Lord of Dunkeathe. Margaret Moore

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СКАЧАТЬ his chamber with that of Sir Percival de Surlepont.”

      “That would put Sir Percival’s chamber next to mine?”

      “Yes, my lord.”

      “Very well. See that the change is made—and make it sound as if that was a mistake that had to be corrected, and that this is some sort of honor to Percival instead of an inconvenience, or being done in response to a complaint.”

      “Yes, my lord.”

      “Who did Percival bring?”

      Robert’s gaze returned to the tablet. “His cousin, Lady Eleanor.” He raised his eyes to regard Nicholas. “Apparently he is her nearest male relation.”

      “What’s she like?”

      “Pretty and modest.”

      Nicholas recalled the young women in the courtyard, but no one in particular came to mind. The only two women he could remember with any clarity were that bold maidservant and the haughty daughter of Lord Chesleigh. “How old is Lady Eleanor?”

      “Seventeen.”

      He didn’t want a girl for a wife, but a woman capable of taking responsibility and leadership of the household. He had no desire to have to deal with a shy, fearful bride on his wedding night, either.

      That impertinent, brown-eyed maidservant with the thick braids down her back, and the little wisps of hair that escaped to dance upon her intelligent brow, wouldn’t be shy. His blood warmed as he imagined how she might react if he took her in his arms and captured her mouth with his.

      “Sir Percival assured me her dowry would be substantial, my lord.”

      Once again Nicholas commanded himself to stop thinking about that servant. “I’ve heard the family is quite rich.”

      “Yes, my lord, they are, and a sizeable dowry will go a long way toward solving any difficulties…” Robert flushed and let the words trail off when he saw Nicholas’s disgruntled expression.

      “We’ve enough ready coin to get us to Lammas and through a wedding, don’t we?” Nicholas asked. “The wool must have brought in something.”

      “Yes, it did, my lord, but I must point out that the expense of this…this…”

      “I have to entertain my guests in the style they expect,” Nicholas replied as Robert floundered for the word to describe his overlord’s method of finding a bride. “I won’t have them thinking I’m desperate—which I’m not.” Not yet, anyway. “It’s your responsibility to see that no one suspects I’m running short of funds.”

      “You’re not yet in dire straits, my lord,” Robert assured him.

      “Good. By Lammas I should have a bride in hand, or at least a betrothal agreement and promise of a dowry. Who else has come?”

      “Lady Mary, the daughter of the Earl of Eglinburg, Lady Elizabeth, sister of the Duke of Ansley, Lady Catherine, daughter of the Comte D’Ortelieu, Lady Isabelle, ward of Sir James of Keswick, Lady Eloise, daughter of Sir George de Chillery, Lady Lavinia, second cousin to the Duc D’Anglevoix, Lady Priscilla, niece of the Abbot of St. Swithins-by-the-Sea who came with her brother Audric, and Lady Joscelind, daughter of Lord Chesleigh of Kent.”

      Ah yes, the beautiful—and proud—Lady Joscelind and her equally proud and arrogant father. He wondered what they’d do when they discovered they’d been ordering their host about as if he were their lackey. That should prove interesting—although, given their natures, they might take offense that he hadn’t identified himself. He’d have to ensure that he gave them a believable explanation.

      Nicholas strolled back to the window and saw that the maidservant was still standing by the cart. She shifted her feet, as if her patience was wearing thin. “That’s only nine,” he noted, glancing over his shoulder. “Who’s the tenth?”

      “Nobody of any consequence, my lord. In fact, I probably should have denied them admittance to the courtyard, but the fellow did have a charter and you had said that all women of noble birth were to be considered. His niece meets that qualification.”

      Nicholas raised an inquisitive brow, just as he had in the courtyard. That serving wench had then done the same, surprising and secretly amusing him more than he’d been amused in…well, a long time. “Who is this nobleman with a charter you don’t think should be here?”

      “A Scot, my lord, the Thane of Glencleith. I asked those of our men who are Scots, and it seems he’s the holder of a small estate to the north. Politically, he’s completely unimportant, and I understand he’s quite poor.”

      “Only one Scots noble came?”

      “Yes, my lord.”

      Only one—and he was a lord in this country. Clearly it didn’t matter to the Scots that he’d changed the name of his estate back to the original one, or that his sister had married into one of their clans. He was still, first and foremost, a representative of the Normans and their unwelcome intrusion into Scotland.

      Yet whatever they thought, he’d earned Dunkeathe and recalcitrant Scots or no, he’d keep it. If he had to marry for money and influence to ensure that, he would.

      A fist pounded on the door. Nicholas wheeled around just as the door flew open and a short, brawny, gray-haired, bearded, potbellied Scot wearing one of their skirted garments bustled into the room.

      Before Nicholas could demand an explanation, the intruder came to a halt, put his hands on his hips, and smiled at them both. “Here you are!” he cried in heavily accented French. “Delighted to make your acquaintance, my lord. I thought you’d be in the courtyard greeting your guests, but obviously Normans have a different idea of politeness.”

      He looked around the room before his gaze settled again on Nicholas. “Wonderful castle you’ve got here. This chamber’s a bit bare, but when you’re married, your wife will change that.”

      Nicholas’s first thought was that the man was half-mad, while Robert looked like he was going to faint.

      “My lord, I—I—” the steward stammered, clearly aghast and at a loss to explain what was happening.

      The fellow seemed harmless, if audacious. “Welcome to Dunkeathe,” Nicholas replied, giving Robert a look to assure him he wasn’t angry.

      Robert recovered the powers of speech. “My lord, this is Fergus Mac Gordon Mac Darbudh, the Thane of Glencleith.”

      The poor, politically unimportant Scottish noble.

      Whatever Nicholas thought of the man personally, and no matter how poor and seemingly unimportant he might be, Nicholas knew he had to be diplomatic. He’d lived in Scotland for a decade, and he still couldn’t fathom the complicated relationships between the clans. It could be that this man had relatives who were far more politically important than he himself.

      Therefore, he put a smile on his face and calmly inquired, “Is there something I can do for you, my lord?”

      “It’s not what you can do for me,” the boisterous Scot replied. “It’s what I can do for you. I’ve СКАЧАТЬ