The Countess Page 3

  Louis translated as Eglantine drummed her fingers impatiently, but the guide shook his head slowly. He indicated the sky, then mocked sleeping, his face on his folded hands, his smile beatific.

  Eglantine understood him perfectly well. She swore with an eloquence that obviously startled her châtelain.

  “It seems, my lady, that our guide heartily endorses slumber beneath the stars.” Louis cleared his throat with disapproval, though whether ‘twas of her of the guide, Eglantine neither knew nor cared.

  “This will not do! This cannot be so. We shall not slumber beneath the stars like barbarians.” Eglantine reined in her temper with difficulty, heaved a deep breath, then continued with self-control more fitting of her position. “Louis, is our guide entirely certain that this is Kinbeath?”

  The châtelain repeated the question in limping Gael and the guide nodded so emphatically that his meaning could not be missed. He launched into a monologue, complete with fulsome gesture, which obviously was an endorsement of the property and its charms, but Eglantine was not persuaded.

  “What nonsense is this? This is Theobald’s inheritance? It cannot be so!”

  “If I may be so bold as to remind you, my lady, the title was held to be worthless.”

  Eglantine turned to her châtelain as a sudden thought struck. “Louis, can there be two holdings known as Kinbeath? Are we on the right estate?”

  But the crooked little man shook his head and pointed, alien words falling quickly from his tongue.

  Louis translated crisply. “Kinbeath, it seems, means the point of the birches, in the region’s excuse for language. I am assured that not only were there once trees in abundance across the entire point, but that structure, known as a broch, is a fortification of considerable local renown.” The older man cleared his throat. “Which perhaps is why those men have chosen to occupy it.”

  “Men?” Eglantine spun to look.

  Only now she saw them, their garb blending in with the hues of the land, the shadows of the stones disguising their silhouettes and exact numbers. They watched her and her party, their stillness sending a chill down her spine.

  There were quite a number of men. Large men. Dangerous, unpredictable, barbarian men. Undoubtedly they were ruthless savages. Their uncompromising expressions did little to dissuade Eglantine of that conclusion. Indeed, she shivered.

  Excitable chatter broke out in the ranks of her company, but Eglantine stared at the trespassers in silence and gritted her teeth. She had come all this way, faced every adversity, had her feet nigh frozen, only to be confronted with another challenge.

  Would naught be simple in her life again?

  If Theobald had not been dead, she could have cheerfully murdered him in this moment. ‘Twas not so much for what he had done to her, ‘twas the pall he had cast over her daughters’ futures that cut deep and for which she wished she could demand a toll.

  But to turn back would be to surrender to Reynaud.

  The price of comfort was still too high.

  Indeed, Eglantine had faced worse foes than a ragtag company of illiterate men! No doubt they were lost, or vagrants who could be quickly encouraged to move elsewhere. If they wanted food or coin, she might share a small measure of bread. ‘Twas better not to encourage beggars, after all, but she could afford to be somewhat charitable.

  Indeed, they might be so awed by her manner that they would flee to whence they had come. One heard of such responses from barbarians faced with their betters. Louis cleared his throat pointedly, but Eglantine had no need for his advice in this moment.

  She knew what she had to do.

  She lifted her chin, giving her steed her heels. Lady of the manor, that was who she was, despite the state of her clothing and the absence of fine jewelry, despite the sorry condition of the manor she would claim. Her steed was not an old nag, and the creature seemed to sense her mood, for it stepped high with new vigor.

  Eglantine felt every eye of her company follow her progress. The men before her folded their arms across their chests as they surveyed her approach. There were more of them than she had first realized, and they were each and every one taller than expectation.

  But what could go awry before so many of her own? Eglantine’s imagination, usually reliably silent, spun a variety of gruesome tales. Fortunately, she was too much her father’s daughter to show any sign of weakness.

  Eglantine’s heart began to hammer as one man stepped forward from the rest. He was tall and broad, wearing a saffron shirt of the same style as their crooked guide, though upon his broad shoulders, it had a certain élan. A length of wool wound around his waist, the end was cast over his shoulder. His bare legs were thickly muscled, his hair as black as midnight and all unruly waves. He was unshaven, unshod, and unamused.

  The sight of him awakened a feminine awareness deep within Eglantine. Aye, she was not surprised that half the women she had seen in this land had been ripe with child, not if all the men were as ruggedly appealing as this one.

  Fortunately, she was immune to the base allure of a barbarian. All the same, she noted that he was several hands taller than her and decided not to leave her saddle. That way, she had the advantage of height.

  And the ability to flee quickly, if necessary.

  Aye, there was a glint of danger in this man’s eyes, a determination in the line of his lips that did not bode well for her plan. He did not appear in the least bit intimidated - indeed, he seemed angered, as though she trespassed!

  Though Eglantine knew that was not the case, there was a persuasiveness to the thought. The wind and the rain seemed to suit this man, seemed to make him look more aggressively male and more at home in this wild place. Certainly he fit better here than she. Eglantine urged the steed forward at a quicker clip, as though to deny her uncertainties, and halted the beast with a flourish. She gripped the reins as the horse stamped.

  The man propped his hands on his hips, tipping his head back to meet her gaze. His eyes were a stormy grey, not unlike the tempestuous sea behind him. The stubble upon his jaw was a dark shadow upon his tanned face, his brows were thick and dark and nigh as recklessly waved as his hair.

  She had a sense that she faced a wild being, like the boars occasionally found in Crevy’s woods, strong creatures that fought to their dying breath for their sole desire. The sole desire of the boars was to be free, to survive.

  Eglantine wished that she knew what this man’s sole desire might be.

  His gaze swept over her assessingly, the appreciation in his eyes when his gaze met hers making Eglantine’s flesh heat for the first time in days.

  Aye, she knew what he desired.

  A part of her shivered in response.

  Two months amid barbarians and she became no better than they! Eglantine inhaled sharply and sat even taller, determined to maintain her noble bearing. She held his gaze with what she hoped was regal disdain, and braced herself for the inevitable vulgarity of his speech.

  “Welcome to Ceinn-beithe, called Kinbeath by the Normans,” he declared in smooth Norman French.

  Eglantine barely kept her mouth from dropping open. Norman French was a vulgar approximation of true French, but she was temporarily silenced by this barbarian’s fluency all the same.

  “I am Duncan MacLaren, chieftain of Clan MacQuarrie, who holds sway over this land.” His words fell crisply, his tongue neither faltering over the language nor rushing through it. ‘Twas almost as though he enjoyed the taste of it upon his tongue. His ease was in marked contrast to Eglantine’s agitation. “I would suggest your party seek its amusement elsewhere, as you are trespassing.”

  Indignation quivered within Eglantine at the news that this Duncan and she wanted the same thing - Kinbeath. But men, as Eglantine knew well enough, placed great value in the law. And the law was on her side in this.

  Kinbeath was hers.

  “You may hold sway, but you do not hold title,” she retorted with equal clarity, savoring the advantage of her educated speech. �
��Kinbeath is my holding by dint of law.”

  The hint of a smile touched his firm lips, though indeed no humor reached his eyes. The expression made Eglantine doubly wary of his intent. He looked somehow...unpredictable.

  This Duncan, she was forced to concede, looked like no man she had ever met before. Certainly none of her acquaintance had ever made her tingle with a mere glance!

  Her uncharacteristic response obviously had more to do with her exhaustion than this man’s presence. Indeed, in her experience, men were painfully predictable - surely he was no different.

  “And how might you hold title to a land hereditary for eons?” Duncan’s tone was mocking.

  “Even hereditary land can be sold, as is more than clear, since this property was sold some ten summers past.”

  “Sold?” His brows drew together in a black furrow and he glared at her, those eyes darkening yet further. “How can that be?”

  Eglantine felt a quick stab of victory. She smiled coolly. “Surely even among barbarians, it is known that land can be traded for coin.” A dangerous gleam claimed his eye, but Eglantine was not deterred. “This holding was sold to my family and passes now to me. By dint of law, ‘tis mine.”

  He took a hasty step toward her and it took all the fortitude within Eglantine not to retreat.

  “Sold by whom?” His question was more of a growl, his eyes narrowed to dangerous slits.

  “One Cormac MacQuarrie.” Eglantine nodded as the name was clearly recognized by the man’s companions. A whisper made its way through their ranks.

  Her opponent, however, glowered at her. “This cannot be true!”

  “Nonetheless ‘tis.” Eglantine shone her formal little smile over the company of men to no discernible effect. She would be gracious in victory, her fluttering pulse be damned. “I would suggest that you vacate my holding, as my party will require every last measure of it. We are quite numerous, as you may have noted.”

  She cast a deliberate eye over his party and nodded. “Much more numerous than your group of companions. Surely you can find another locale to better suit you?”

  But this Duncan folded his arms across his chest. “I see no reason to move, purely on the assertion of a woman, a noble and a foreigner.”

  Eglantine’s spine snapped straight at the list of her attributes, no less how his tone cast them as liabilities. She glared at the man and was sorely tempted to embarrass him. “The king will endorse my claim.”

  Duncan arched a dark brow, unexpected mischief flashing in his eyes. “And we see so very much of good King William. Why, he could arrive at any moment.” He repeated his assertion to his companions in their vulgar tongue and they laughed. That mocking smile claimed his lips as he met her gaze anew, a challenge lighting his eyes.

  So, she was beyond the authority of the king. Eglantine should have expected no less.

  But she was right and she knew it. And he expected her to simply back away, leaving him in control of her holding.

  “While our lord king Dugall, King of the Isles, is rather unlikely to support your claim. He, in marked contrast, could be readily summoned.” The cur smiled. “If the lady so desires.”

  Eglantine had not come so far as this to surrender to an arrogant pagan.

  “There is no need for the king,” she declared, “nor even his scribe, if you are lettered.” Then she caught her breath and let her eyes widen in mock dismay. “But what is in my thoughts? How would a man learn to write in these remote lands?”

  “Touché,” he said wryly. There was no anger in his tone, and that smile played over his lips in a most disconcerting manner. “But of course I am lettered. A man’s birthplace does not determine all he makes of himself.”

  Wretched creature! ‘Twas twice he had surprised her and Eglantine did not particularly care for the sensation.

  And worse, she had a sense that she was amusing him, a most unwelcome situation. She was not in the habit of providing entertainment to rough men.

  No doubt the man lied about his ability. Indeed, she would prove the truth of it, and that before his companions. That would be the end of his objections!

  “Then, indeed, you may read the grant for yourself.” Eglantine unfurled the deed from her satchel, expecting him to falter.

  But Duncan reached for it, and fearing suddenly that he would destroy it, she snatched it back.

  His eyes flashed and she knew she had yet to truly see him angered. “How am I to read it unless you give it to me?”

  “You will pledge to return it unscathed.”

  He smiled then, an unsettling smile that, indeed, unsettled her. Eglantine’s belly quivered, though she knew ‘twas only because she faced a dangerous opponent. His gaze rolled over her once again, leaving her flesh oddly heated, and Eglantine acknowledged that the man posed an entirely different sort of threat than she had first imagined.

  She was sensible enough to admit that she desired him, though she knew that was folly. And she knew that he desired her - indeed, the most witless fool could not have misinterpreted the way he looked at her.

  She also knew, without a shred of doubt, that naught would come of either desire.

  “And you would accept the pledge of a barbarian?” he asked, his tone almost teasing.

  “Pledge on the hands of your father and your grandfather,” Eglantine demanded, for she had learned from Louis that such a pledge was sacred to men in these parts.

  Duncan arched a brow and she knew she had surprised him for a change. There was no chance to feel victorious, however, for he made the pledge, and moved treacherously close to her. His gaze did not swerve from her own and Eglantine was aware of naught but the simmering silver of his eyes.

  Her breath caught as Duncan stopped beside her mount. He rested a hand upon her steed’s bridle - as though he feared she would flee while he read - the evident strength of his tanned fingers snaring Eglantine’s gaze. She cursed her feminine awareness of him.

  Did she not know all she needed to know of men?

  Aye, he was no different. With the deed in his hand, he forgot all else, his attention fixed on the document’s contents. Eglantine breathed a sigh of relief that this at least conformed to expectation.

  His thumb moved in a slow stroke across the front of her saddle, where he had gripped it, and Eglantine found herself transfixed by the motion of that tanned thumb. It moved slowly, as though memorizing the texture of the worn leather. An unwelcome part of her imagined that thumb sliding across flesh with the same deliberation, leaving a trail of heat in its wake.

  Aye, there were some traits of men that were not without reward.

  She flushed and straightened, forcing her thoughts back to more practical matters. Duncan frowned in concentration as he read the deed, his brow growing more ominous.

  Until suddenly he smiled.

  Eglantine blinked, but his delight was evident. There was a sparkle in his eyes when he looked up at her and Eglantine caught her breath at the change in his expression. On the verge of laughter, he looked young and playful.

  ‘Twas not the response she expected to his realization that she was right.

  “’Tis signed by Cormac MacQuarrie,” he said, as though this was of great import.

  “Of course ‘tis,” Eglantine said crossly. “I already told you as much. Who is he?”

  He looked away. “The former chieftain of the clan.” His voice dropped low as he sobered. “He has been dead these two months.”

  He was so clearly grieved that Eglantine almost offered sympathy before she recalled that he wanted her land.

  “Then that would indeed give him the right to sell the property, would it not?” Her words were crisp.

  “It would.” Duncan’s gaze locked with Eglantine’s once more and she was put in mind of the sea shimmering in the sunlight. “’Tis unfortunate that Cormac cannot provide an accounting of how this document came to be.”

  “No personal endorsement is necessary! His signature is there. I have the document
and ‘tis more than clear that he sold this land to another.”

  That roguish smile touched his lips fleetingly again. “Is it so clear as that, then?”

  Eglantine’s eyes narrowed. What did this vexing man know that she did not? ‘Twas clear he knew something, and equally clear that he believed whatever ‘twas to be to his advantage. Eglantine eyed him, willing the truth to spill from his lips, for him to give some hint, but Duncan was clearly immune to her efforts.

  Indeed, he smiled as though he guessed her thoughts.

  Curse him!

  While Eglantine fought her urge to dispatch this Duncan to keep Theobald company in hell, the wind gusted suddenly. The skies launched an abrupt, cold, and intense volley of rain upon them.

  And the ink ran down the parchment in Eglantine’s hand.

  “Nay!” Eglantine snatched up the deed in horror and shoved it beneath her cloak, hoping that the damage was not too extensive. She mopped at it beneath the shelter of her fur-lined cloak, relieved to see that only a measure of the text was now illegible.

  Then she fired a lethal glance at her adversary. “I knew you would try to destroy it!”

  Duncan shrugged amiably. “Perhaps ‘tis the elements who would prefer to not endorse your claim.”

  “What madness is this?”

  His eyes shone with unexpected devilry, the change in his expression nigh taking her breath away. The man’s mood was changeable indeed. “It has long been said that a ghost haunts this place - perhaps ‘tis that phantom who challenges your suzerainty.”

  Nay, he was mad. As simple as that.

  “A ghost!” Eglantine snorted. “Such tales are for children and foolish ones at that.” She tapped the document now safely out of the rain. “Any court would uphold my right, ghost or no ghost.”

  But Duncan eased closer, his voice dropping persuasively low. “Perhaps ‘tis the souls of our forebears, whose blood stains the stones and whose tales are whispered by the wind, who would argue against your claim.”