Lord of Dunkeathe. Margaret Moore

“You were managing quite well on your own. As for your uncle, I treated him with no disrespect, even when he barged into my solar while I was discussing business with my steward.”

      Her gaze faltered at last. “You must forgive my uncle his enthusiasm. He means well and—”

      “And I mean what I say,” Nicholas interrupted. “I think the Scots are a fine people—for the most part. I don’t forget that my sister’s own brother-in-law betrayed her and her husband, and that there were many in their clan who sided with the traitor.

      “I also don’t forget all the years that I was poor and treated just as you have been, by Normans like my guests. Never think that because I say nothing, I do not see. That because I don’t chastise my guests, I condone what they do.

      “But God’s blood, Riona, I’ve served and fought and struggled for too long to give a damn about gossip. If I want to linger in my garden on a moonlit night, I shall.”

      He took hold of her shoulders and pulled her close. “If I want to be alone with you and talk to you, I will. And if I want to kiss you…”

      He captured her mouth with his. His lips moved over hers with torrid heat as the desire he’d been trying to contain burst free.

      For a moment, she was stiff and unyielding.

      For a moment, until she began to return his kiss with equal fervor. Her arms went around his waist, pulling him closer, enflaming his passion further.

      She was bold in this, too, just as he’d imagined. Daring and more stimulating than any woman he’d ever kissed, her lips and body filled with the same fire as her eyes. He could feel the need coursing through her, as it was through him.

      His tongue pressed her lips to open, then smoothly glided inside. Her embrace tightened.

      Drunk with desire, aware only of his need to feel her warmth around him, and the throbbing surge of completion, he moved his hand to seek her breast.

      The instant he touched her there, she broke the kiss and pushed him away. Her eyes wide with dismay, her lips swollen from their passion, she stared at him as if he were a loathsome thing.

      Without a word, not even another condemnation, she shoved her way past him and marched out of the garden.

      While Nicholas stood where he was, panting and frustrated. God’s blood, he never should have entered the garden.

      Restraint, indeed!

      

      THE FIRST RAYS of the morning sun were lighting Riona’s chamber when she heard a soft tapping at her door.

      “Riona, my dear, are you still asleep?” Uncle Fergus called quietly as she shook her head as if to rid it of the remnants of her dreams.

      What little sleep she’d had after fleeing the lord of Dunkeathe and his kiss had been restless and disturbed. First, she’d dreamt of a great black crow with beady eyes carrying her off in his clawed foot. Then a sleek black cat had stalked her through the hall and corridors and apartments of Dunkeathe. Then, finally, she’d dreamt of Sir Nicholas himself, tall and dark and inscrutable. He’d swept her up in his arms and carried her to his bed covered in a thick black fur. He’d laid her upon it and then…

      “I’m awake,” she said, opening the door to her uncle. She’d been awake and fully dressed since dawn.

      He bounded into the room like an eager puppy and seemed to fairly bounce as he went to the window and threw open the wooden shutter to look out into the courtyard below.

      “A fine morning, my dear,” he declared, gesturing at the window. “That’s a good sign, eh? Three days without rain, and warm to boot!”

      How was she going to tell him that they had to leave? She couldn’t reveal exactly why she wanted to leave so urgently. It was too humiliating. She should have had more restraint, more self-control, more pride.

      Or maybe she’d been too proud. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have lingered in the garden, thinking she could hold her own against the lord of Dunkeathe. She wouldn’t have been so sure that her scorn for his Norman arrogance would protect her against the other feelings he aroused.

      Because it hadn’t.

      And there was more to fear than losing her uncle’s respect if she told him what had happened in the garden. Uncle Fergus might accuse Sir Nicholas of dishonorable conduct and challenge him to combat.

      If Sir Nicholas accepted that challenge, her uncle would probably die.

      “It’s a fine day for a journey, too,” she began.

      “Journey? Oh, aye,” Uncle Fergus answered absently, still looking out the window. “But all the women who want a chance for Sir Nicholas had to be here by St. John’s Day.”

      “I was thinking, Uncle, that it would be a good day to go home.”

      When he didn’t answer, she realized he hadn’t heard her because his attention was focused on something outside. Wondering what it could be, she went to the window and followed his gaze to see Fredella bustling toward the apartments, and carrying a bucket.

      Clasping her hands nervously, she tried again. “Uncle, I don’t think we should stay in Dunkeathe after the way we’ve been treated.”

      Uncle Fergus stopped looking out the window to regard her with surprise. “Sir Nicholas has treated us very well,” he said, nodding at the chamber, which was indeed quite comfortable, as was the bed.

      If she hadn’t had that disturbing encounter to relive over and over, if that same excited, yet shameful, heat hadn’t coursed through her body every time she remembered that kiss, if she hadn’t had those disturbing dreams, she would have slept very well indeed on the soft featherbed.

      “I wasn’t speaking of Sir Nicholas,” she clarified. “His other guests have been very rude to us.”

      Uncle Fergus took her gently by the shoulders and gave her a kindly smile. “They’re just jealous.”

      Shaking her head, Riona moved away. “They don’t respect us, or our country. I don’t want to stay here to be the object of their scorn.”

      Following her, Uncle Fergus gave her an incredulous look. “Who cares what those ignorant Normans think? We know better, and so does Sir Nicholas. He’s been respectful, and he’s related to the Mac Tarans.”

      He sat on her bed and patted a place beside him. “Come here, my girl, and listen to me,” he said gravely.

      When she joined him, he put his arm around her. She laid her head on his shoulder, as she’d done many times before when she was troubled or upset.

      “Riona, the Normans are generally a sad lot,” he said. “Conceited and arrogant and rude. Yet whether we like it or not, because of our king and the rebellions he’s had to deal with, they’re here to stay. That doesn’t mean we have to like them, of course, and who could? But there are a few worth getting to know, ones worth respecting, ones who could help Scotland. Sir Nicholas is one such Norman. As for the rest…” He blew out his breath as if snuffing a candle and waved his hand. “Ignore them, as I do. Why give them the satisfaction of having even that little bit of power over you?”