In the Laird's Bed

“My lady.” A harried-looking young maid that Duncan had not seen before approached Cristiana in the hall.

The maid bit her lip and frowned. Her head scarf was askew and dark curls sprang from the side as if she’d been hard at work on a difficult task.

“Yes?” Cristiana stood immediately, perhaps sensing a matter of some import.

Since the meal was well underway, he could not imagine the woman came to report any problem in the kitchen. Could the maid be a nurse to the old laird?

Duncan tensed. Not only had he liked the lord of Domhnaill, but he also found himself resenting any news that would upset Cristiana. How strange that his world had become bound up in hers again so quickly.

“You said you wished me to fetch you any time—”

“Of course,” Cristiana murmured, seizing the girl’s arm as she attempted to withdraw from the table.

Duncan rose to help her, lifting her skirt to clear the bench and not receiving so much as an ill-favored look this time. But then her mind seemed elsewhere.

“I will come with you.” The distracted expression upon her face concerned him.

“No!” both women exclaimed at once. The maid’s eyes went to Cristiana’s as if to judge her expression.

What did they hide?

“A sick room is no place for a warrior whose strength depends upon good health,” Cristiana explained. “One of the children has a fever that could benefit from herbs and I’m the closest thing to a wise woman Domhnaill has. Please do enjoy the minstrels and the dancing.”

Not waiting for a response, she turned on her heel and hurriedly led the maid from the hall.

Something was not right.

Thinking she would surely lead him to the old laird so he could judge her father’s condition for himself, Duncan eased a narrow taper from its place on a hearthside altar and followed the women through the maze of the darkened keep.

“I think the lass sleeps, my lady,” the maid told Cristiana some hours later.

Cristiana held Leah’s delicate form across her lap, her niece’s head cradled to her shoulder as she sang her patient a third lullaby. Her forehead no longer felt as hot, but Cristiana had not fully recovered from the scare of seeing the girl sweating and pale when she’d entered the bedchamber earlier.

Leah had found some ease, however, from a hot broth with soothing herbs.

“I don’t mind holding her a bit longer,” Cristiana assured her, wiping an auburn curl from Leah’s forehead. “My guests have no need of me at this hour.”

“Yet I did not see the young Culcanon laird bedding down in the great hall.” The maid poured fresh water into a bowl by Leah’s bed and folded fresh linen strips to set beside it in case the girl’s skin needed more cooling in the night. “I mention it only because he seemed concerned for you earlier. Perhaps he awaits some word from you.”

Cristiana did not think that was the case. But what if Duncan roamed the keep at night while everyone else slept? Was he treasure-seeking even then? Or could he be searching for something else under cover of night?

A frightening thought occurred. What if his whole tale of seeking hidden riches was, in fact, a careful fabrication intended to conceal what he really sought?

She peered down at Leah, frightened to her toes.

“Very well.” Cristiana eased out from under the warm weight of the child she’d raised as her own. “I will leave her in your care, but please do have someone fetch me if the fever returns or if she seems uneasy.”

“Of course.” The maid rose to tuck the bed linen around Leah’s shoulders. “Good night, my lady.”

Fearing she’d find Duncan lurking just outside the door to the chamber, Leah shared with a nurse and two other children—an older girl who’d come to foster at Domhnaill and a boy some eight summers fathered by one of the knights, Cristiana was relieved to find the corridor clear. He had not followed her.

Unable to hasten her weary footsteps, she wound her way down the stairs of one tower and paused as she neared the great hall. All the torches had been extinguished for the night, but the hearth fire blazed as if recently stoked. Grunts and moans, giggles and sighs of couples in various stages of passion made Cristiana duck her head and hasten toward the staircase to the tower where her own bed awaited.

She nearly ran into a man and woman cavorting in the shadows outside the hall. Her feet tangled with another pair of feet, her skirts catching on the pant leg of a man who stood close to the tower stairs.

The broad, powerfully made form of the man was unmistakable even in silhouette.

“Duncan?” Righting herself, she heard a woman’s soft giggle and remembered the knight was not alone.

“Cristiana.” He disentwined himself from the female—a maid who worked in the kitchens—and straightened. “I’ve been waiting to speak with you.”

“It doesn’t appear to have been a hardship for you.” She edged around the pair and found the stairwell. “Good eve.”

“Wait.” He followed her up the steps as the sound of his companion’s soft footsteps disappeared into the night behind them. “We must talk privately.”

Turning, she paused on the steps, hoping she did not pitch forward onto him in the dark. Why had she not brought a more substantial torch? The taper she’d taken earlier was hardly enough light to see two steps ahead of her.

“Haven’t you had enough private encounters for one day?” She gripped the rough-hewn stone wall beside her, steadying herself as she recalled that Duncan’s carnal desires had never lurked far beneath the surface, even when he’d been courting her to wed. “You’ve made a spectacle of me already and I am not interested in your kisses, so by all means, return to a more willing partner.”

A surprising amount of anger swirled through her. At him. At her. At the hapless maid who had trysted with him in a darkened corner.

“I did not wish to meet with you to make advances.” His voice was harsh, guttural. Tired, perhaps? She recalled he had awakened early this day, too. “We were to discuss my quest. May I escort you to your solar? Or somewhere else that we will not be overheard?”

She’d forgotten about his treasure-hunting. In those moments in Leah’s room when she’d feared he knew of the little girl’s existence, she’d dismissed the quest as a pretense. Now, she wondered anew.

“My solar is no place for a male guest,” she told him coldly. “Especially one who treats a woman’s honor as lightly as you. Perhaps we may speak on the morrow, where our exchanges may be witnessed, if not overheard.”

Wishing only to seek the safe haven of her bed and escape the constant worried churn of her thoughts, she lifted the taper high and continued her ascent.

“Then at least tell me this much.” Duncan’s voice chased her through the dark even though his feet did not. “Who is the child you tended with such sweet compassion this eve?”

When she turned, Cristiana had the look of a beautiful ghost. Her eyes were wide and luminous, her skin drained of all color.

“I told you before—”

“Aye. But now I am asking who she really is. She wears the garb of a noble child. She speaks like a noble child. You held her in your arms as if—”

“You spied on us?” Oddly, her voice held more panic than anger. That, above all, stirred his suspicions.

If the girl were of no cause for concern, Cristiana would be more irritated than worried. And clearly, she was frightened.

“I had no desire to remain in the hall once you departed. By following you, I hoped to speak with you once you were free from your duties.” Yet instead of dispensing a few herbs to a sick wee one and departing, Cristiana had held the child for hours.

The sight—captured in the moments he peered into the door the maid had not fully shut—had roused a protective instinct within that he had never before experienced. Seeing the maternal side of Cristiana had reminded him of all that she’d robbed him of.

Not just lands, wealth and the increased prestige of ruling Domhnaill. He’d lost a woman who would make a strong yet tender mother.

He swore under his breath. He did not owe her any sympathy. If he was right about the little girl she hid, then Cristiana had deceived him as thoroughly as he tricked her with his pretense for entering her keep.

“What is it?” Her voice was a thin wisp of sound in the drafty tower staircase.

“You are her mother.” The realization hit him like a rockslide.

They stared at one another, locked in wordless indictment. A myriad of emotions passed over her features. Did she think to deny it? Her long delay as good as confirmed his suspicions.

“Do not think about lying to me,” he warned.

“It is true. She is mine.” She gave a tight nod, her lips pressed in a flat line.

Yet, she appeared relieved at the same time. As if there were a great weight off her shoulders now that she’d shared the truth.

Anger welled up in him as though a jealous fist squeezed his insides.

“She is not yet five summers, but she is close. What knave dared to touch you while you yet belonged to me?” He closed the distance between them, gaze locked upon her. He should not care if she’d taken a lover back then. Until that day that he’d kissed her by the wishing well, he’d paid her little enough attention, agreeing to the betrothal out of a sense of duty.

He’d had a lover of his own, after all. But that was not the same and she knew it. He would hunt down the man who’d touched her.

“No one, I swear it.” She shook her head, as if the idea were repugnant. “I would die before forswearing myself.”

The vehemence in her words was so powerful, so passionate. Could they be true?

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