surprise—and in unexpectedly good Gaelic.
That took her aback, but she tried not to show it. He was the one who was supposed to be thrown off guard. “I didn’t realize you spoke our language so well, my lord,” she lied, for she hadn’t expected him to speak it at all. “I’m most impressed.”
“I suspect there’s a great deal about me you don’t know.”
God help her, that voice of his was like temptation incarnate, and his gaze was so steady, she felt as if he was staring into her very soul, looking for the truth.
But she wasn’t about to let him intimidate her here anymore than she had in the courtyard when she thought he was just a soldier. “I daresay you’re right. I can only guess why you were skulking about the courtyard this morning instead of greeting your arriving guests.”
His eyes narrowed very slightly. “I wasn’t skulking.”
“Whatever you were doing, I’m sure you had your reasons,” she replied, telling him with her tone and eyes that she didn’t believe his reasons would be sufficient for her.
His steward coughed.
She knew an attempt to interrupt when she heard it, and she’d said enough to show them all that she was proud of her heritage and the country that bred her. “Come, Uncle,” she said, slipping her arm through his. “Let’s leave Sir Nicholas to his other noble guests.”
As they walked away through the crowd of muttering Normans, Uncle Fergus laughed softly. “He fooled everyone except my clever girl. You showed him some Scots spirit, too. He’s got to be impressed.”
Riona didn’t care if Sir Nicholas was impressed or not, or what he thought about her. She couldn’t imagine living in this place among the Normans and their Saxon soldiers, and certainly not with him.
CHAPTER FOUR
AS THE SERVANTS carried away the remains of the baked apples, Nicholas turned to Robert, seated to his left at the high table. To his right was the elderly priest who had taken residence in the castle after the chapel had been completed. Father Damon greatly appreciated the ease of his duties ministering to Sir Nicholas, as well as the household and garrison. The lord of Dunkeathe was certainly no stickler on religious matters.
Robert stopped looking at the table where the beautiful Lady Joscelind and several of the other guests were sitting. Nicholas couldn’t blame the man for being 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,”
