In the Laird's Bed Read Free Page A

father’s men. But who would escort him off the dais now that she had invited him there? Half her guards were full of drink and the other half were wooing maids in darkened corners.
    Duncan pressed on, determined to have his way.
    “There has been a shadow between our families that I one day hope to lift. For now, I ask only that you grant me a moon and a day at Domhnaill to place a wondrous treasure at your feet.” He quieted his voice in deference to the challenge, the storytelling skills of his Scots ancestors not missing him entirely. “If, at that time, my offering does not suit you, I will leave your keep forever. But if you are well pleased, I ask that our clans forge a new peace and heal the old rift once and for all.”
    As he finished his proposition, every eye in the hall turned to Cristiana. To her credit, she schooled her features admirably before attention swung herway. But Duncan had seen the flash of fury that had snapped in her gaze first.
    He could not have called her out more neatly if he’d thrown a gauntlet at her feet. The public request for a boon at a holiday was something no chivalrous court could deny. Especially in front of such a large company of royal allies.
    A bit of revenge felt good for an old slight.
    “I am impressed by your earnestness,” she replied, dropping a curtsy where she stood, her heavy golden skirts sweeping the floor.
    Was he the only one who heard the sarcasm drip from her words like yeasty foam overflowing down the sides of a brew-filled cup?
    Her elder adviser whispered in her ear as she straightened. Did the graybeard tell her to cast Duncan out into the storm? Or counsel public agreement until they plotted privately to oust him from their stronghold?
    He might not ever know, since Cristiana shook her head and frowned at whatever the adviser suggested. Instead, she gestured to her guests.
    “With all these souls as our witness, so it shall be.” She waved to the minstrels and the trio raised their lutes. “Until then, I invite you all to dance.”
    It was the kind of general summons to merriment a hostess made on such occasions, but considering Lady Beatrice’s coiled pose beside him and her readiness to pounce, Duncan took Cristiana’s offer quiteliterally. Striding purposely toward her, he caught her before she could leave the dancers and spun her into the stately round.
    Could he help a desire to gloat after all the grief she had caused his family? Cheated of the Domhnaill wealth a bride would have brought him, Donegal had turned on his own clan, robbing the Culcanon lands of all wealth while Duncan had been off at war these past three years. Duncan’s efforts at war had been thwarted by his lack of men and arms, making his rise to prominence difficult and—worse—costing more men’s lives in the long run.
    “You are a knave of the lowest kind,” she snapped softly at him when they passed close together on a turn. “What purpose can you possibly have to take up residence here?”
    Duncan saw the heat in her glare. The resentment. Had she not taken enough vengeance already for the perceived insult to her sister?
    Even, he recalled, passionate eagerness?
    He had time to debate the answer as the dance did not place them near one another again for some moments. When she returned, eyes bright with emotion and cheeks flushed pink, she placed her hand upon his for a slow, methodical turn.
    “Our clans were once bound together for a reason.” He had not planned that response, but the words left unchecked. “This stretch of coast is treacherous and must be guarded by one strong force, not two dividedclans. The rift between families should have ended with alliances.”
    She skipped a step, her expression one of unguarded surprise before emotions shifted and churned.
    Seeing they were at the end of the line of dancers, Duncan stole her hand and hauled her away from the revelry. He didn’t stop at the trestle tables or even the dais swathed in embroidered silks,