The Laird's Lady

Chapter Four

“If the steward remained with us, he could have bloody well handled the harvest.” Malcolm squinted out over Beaumont’s fields, which were ripe with grain. His brothers stood beside him.

Beaumont had been his for a mere seven days, and already problems arose from all sides—disputes among the tenants, angry whispers among the servants about his treatment of Lady Rosalind, who remained confined to her chambers. Still there had been no news from Robert the Bruce. And now the obstacle of organizing the harvest.

Usually, Malcolm could count on his family to help him with most any crisis, but even the three McNairs together couldn’t seem to solve Beaumont’s current dilemma. Experience in battle did not prepare a man for the demands of the land, it seemed.

Malcolm nudged his younger brother as he leaned back against the low rock partition separating the wheat fields from a cow pasture just outside the keep’s walls. “Ye dinna know anything about bringing in crops, Jamie?”

“I never took an interest in such things. I was meant for more lofty pursuits from the time I was the smallest of lads.” Jamie plucked a cherry from a nearby tree and took a tentative taste.

Ian laughed, a deep rumble that fairly rattled the low branches. “More like ye were afraid to soil yer hands.”

“I didna ever see you helping with the harvest at Tyrran.” Jamie snatched another fistful of cherries, popping them into his mouth in quick succession. Ever the well-bred McNair, he topped his brothers in refinement, but he ranked as fierce a warrior as the elder two.

“Too busy making war,” Ian returned, a shadow crossing his features as he reached to try the sun-warmed fruit, as well. “And then last year, Mary was in her confinement….” He looked into the distance before the flash of sorrow in his eyes dissolved into a scowl.

Malcolm clapped his brother on the shoulder, powerless to alleviate his grief. Although Ian had left Tyrran, their family seat, to join his brothers on the Beaumont campaign, Malcolm knew that Ian’s late wife still claimed his thoughts.

Given Ian’s darkened mood, Malcolm welcomed the interruption of a stout female trundling out of the keep with a basket in hand. “I hope you are saving some cherries for the rest of Beaumont, my lords. Cook uses the fruit in dishes more tasty and refined than any of the crude fare you’d find in the north.”

Malcolm stood back to make way for the nurse, who seemed to preside over the household with Rosalind. “Ye’re speaking heresy to a Scot’s ears, woman. Perhaps ye need to pay a visit to a Highland keep to change yer mind.”

“You seem to have brought the Highlands to Beaumont in spite of my lady’s most fervent hopes, haven’t you?” Still grumbling, Gerta worked to fill her basket with fruit, her weathered hands moving over the branches with quick efficiency. “And even your own Lachlan Gordon admits the superior flavor of Beaumont’s dishes, or he would not have begged me to gather more cherries for the cook. But then, I should not have been surprised he could not pick his own cherries, when even the mighty McNairs seem to be flummoxed by the matter of the coming harvest.”

Jamie straightened, looking offended enough for all of them, but Malcolm elbowed him before he could quarrel with the presumptuous old nurse.

“The McNairs are warriors, not farmers, as ye well know.” Malcolm would allow Gerta to have her moment to gloat. The elder woman had been practical enough to see the merits of submitting to his rule as soon as he’d arrived in Beaumont’s great hall, after all. “Do ye know how the work is orchestrated?”

Cackling, Gerta shooed away a bird intent on stealing from her basket. “Nay, my lord, but Lady Rosalind can tell you all about it.”

Malcolm heard Ian mutter beneath his breath at the mention of Rosalind’s name. No doubt he and Jamie were still disgusted with her for stabbing him. Loyalties ran deep in their clan.

As for Malcolm, he had found forgiveness for the blade in his thigh easily enough, even if the wound still ached like the devil. Years of battle had taught him to ignore physical pain. If only he could ward off the unwelcome desire for her so simply.

“Dinna jest with me.” He took his responsibilities to Beaumont seriously, since Robert wanted the keep in good working order. For that matter, Malcolm had a very personal interest in maintaining the lands if there was a chance the Bruce would grant them to him. “I may nae know much about reaping a harvest, but I know the work is done by men, nae noble maidens.”

“Begging your pardon—” Gerta bristled visibly “—but Lady Rosalind organized the work after her father’s death. She needed her steward’s guidance the first year, but she can do it on her own now.”

“Ye lie,” Ian accused, whistling to the same birds Gerta tried to wave away. “Her brother would have been taken under the steward’s wing, no matter how young he was at the time. Why would the steward bother with a female who would have no use for such learning? Ye insult us with yer tales.” He swiped a few cherries from Gerta’s basket and grinned. “Ye grow excellent fruit, however.”

“I do not lie, Ian McNair,” she huffed, yanking the basket out of his reach. “You may choose not to believe me, but do not call me a liar before you have tested the truth of my words. Ask Lady Rosalind what she knows about the harvest and she could well weary your ears till dawn.” Gerta scurried away as quickly as her aging legs would take her, muttering about the lack of manners in arrogant Scots.

Ian watched her depart for a moment before he exchanged a wink with Jamie. “I am thinking Malcolm would rather enjoy the opportunity to listen to the fair Rosalind till dawn.”

Malcolm glowered at them, frustration building every day he spent holding a keep that he didn’t know how to run effectively. “Lady Rosalind is a coldhearted English noblewoman, nae some pleasing Highland wench to pass a night with.”

“’Tis nae only the English who are coldhearted, McNair. Yer Isabel has been wed nigh on four years. Ye shouldna let yer bitterness over her prevent ye from enjoying the warmth of another’s arms.”

“I havena spared her a thought since her unfortunate marriage.” The conversational turn made Malcolm remember one of the few reasons he sometimes preferred wartime to peace. Running hell-bent for your life to keep an arrow out of your arse ensured there would be no discussion of women.

Ian jabbed Malcolm in the ribs with a brotherly shove. “I suppose ye were nae thinking of her when ye risked yer neck to free her from her English cage?”

“I am sworn to protect our people from the English fury.” Refusing to think about his failed attempt to free Isabel, Malcolm banged his boot against the rock wall to loosen caked soil from the sole. “I feel nothing for Isabel anymore except admiration for her courage and pity for her captivity. But as I know her well, I dinna fear for her. She will find a way to be free of the English king whether her blackguard husband helps her or nae.”

Malcolm had done all he could as a warrior to save her, but since the woman remained in English hands, he’d found it difficult to come to peace with his efforts. Hellfire. He’d grown as morbid as Ian of late, and without half as good a reason.

“Think ye there is any truth to Gerta’s words?” he asked, eager to leave behind all talk of Isabel. Perhaps speaking to Rosalind would cheer him. She might be as ruthlessly ambitious as Isabel, but Malcolm took perverse comfort from knowing that at least Rosalind was safe under his watch. “Might the good lady of Beaumont know something of the harvest?”

“Very likely.” Ian laid out a row of cherries on the rock wall, enticing a little bird to hop closer and closer to him.

“Then ye were cruel to call her a liar,” Malcolm admonished, wondering how Ian could be patient enough to let wild creatures come to him.

“Aye, but riling her surely yielded some useful insights.”

Grudgingly, he had to admit Ian could be very wise at times. Malcolm only hoped he could maintain some of the family wits about him tonight when he confronted Rosalind. He would need to be clever if he wanted to extract information from the stubborn former mistress of Beaumont.

Malcolm finally sought Rosalind’s solar some hours later, hoping he had not delayed the task so long she would be abed.

Rosalind engaged his thoughts all too often this past sennight. He had almost enjoyed his last visit with her, though he knew she had not. She was practically hissing by the time he departed.

It was unfortunate they were on opposite sides of the Scots-English dispute, for he had to admit she would be an admirable ally. She was a fierce fighter, a loyal kinswoman and, if Gerta were to be believed, exceedingly sharp.

But those same reasons kept her his opponent. She would never forsake her English heritage to swear loyalty to him, he realized. He could lock her upstairs until doomsday and she would not relent.

Candlelight shone from under her solar door when he reached it. Anticipation gripped him as tightly as he clenched the master key in his hand when he inserted it into the lock and turned.

A tempting vision greeted his eyes. All traces of the bow-wielding warrioress vanished, Rosalind now stood in the center of her private chamber surrounded by flowers of every hue. Like a forest sprite with only nature to adorn her, she presented a charming picture.

She held delicate blue flowers—damned if he knew one clump of petals from another—in one hand as she arranged another bunch of spiky red blooms in a tall vase. A basket of pale yellow blossoms sat at her feet. Other containers, already filled and arranged, were perched on every available table and chest. The room smelled heady and sweet, like a hothouse at midsummer.

This gentle creature was his ambitious, blade-wielding enemy? He could scarcely reconcile this woman with the Rosalind who’d cursed and railed at him the week before.

For a long moment, she did not hear him, absorbed as she was in her task. The flowers, the scents, the feminine chamber—even the lady herself—fit into his recurring dream of a home.

Home.

His heart ached with longing for the domestic pleasures a woman could gift a family with. Rosalind’s slippered feet tread on sweet-smelling rushes, her cutting knife moving deftly from one stem to the next. He could not see the whole of her face from the side, but he could tell she bit her lip as she worked, seemingly caught in thought.

She trimmed the stem from a long rose before plunging it into a hammered silver urn, then looked up. If he’d surprised her, she hid it well.

“Good evening, heathen.” She smiled charmingly before returning to her work.

She wished to pretend his arrival was of no consequence to her? Point one for the lady. She’d managed to rile him already.

“Ye’ve stuffed yer rooms full of greenery with nae a holy day in sight.” For that matter, even on holy days, he’d never seen a chamber so lavishly appointed with nature’s bounty. “What are ye up to?”

“Because you have seen fit to lock me indoors, I have brought the outdoors inside where I can enjoy them.”

“Where did ye find all these?” Malcolm asked, wandering around the room to study the blooms. There were at least a dozen shades and shapes of wildflowers and roses.

“My mother’s garden.”

“I have seen no blooming garden. Ouch.” He sucked a drop of blood from his finger. “Yer foliage is dangerous.”

“I must choose my opportunities to inflict a small measure of pain upon you where I can.” The wench grinned unabashedly. “The garden is surrounded by one of the crumbling walls of the south tower.”

“We will begin rebuilding the walls on the southern side tomorrow.” He joined her at the plank table where she worked.

“So I have heard. That is why I have chosen to pick as many flowers as I could before your men trample my plants.”

“How do ye know our plans?” Malcolm plucked the small shears from her hand, preferring to leave the unpredictable maiden unarmed. “And who picked all of these?” He knew very well she had not left her chambers all week. Her door remained guarded.

“I told you at your last visit, McNair, there is much you do not know about the keep.” Arching a brow, she peered at him over a vase of spotted yellow lilies. Lilies? Hell, they could have been some kind of fancy herb and he wouldn’t know the difference. “I picked these myself and I heard your men talking about their plans to fortify the southern walls.”

“Ye lie,” Malcolm told her, employing Ian’s tactic.

She merely smiled.

He tossed up his hands in disgust, lacking his brother’s patience. “I refuse to get trapped in a discussion of petty nonsense. Ye will sit and talk to me reasonably.” He seated himself on a stone bench and gestured to the chair beside him.

Rosalind did not move. “As you can see, I still have a great deal of work to be done, so if you do not mind—”

“I do mind.” She thought she had work to do? He had a field bursting with grain and no clue how to secure it for the winter. He wouldn’t take any chances with the harvest lest the people of Beaumont starve, proving once and for all he did not deserve a keep of his own. “Come and sit down.”

Sighing, Rosalind laid her plants back in their basket. She paused at the sideboard before joining him. “I seem to recall you have need of spirits when we talk. May I pour you some wine?”

“How pleasing ye can be when ye choose.” He wondered what it would be like to lead the kind of domestic life in which a woman brought him wine at the end of the day. A damn sight nicer than consigning himself to some bedroll on the cold ground on a battlefield. Especially if the shared cup of wine led to even more relaxing pursuits. “I can think of nothing I would like better.”

He watched her take her time filling the cups and seating herself. She looked radiant despite having been locked in the dungeon, then confined to her rooms all week. Perhaps she really had strolled out in the walled garden today. It would explain why she looked so fetching.

Malcolm shook his head to clear it of wayward thoughts. More than likely the scent of all the damn flowers had gone to his head.

He sipped his wine, in no hurry to talk just yet. Rosalind drank hers slowly, too, he noted. Probably plotting her strategy to keep him off balance. He allowed himself a moment to absorb the sight of her, hoping maybe if he studied her more carefully he would discover the secret of her attraction and, in turn, find a way to better arm himself against her appeal.

Her kirtle and surcoat were two shades of purple—the kirtle a pale lavender, the surcoat a rich plum. The sleeves and bodice fit closely, revealing a softly curving, altogether pleasing form beneath. And he thought this closer investigation of her would somehow help?

Shifting in his seat, he gulped the rest of his wine in an attempt to cool the fire within. Forcing his gaze to safer terrain, he noted the brightly colored gems glittering about her wrist, and a cluster of amethysts shining at her waist identified the hilt of a dagger. He winced at the memory of that particular blade and wondered why he had not taken it from her earlier.

Flaxen hair still hung loose about her shoulders, brushed to a fine glimmer that caught the candlelight as she moved. One thin braid, wound with silver thread, dangled amid the tresses falling to her waist.

She glanced up suddenly and turned brilliant eyes upon him, perhaps waiting for him to speak. Why had he never noticed the color of her eyes before? They were exactly the shade of heather, the small flower that grew rampant throughout the Highlands.

“I have much work to do yet tonight.” If she meant to prod him out the door with her words, she would be disappointed. He had no intention of leaving here without the information he sought.

But first, he would unsettle her. Rattle her just a little. Perhaps then she’d be all too glad to give him the answers he wanted so she could send him on his way.

“So ye have said, lass.” Setting his empty cup aside, he edged closer to her. Not obnoxiously close. Just near enough to catch a hint of her soft scent. “I was wracking my brain, I was, to name the color of those eyes.”

A flush crept into her cheeks, although she did not seem quite worldly enough to fear the carnal direction of his thoughts. She shook her head and made no reply, her face the picture of innocent confusion.

“Rest easy, darlin’, I have solved the problem, for ye have eyes the color of heather.”

“Heather?” She wrinkled her nose. “Truly you know naught of flowers, McNair. The blooms you speak of are a generous shade of purple, while my eyes are distinctly gray.”

“Heather.” He’d never been the kind of man to wax poetic about a lass’s beauty before, but then waging war didn’t require as much tactical planning as catching Rosalind Beaumont off guard. He needed to press any advantage he could, and strangely enough, it proved all too easy to flatter the bold, brave lady of the keep. “But dinna fash, lass, I have come here for yer expertise on another matter.”

Predictably, she appeared relieved, her shoulders relaxing by slow degrees as some of the hectic color faded from her cheeks.

If he were not a man of honor, it would be all too tempting to seduce prickly Rosalind. But that was not his objective. “The fields will be ready for harvest next week.”

“A fine harvest it will be,” she observed, sipping her wine with more caution than he had. “The weather has smiled favorably upon our crops for once.”

“On yer flowers, too, ’twould seem.”

“I have been fortunate that Mother Nature saw fit to cooperate with me this year.” She twirled her cup between restless fingers, her gaze settling upon anything in the chamber but him. “Two years ago it rained so heavily all summer, I feared the roots would rot right out from under the stems. But the plants are hardy, no matter how delicate they might look.”

“The same might be said for their mistress.” Malcolm did not miss the pleasure in her eyes as she spoke of her garden. He struggled to recall she was his enemy and not a tempting maid, because no matter how fair she looked among her flowers, Rosalind was as determined and ruthlessly practical as his faithless Isabel had been. Any wench who fought off her enemy with a crossbow was bound to be trouble.

“There is naught delicate left within me, I fear.” Her unexpected remark seemed to be spoken to herself more than him before she downed the rest of her wine in a hearty swig. “Life in the borderlands has a way of stomping out the softness inside us, doesn’t it?”

Ah, hell. He could not be taken in by the blatant hurt he spied in her gaze. To soften toward her now would be a fool’s folly.

“I want to make a deal with ye.” He rose from the bench to slowly pace the solar floor. Sitting close to her seemed to distract him far more than it rattled her. “But first, ye must tell me what ye know of bringing in a harvest.”

Rosalind plucked one of the roses from the basket at her feet and inhaled its fragrance. “If I told you, I would have nothing left to bargain with.”

As if his hands had a will of their own, Malcolm found himself drawing her from her seat to hold her in front of him. Unwise, he knew. Yet he could not resist the urge to touch her again, to find out for himself if she was as soft as he remembered.

“If ye dinna tell me something to demonstrate yer knowledge of the subject, I willna believe ye are capable of this task.”

She stared at him in breathless silence, but did not pull away. Her eyes widened and grew dark in surprise. Malcolm flexed his fingers around her upper arms, gently pressing the soft flesh beneath the delicate linen of her kirtle. When had he last held a woman?

He could see her pulse throb in a slender blue vein at her neck. He fancied he could feel her heart pound right through his fingers. The scent of roses seemed to radiate from her.

Swiftly he set her away from him, wondering what had possessed him to touch her in the first place. “Do ye ken, Lady Rosalind?”

He was gratified to see her sway on her feet for a moment before she smoothed her skirts and seemed to collect herself.

“Very well, then. The barley must be cut before anything else, as that will be the ripest, followed by the wheat. I can tell you how many serfs should be allotted to each field, and which serfs are better at cutting and which excel at threshing. Then, of course, there is the matter of the rents. I know who is entitled to what portion of the crops and how much must be given back in rent.” Rosalind crossed her arms and glared at him. “Do you ken?”

“I can consult the account books to determine the rents.” He did not wish her to know she’d surprised him. “I hardly need yer help in that.”

“Even if you can read, heathen, you do not know where my steward keeps his books.” She circled around him like a seasoned warrior sizing up her opponent.

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