Lord of Dunkeathe. Margaret Moore

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      Several servants were unloading the wagons and taking chests and bundles into a large building on the other side of the yard that looked like a barracks, save for the narrow arched windows. Perhaps they were family apartments and servants’ chambers.

      Beside that was another long building, which she guessed was the hall.

      In addition to the kitchen, there were stables and other buildings that were probably storehouses of some sort, and an armory. She suspected there were more buildings that she couldn’t see to accommodate the garrison.

      Maybe Sir Nicholas was looking out of one of the windows in the second floor of the apartments, watching them, smugly pleased to see all the people who’d come, and exulting in their urge to have one of their family meet his approval.

      Maybe he was in his solar, trying to figure out how he was going to pay for the food necessary to feed this multitude, and where they were going to stay. Imagining a brawny, not overly intelligent ex-soldier worriedly scratching his head and puzzling over food was amusing, but not very likely. Sir Nicholas was obviously rich, as this castle attested, so he would surely not be concerned with such mundane matters.

      Perhaps he’d gone out hunting, getting away from the hustle and bustle until all was settled. Then he could return in a flurry of hoofbeats, weapons, hawks and a swirling cloak, like a great hero coming home.

      Well, there’d be at least one person in Castle Dunkeathe who wouldn’t react with awe and delight, she thought, even if she did have to admit to a certain curiosity to see the man who could create all this fuss and bother over a potential marriage. Maybe he was quite a prize, given the number of people here.

      She wondered which lady might win him. That one, just disembarking from her blue wagon? If she proved to be younger than she was, she’d be surprised. The brown-haired one walking into the hall? She, too, was finely attired, but she certainly couldn’t be called graceful. And Riona could hear her giggling all the way across the yard.

      Perhaps that very young, very pretty, dark-haired young woman wearing a lovely blue velvet cloak trimmed with red fox fur seated on a palfrey. Although she was as expensively attired as any and mounted on a very fine horse, she looked lost and lonely and more than a little frightened. She also didn’t look much more than sixteen.

      The poor thing probably didn’t want to be here, either. Feeling sympathetic, Riona gave the girl a friendly smile when she looked Riona’s way.

      The girl’s eyes widened with surprise. Still smiling, Riona shrugged her shoulders, as if to say, “I don’t know what I’m doing here, either.”

      The girl returned her smile, until the young man in yellow damask approached her and commanded her attention. He helped her dismount and then they went into the hall.

      When they were gone, Riona idly surveyed the wagons and people left in the yard. She noticed a man she hadn’t seen before leaning against the stable wall, watching the activity in the courtyard, just as she was.

      He couldn’t be a nobleman, for he wore only a leather jerkin without a shirt beneath, exposing his broad chest and arms. The rest of his clothing was likewise simple and nondescript—brown woolen breeches, a wide belt with bronze buckle, scuffed leather boots. It was obvious from the way his breeches clung to his thighs that more than his arms were muscular, and his lean, dark features proclaimed him a mature man in his most powerful prime.

      He must be a soldier off duty waiting for an order, or the person issuing them. He might even be a Scot, for although he wore the dress of men from the south, his dark brown hair hung to his shoulders—a far cry from the style favored by the Normans.

      In his watchful stillness, he reminded her of a cat. She’d known a feline to sit outside a mouse hole, unmoving, unflinching, for an entire morning waiting for the mouse to show itself. She didn’t doubt this man could wait with the same sort of patience for his prey. Sir Nicholas must pay his soldiers well, for surely a warrior of that sort didn’t come cheaply.

      One of the maidservants, a pretty woman with a mole on her breast, hurried past. The man glanced her way, which wasn’t surprising. What was surprising was the way the pretty servant reacted. Instead of smiling flirtatiously, as she had with several other men, both noble and servants, she became wary, perhaps even frightened. She quickened her already brisk pace and hurried past Riona.

      The man’s gaze followed the servant—until it met Riona’s.

      It was like being pinned to the ground and studied at leisure. Never had she been subjected to such intense scrutiny, from anyone. Never had she been so taken aback and flustered by a man’s look.

      She immediately averted her eyes. Yet in the next instant, she regretted her trepidation and commanded herself not to be so silly. Why shouldn’t she meet his gaze squarely? It wasn’t as if she were a servant or hireling that he had any power over.

      So she boldly raised her eyes to return his steadfast gaze, determined to keep looking at him until he looked away. Their gazes met, and held.

      He slowly raised one dark brow.

      Did he think he was going to make her look away with that unspoken interrogation? Did he think she would give him the victory in this strange little game? Never!

      She leisurely arched her own brow.

      His other dark brow rose.

      Once more, she mirrored his action.

      He slowly started to smile.

      So did she.

      Still keeping his gaze upon her, the man lowered his arms. Then he pushed himself off the wall and sauntered toward her.

      CHAPTER TWO

      HE WAS COMING TOWARD HER? By the saints, what was he going to say, or do? Maybe he was going to suggest…improprieties.

      Riona’s breathing quickened as she told herself she’d ensure he understood that she was a lady of virtue and honor. She wasn’t a servant to whom he could make insolent suggestions.

      And she shouldn’t be blushing like an addlepated girl as he continued to stroll toward her with that leisurely yet purposeful stride.

      If she quit staring at him, perhaps he’d be satisfied and leave her alone.

      “You there!” a woman called out imperiously.

      The soldier halted and they both turned toward the wagon from whence the voice came.

      It sported a painted canvas covering that had an opening at the back like the flaps of a tent, now held apart by an apple-cheeked, middle-aged maidservant, her hair covered by a white scarf, her dress one of dark brown wool. Seated beside the maidservant was a pale young woman with blond hair wearing a gossamer veil of white silk kept in place by a thin gold coronet. Her neck was long and slender, and the square bodice of her dark green silk gown was embroidered with golden thread. As for her features, she would have been very beautiful, had her ruby-red lips not been drawn up into a disdainful sneer.

      “Yes, you,” she said in a haughty drawl as she addressed the solider. “Come here.”

      He did as he was ordered.

      The СКАЧАТЬ