As he finished his proposition, every eye in the hall turned to Cristiana. To her credit, she schooled her features admirably before attention swung her way. 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 quite literally. 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 divided clans. 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, but continued out of the great hall.
Just outside the hall, she halted.
“Nay. I am not some idle-minded maiden to follow where a strong knight leads, just because he wills it.” She wrenched her fingers from his grip with more force than necessary.
“Lady, you are far too calculating and coldhearted a lass to be accused of an idle mind.” Resentment made him incautious. But then, his family had never been known for their restraint. “If you would rather speak of this in full view of your household, let us do so.”
He pivoted to face her. Arms crossed. Impassive. She did not speak.
“Perhaps we should take the discussion to your father?” he prodded, wondering how long she could hide the old man from him. “The laird is best suited to speak for his people anyhow.”
He half wondered if the laird was even in residence. None of the people in her hall tonight had remarked upon his absence. Were they so accustomed to being ruled by an unwed maid and an old adviser that they did not think it strange?
She bristled. Straightened.
“Very well.”
The soft fullness of her lower lip distracted him when he needed to be relentless. He remembered the feel of her against him when he’d shuttled her be hind the tapestry earlier. The scent of her beside him during dinner. The taste of her mead tonight that reminded him of a long-ago kiss. He had walked away from her easily enough five years ago, certain he’d been wronged. As a man in his prime, he had not worried over the loss of a woman who was little more than a girl at the time. A girl he’d only planned to wed for political reasons. He’d had a lover at the time, anyhow—a widow, who had gladly eased the loss of Cristiana.
But seeing Cristiana now—her strength, her full-grown beauty—had put him in a strange distemper. She had robbed him of more than lands, gold and power. She had cheated him of sharing her bed.
“When?” he pressed, ready to seek her father’s chamber now to call her bluff.
“I will ask the clerk for an appointment in the morning.”
“Did you require an appointment with him earlier today when I arrived at your gate? Do marauders and warmongers need to see the clerk first, as well?”
“Since you are neither, it hardly matters.” She turned on her slippered foot as if to re-enter the hall. “And do not count on the chivalry of my court to protect you from any more outrageous proposals in the great hall. Underneath our fine manners, we are Scots the same as you. Our swords are just as swift.”
With a snap of her skirts, she flounced away. And while he had accomplished his goal today of gaining access to Domhnaill and securing shelter long enough to search for a treasure, he had made a tactical error in underestimating his enemy. By dropping the guise of courtly visitor in need of shelter too soon, he had alerted her to more of his motive than he would have liked. Because no matter how sweetly innocent Cristiana appeared on the outside, she possessed the heart of a warrior.
“Father?” Cristiana tapped on the laird’s tower door late that night. She knew seeing her da—healthy in body even if his mind was confused—would soothe the unease she felt from the day’s disturbing events. He still had occasional moments of clarity that re minded her of the old days, when he was the most powerful laird on the eastern seashore and nothing could harm his family or his people.
“Netta?” he called to her from the other side. “Come in.”
It was her mother’s name. Her mother whom he beckoned. Still, Cristiana entered, crossing the planked floor covered in old tapestries to muffle the sounds of his ranting on his less lucid days. He was not a prisoner here, but for his own health he was well guarded. He’d escaped the keep to wander the coast once, and they’d thought him dead for sure.
“Father, it’s Cristie.” She righted a fallen flagon on a sideboard.
The chamber was dark as the fire had burned low. No torches were lit and she’d left hers outside. But as her eyes adjusted, she could see him seated at the slit in the wall where the tapestry had been pulled back to drape over the arm of his chair.
“A stranger walks the cliffs.” Her father turned toward her, his snowy white hair in tufted disarray. Yet his eyes appeared focused, his voice clear. “Is it one of your guests? You should