Lord of Dunkeathe. Margaret Moore
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distracted; so might he have been, if he hadn’t encountered Lady Joscelind in the courtyard.
“I’m going to give the garrison commander the watchword for tonight,” he said, rising. “If my guests require more wine or food, or music, it should be provided.”
“As you wish, my lord. And the watchword is…?”
Nicholas gave his steward a small smile. “Restraint.”
Robert’s eyes widened, then he flushed. “Forgive my lack of attention, my lord. I’m not used to being among so many nobles and several of the young ladies—”
“Are quite attractive,” Nicholas replied evenly. “I might be worried your eyesight was going if you weren’t distracted. I should return shortly.”
He begged Father Damon to excuse him, and then left the dais. In truth, he was happy to get away from his guests for a little while. He, too, wasn’t used to being around so many nobles who weren’t also trained fighters waiting for a battle or a tournament. These high-ranking men were the same sort who’d treated him with scornful disdain before he’d earned his castle, with the possible exception of young Audric, who seemed a quiet, modest fellow.
As Nicholas made his way through the tables and the cloying odor of perfume, he nodded greetings to his guests. Whatever he thought of them personally, they were all powerful and important in their way, and he wouldn’t offend them if he could help it. He’d come perilously close with Lord Chesleigh. He should have had the good sense to stay by the stable wall and not let himself be intrigued by a bright-eyed woman sitting on a ramshackle cart.
The boisterous Scots thane was seated toward the back of the hall, in a place that should have told the man, if he had any perception at all, that his niece was unlikely to be the object of Nicholas’s favor.
Where was she?
Perhaps she was tired from her journey, or from upbraiding him in front of his guests.
He should be angry about that. He’d certainly been angry when she’d first spoken, but he’d found it difficult to stay angry when she faced him with that vivid, defiant fire in her eyes and spoke to him not with coyness or even deference, but as if she were his equal in pride, if nothing else. He’d noted the regal carriage of her head that would befit a queen, and that she looked more noble in her simple gown than any of the ladies in their fine clothes and costly jewels.
It was a pity her family was poor and unimportant, for she would likely prove worth the wooing.
Once outside, he drew in deep breaths of the fresh air slightly tainted by the smell of smoke from the Midsummer bonfires. The courtyard was too far from the village for noise to reach him from the celebrations, yet he didn’t doubt there was much merrymaking and many games being played, with far more good humor and joy than that shared by those feasting in his hall. His guests, though, weren’t friends or well known to each other, so what else could he expect?
He passed by the kitchen and glanced over the fence into the garden. It was a fairly large one, and normally provided enough for the needs of his household. An apple tree, now finished blooming, stood in the center like a guardian, as he was guardian of the people on his estate, watching over them as he’d watched over his brother and sister.
Someone was beneath the apple tree—a woman, seated on what looked like an overturned bucket.
It was the Lady Riona, gazing up at the sky through the leafy branches as if seeking heavenly portents. Or perhaps she was unwell.
Determined to find out why she was alone in the garden, he opened the gate and stepped inside. She quickly turned to look at him, then simultaneously jumped up and cried a warning.
Sucking in his breath, he instinctively and immediately drew his sword from his scabbard and crouched into a defensive position, ready to strike his attackers.
Who weren’t there, he realized as he swiveled on his heel, looking first one way, then the other.
His ire roused like his blood, he glared at the lady as he lowered his weapon and demanded, “Why did you cry out?”
She met his gaze squarely. “You were going to crush the rosemary.”
The rosemary?
He looked down at the row of plants at his feet, then brought his stern gaze to bear on her. “I’m used to warnings in battle or tournaments to save me from bodily harm or even death, not the potential squashing of a plant. In future, a simple word of warning would do, not a cry as if there are assassins on the walls.”
“If there had been an assassin, I assure you, my lord, I would have shouted louder. Forgive me for alarming you.”
She made him sound like some timid girl who saw a mouse. “I reacted as I was trained to do,” he said as he sheathed his sword.
“So did I,” she replied, calm and cool and apparently not a whit embarrassed or ashamed that she’d made him think he was being attacked. “At home, the garden is one of my responsibilities.”
“And do you stand guard over it like an anxious mother hen? Are you handy with a slingshot?”
“I was speaking in general terms, my lord. I take care of my uncle’s household, and that means I have to prevent waste and loss wherever possible.”
She was still remarkably calm in spite of his obvious anger, and he suddenly felt like he was tilting at a wooden dummy who neither feared nor favored him.
“Your uncle informed me that you run his household,” he said, walking toward her, this time mindful of the rows of plants. “He also claims you’ve done so since you were twelve years old.”
“That’s quite true,” she answered.
“My steward says yours is not a rich estate, so I presume you haven’t many servants to supervise.”
“No, we don’t,” she confessed without rancor or embarrassment, “so I do a good deal of the work myself and have little time for leisure. As I was sitting in your garden, I was enjoying having nothing to do.”
He thought of his early years as a soldier for hire. How he’d cherished every peaceful moment, every hour he had free to do with as he pleased. Then he recalled how he’d wasted some of those hours in brothels and taverns, and the memories soured. “I feared you might be sick and wanting some fresh air, although the night air may be doing you more harm than good.”
“I’m not used to such a crowd and the noise they make. I wanted to have some peace and quiet, that’s all.”
From the direction of the barracks, the soldiers who’d finished their meal started singing a bawdy ballad, loudly. The shouts of a very angry and frustrated cook chastising the spit boy, the scullery maid and incompetent servants in general filled the air. At the same time, the door at the entrance to the hall opened, and Sir James and Sir George came stumbling out, obviously drunk and laughing uproariously at some shared jest.
Nicholas raised a brow, just as he had that morning when he’d wanted to see what that boldly staring maidservant—who was no maidservant—would do. “This is your notion of peace and quiet?”
She laughed softly, a gentle rising sound of mirth that he found most pleasant. “It was quieter here than your hall, my lord.”
Sir James and Sir George staggered toward the well near the kitchen. Not wanting to have to talk to them, hoping they’d go back to the hall or retire for the night, he moved closer to the apple tree and its shadows, and her. “I should go and give the guards the watchword for tonight.”
“Ah yes, the very many guards.”
What did she mean by that? “I worked and strived for many years for what I possess, my lady, and I intend to keep it.”
“Obviously.”
He didn’t appreciate her tone. “The Scots king himself gave me this estate. If you aren’t pleased by that, you should