LORD OF DUNKEATHE (13 page)

"Polly, my lord," she replied. "And she's not a girl, she's a young woman."

He inclined his head in acknowledgment of her correction. "Which one of my maidservants is she?"

"You don't know who I mean?" she asked
sceptically
. The friendly, flirtatious Polly was hard to overlook.

He frowned. "Is it a sin that I don't know the names of all my servants?"

"I'm surprised that you don't know her name, my lord. She's the sort of vivacious, pretty young woman men remember."

His expression grew disdainful. "If you think I ought to know her because I've bedded her, you're wrong. I don't dally with my servants."

"Then you would be a rare Norman lord in that respect."

"By that form of measure, I am a rare Norman lord."

The firmness of his answer, and the look on his face, gave credence to his words. Yet he was so handsome and well formed, she wouldn't be surprised to learn that he could have scores of women wherever he went—although, she had to admit, she'd heard no such tales.

"I don't dally with anyone in my household."

She glanced at him sharply.

"Usually," he added, his gaze seeming to grow more intense and inscrutable.

She couldn't prevent the blush that heated her face. But she wasn't going to act the shy maiden and be silent.

She got to her feet, so that she was face-to-face with him. "But not always. Not when you feel you can do so with impunity, I suppose."

"Not when the lady is willing," he replied. "Not when I'm willing, too. But when the lady later clearly wishes nothing more to happen between us, I respect her decision."

His gaze was so steady and unwavering, his voice so sincere, she believed him. Relaxing for what seemed like the first
time
since they'd kissed in the garden, Riona slowly let out her breath.

And realized they still had more to discuss. "While you may not be a lascivious scoundrel, I fear the same couldn't be said of some of your guests."

Sir Nicholas's dark brows lowered, and it was like seeing a thunderhead forming in the distance. "Is there any particular man who presents such a danger to the women of my household?"

Before she could answer, he made an impatient gesture. "Don't tell me. I'm sure Percival's quite capable of saying just about anything to get a woman into his bed. Has he?"

"Not yet," she replied, "but Polly's a friendly young woman, and I don't think she realizes how easy it can be to succumb to temptation."

When Nicholas slowly raised a brow, Riona had to fight not to look away.

"Since those men are my guests," he said evenly, "it might be better if you spoke to her, woman to woman, and warned her of the danger."

Riona steeled herself against the power of his deep,
seductive
voice and his dark, penetrating gaze. "I did, and she assures me she's well aware of 'snares,' as she calls them. I gather your sister spoke to her of the dangers before she..." It probably wasn't wise to allude to his sister's elopement with Adair Mac Taran. "Before your sister married. Nevertheless, I still fear Polly might succumb. For her sake, as well as yours, you should encourage her to marry. I understand the young shepherd, Thomas, has expressed such wishes, and Polly's very agreeable, too. Unfortunately, she feels they're too poor at present and must wait
until
they have more money to wed."

Sir Nicholas strode to the arched window and spoke without looking at her. "It seems a bit hard on Thomas, encouraging him to marry a woman who can be tempted to stray. Maybe one day she'll be brought before me charged with adultery."

Riona rose and went toward him. "Perhaps, but I doubt it. Polly seems a good soul, and once she's married and
settled
down, I'd be very surprised indeed if she didn't prove to be a most excellent wife and mother. I would hate to see that chance destroyed because of some silver-tongued Norman who thinks maidservants are no more than whores without a brothel."

The lord of Dunkeathe turned and folded his arms over his broad chest. "Harsh words, my lady."

"Harsh truth, my lord," she said, "but one I think you'd find hard to deny."

"If Polly is willing to part with her virtue, why should I guard it for her?"

If he wanted a self-serving reason, she'd give him one. "Because, my lord, such a woman can also cause great dissension in a household. She will have those who envy her and despise her, and some who'll try to follow her example. You may find yourself with a few noblemen's bastards on your hands."

"You seem to care a great deal about people you barely know."

"At home, it's my business to be aware of what's happening with the servants. Perhaps I shouldn't have interfered or listened to her troubles, but it's a difficult habit to break."

He moved toward the table. She backed away,
until
she realized what she was doing and how that might look to him.

He, too, came to a halt,
lightly
resting his hand on the back of the chair. She tried not to stare at his strong fingers, the knuckles, the sun-browned skin....

"I shall take what you've said into consideration," he said. "It seems my method of choosing a wife is yielding some unexpected benefits."

She tore her gaze from his powerful hand and regarded him steadily. "That may be, but I still don't approve of your means of finding a bride, my lord."

"Neither does my brother," he admitted, his revelation surprising her. "Unfortunately, I don't have the time to search the country for a suitable wife. It was easier to invite those who wanted to be considered to Dunkeathe."

"Like sending sheep to market," she charged, struggling to ignore the desire awakening within her.

His brows rose. "If these women are treated like so much livestock, that is the way of the world, my lady. I can't be held responsible for that. And if I hadn't let it be known I sought a wife, your uncle wouldn't have come to Dunkeathe. He's proving to be a very interesting man with very interesting ideas."

She didn't care to discuss her uncle with Sir Nicholas of Dunkeathe, so she started for the door.

"Is he really that
knowledgeable
about sheep?"

Annoyed by Sir Nicholas's
sceptical
tone, she turned back. "Aye, he is."

"Then why are you so poor?"

She straightened her shoulders and prepared to defend her beloved uncle. "Because of his kindness. He never refuses to aid those who need help, or feed those who are hungry."

"So you're proud of him, despite his faults?"

"I love him, despite his faults—and because of them. We are none of us perfect."

Sir Nicholas's answer was so softly, gruffly spoken, she had to strain to hear it. "No, we are not. I am not." He started toward her.

Suddenly, all her brave defiance seemed to have deserted her. She swallowed hard and sidled backward. "I'm surprised to hear you admit it," she said, fighting to keep her voice steady.

"I know my faults, but I also know my strengths. Yet it seems you, my lady, are capable of arousing such desire in me, I become as weak as a lad."

He halted in front of her and a troubled look darkened his face. "God help me, how I wish you did not!" he whispered hoarsely as he pulled her close and his lips took hers with sure and certain purpose. His arms encircled her and held her tight against him.

Need, yearning, lust leaped into burning, vibrant life within her.

She couldn't help herself. She didn't want to help herself as she leaned into him with her warm, yielding body.

Yet even as she returned his kiss with ardent passion, she knew this was wrong. They should not be here, together, alone and kissing. She should stop him. Make him let her go. Walk out of this chamber and never, ever come near him again.

But the desire kindling within her
swiftly
overwhelmed the voice of her reason. Her objections fell away, destroyed by the sensation of his mouth against hers, and that of his body, virile and powerful, hard against her own.

He tasted of fine wine, intoxicating and full-bodied. Rich and warm, like grapes in the sun.

And like the sun, she was hot. No breeze could chill the welcome warmth engendered by his touch as his hands slid up her back, clasping her even more tightly to him. No blast of winter could cool her
ardour
as she leaned into him, her breasts crushed against his chest.

Her hands glided around his waist, over his rough leather belt. How good this felt, how right. How perfect. More thrilling than anything in her life. When his tongue pushed against her lips, she didn't hesitate to part them, and welcome him inside.

His hand moved slowly down her back to cup her buttocks and press her against the evidence of his arousal. Her legs slightly parted to steady herself, she moaned softly, aware of his need, and

her own. The moistness between her legs, the gentle throbbing that had an urgency she had never felt before.

She held him closer still, and her kisses became more urgent. More fervent. More demanding. This was what she'd longed to feel, on those long, lonely nights at home. How she'd dreamed of being held and kissed and touched, by a man who passionately desired her.

She'd feared this was impossible, forever denied, because she was not pretty and no longer young, and no man she could love had ever wanted to marry her.

This man didn't want to marry her. He might lust after her, but he would never marry her. There was nothing good or lasting or pure between them, but only unbridled, uncontrolled desire.

She broke away from him. "Stop!"

For a brief instant, she saw his shock. And then it was as if shutters had closed over his face, rendering it a wooden mask no more revealing than a plank. "If you wish, my lady."

"I do wish it!"

"And so I have stopped," he said, his tone reasonable, as he spread his arms wide.

"I have no desire to be the object of your lust. I refuse to be just a body in your bed, a means to sate and satisfy your lust while you

woo another for your wife," she declared as she marched to the door.

She looked back at Nicholas of Dunkeathe over her shoulder. "Have no fear, my lord, that I will speak of what's happened between us," she said, while he stood as
still
as a marble statue, "I won't, because it's to my shame, as it should be to yours."

With that, she threw open the door and strode out of the room. They couldn't stay here another hour, not after what Sir Nicholas had done.

And what she'd done, too, the small voice of her conscience prompted.

She ignored it, just as she ignored Lady Joscelind and the other ladies by the hearth who stopped talking to stare at her as she stalked past, determined to find Uncle Fergus and leave this place without delay.

Some of the ladies were sewing, while Lady Joscelind idly strummed a harp. Lady Catherine and Lady Elizabeth weren't there, of course. They'd already had the great good sense to go. As for the rest, let Sir Nicholas have one of them and be damned.

Then she spotted Eleanor, seated at the edge of the group, looking at her in amazement. She couldn't stop to explain—not yet —and she was sorry they would have to say goodbye to her. She'd miss Eleanor and she was certain Uncle Fergus would regret bidding farewell to Fredella, yet they simply couldn't stay.

She reached the courtyard and there was still no sign of Uncle Fergus. Perhaps he'd gone to the village, or out to the farms, looking for more
marvellous
sheep.

She continued to the gate and spoke to the two Saxons on guard, the same ones who'd been so insolent that first day.

The stocky one ran his gauntleted hand nervously up and down the shaft of his spear, and his cheeks
coloured
. "My lady, thank you for not saying nothing to Sir Nicholas about.. .about what happened there at the gate Midsummer's Day. We're right grateful."

The other one eagerly added, "If we'd a-known who you was

She was in no humor to forgive insolent Saxons, any more than she was willing to consider their overlord an
honour
able knight. "I haven't told Sir Nicholas yet."

The big one's eyes widened in his plump face, while the thin one blanched.

"I—it was a mistake and we won't make it again," the first guard stammered.

"So perhaps next time
you'll think twice before treati
ng visitors to Dunkeathe in that impudent manner. If I hear of such
behaviour
again, I will most certainly inform Sir Nicholas."

She wouldn't, of course, because she wouldn't be here. Later, when she was gone, they'd probably curse her for scaring them, but she didn't care. "Have you seen my uncle?"

"Yes, my lady. He went to the village."

She nodded her thanks, then hurried through the inner ward, past the tents and small groups of men huddled together playing drafts and gambling. Others were polishing
armour
or mail. A few were singing, a rollicking song about a bed and several wenches.