were you not raised on the same tales that I was told?” He opened a trunk at the end of the pallet and pulled a heavy fur cloak from within. Wrapping it about her shoulders, he bent close, his cheek next to hers as he drew the excess over her legs.

“An ancient laird hid his riches in the forest after a lookout spotted invader ships on the horizon.”

“Aye. He was the last laird to rule both Domhnaill and Culcanon lands, but he fled the larger Domhnaill keep and retreated to this fortress, which he kept manned until the end Danes were so intermarried they were as much native as pagan.” Satisfied that he’d swathed her sufficiently in the fur, Duncan set to work tugging Cristiana’s hair out from under the cloak to flow over her shoulders and down her back. “In truth, I am more Domhnaill than you since my forebears were the original Saxon overlords while your ancestors were the heathen Norse.”

She smiled at his teasing words, grateful for the momentary distraction from the scent of him surrounding her in the folds of his cloak.

“Not too heathen.” Lifting a lock of her red-gold hair, she waved it for emphasis. “It seems the Scots left their stamp upon me.”

He took up the lock of hair and twined it about his finger.

“There is red there, true. But ’tis mingled with Danish gold.”

His gaze dipped to her mouth. For a moment, she thought he would kiss her. Indeed, she wanted the taste of him upon her lips. But then he released her hair and edged back from her again.

Her heart beat so rapidly she feared he would see the erratic pulse at her neck. She burrowed her chin into the fur collar to hide her response.

“But you asked about this,” he continued, easing
the chain over his head before he handed the heavy ornament to her. “I found it when I returned to Culcanon to gather my forces. I had heard Donegal let the men’s training lapse and that he used the resources of the keep to fight his own battles. I did not realize how grave the situation was until I returned to see the riches of the keep sold off and the people starving. I had been away too long, serving the king, putting my faith in a man who shared my blood.”

The dark glower upon his brow told her he still did not fathom the defection. But then, how could a man of honor understand the heart of one so traitorous?

She bent her head close to his, warmed inside that he would take this time to speak with her rather than drawing her straight into his bed. Could they develop some bond beyond the heat that sparked between them?

“But the king rewards you well by entrusting you with Domhnaill.” She knew her keep was worth far more than his. If outside forces had not set them at odds, it would have been a wise match.

His expression shifted. Inscrutable green eyes met hers. Looked away.

“The king did not give me anything I did not already plan to take.”

She was not sure why he felt the need to make the distinction. Did he hope to remind her of his traitorous entry with his request for Christian mercy?

“But you have admitted you had no resources and
your people went hungry. How do you think you could have beaten our defenses when—”

“It is over.” He cut her off abruptly, his tone hard and unyielding. “We spoke of the medallion.”

“Did we?” Cristiana tried to refocus her attention, but old anger still simmered. Perhaps another woman could have bit back her pride with ease, but Cristiana had run Domhnaill long enough to know their battle strength. Did Duncan think her naive enough to believe he could have stormed those gates successfully?

“Yes.” He bit off the word and busied himself with removing his boots, almost as if he wrestled with a frustration as great as hers. “I found it when I inspected some of the damage done to the metalwork above the hearth in the great hall. Donegal had sold the hammered metal frontispiece proclaiming the family name. Behind it, the stonework crumbled and I ordered mortar to fix it. But as the workers cleared the debris, they discovered this hidden behind the fallen stones.”

Intrigued, Cristiana took a closer look at the heavy silver ornament he’d handed her. It had been designed in an ancient style, with the exotic knots and endless interweaving of animal’s bodies that sometimes appeared on old gravestones or upon church decoration. “It is obviously very old.” She ran her fingers over a series of notched markings. “Is this damage from the workers’ axes?”

Duncan watched with relief as the artifact absorbed her attention. He did not wish to dwell on the matter of Malcolm’s ruling on Domhnaill, which had not been a decree that Cristiana wed him so much as an offering of royal support to aid Culcanon’s recovery from the damage done under his brother’s stewardship. The news that Duncan had used the letter as leverage to press marriage would not be happily met by his betrothed, especially in light of his takeover of the keep through intrigue.

One day, he would help her to see the merit of a bloodless coup. But he planned to delay that day until her heart had softened toward him. Or at least until their wedding vows had been issued before the priest.

“Those are not new marks,” he answered her, enclosing his hand about hers to guide her finger over the notches she’d noticed. “They are ancient letters. Rune markings. They say ‘Look east when Domhnaill finds his way home.’”

Cristiana moved her finger off the time-worn markings to peer at the runes. Duncan kept his hand about hers, however, savoring the soft feel of her skin against his palm. His chest pressed against her back as he leaned close. The sweet scent of her mead-making had not left her, not even this far from the home where her brews awaited her. Unable to resist, he lowered his nose to her hair and inhaled the cinnamon and ginger spice that clung to her.

“Look east?” She peered back at him, brow furrowed. “I do not understand. Are you suggesting the treasure is in the sea?”

“Nay.” He closed her hand about the medallion again and turned it. “You see these headings about the perimeter?”

He turned her shoulders with his to help the hearth light reach the silver piece. His heartbeat surged with the want of her. He could not understand how his desire for her grew each time he was with her—until it increased to a sharp, persistent longing.

“Yes!” She turned to him, excitement plain in her animated gaze. “The fur and feathers of the animals contain the directions of the map.”

“You know Latin?”

The letter for
east
was not a rune but a Latin notation. Not even Duncan had been educated in the language.

“Nay.” She shook her head even though she had deciphered the letter clearly enough. “Only what I have learned at Mass.”

Clearly, he needed to pay more attention to the priest.

“All of this is Latin, as well.” He pointed to the small fins on a fish that appeared to be decorative markings unless you studied it carefully. “It suggests the design is a map of a Domhnaill landmark and the words end with—”

“Culcanon.” Cristiana nodded. “I have seen the
name written before. Culcanon of Domhnaill would have been the laird who hid the treasure before fleeing here.”

“Aye.” Gently, he pried the medallion from her fingers and set it aside. “But you may study it tomorrow. You must be weary from the ride.”