Free LORD OF DUNKEATHE by Margaret Moore

to these nobles and the women."
    Her words startled him. He hadn't given a moment's thought to what the women involved would think of his plan—until now. Yet he wasn't about to confess that to this slip of a Scot, no matter how she looked at him. "I'm not doing this for my amusement. I require a wife, and I see nothing wrong with inviting suitable women to Dunkeathe and choosing the best among them."
    "And you will decide who is 'best'?"
    "Who better? She will become my bride, after all."
    "Yes, she will."
    He could decipher nothing in her eyes or voice to tell him whether she thought that a worthy goal. Yet after what had passed between them in the courtyard, he was sure she found him attractive.
    Determined to prove that to himself at least, he sidled closer and dropped his voice to a lower, more intimate tone. "So, what exactly did your uncle say about me?"
    "Clearly he told me enough to guess who you were."
    "So now you will prevaricate, my lady?" he replied, inching closer, willing her to be attracted to him, to feel the same sort of desire that was waxing in him. "After the boldness you've displayed, I'm disappointed."
    She straightened her shoulders and that bold fire once more kindled in her eyes. "Very well, my lord. Uncle Fergus said you were young, skilled at arms and handsome."
    He'd have to thank the man. "And you, my lady? Now that you've met me, what do you think of me?"
    "That you're one of the most arrogant men I've ever encountered."
    It was like falling into a freezing stream.
    Before he could think of a suitable response, the door to the kitchen banged open, and a shaft of light nearly caught them. With a gasp, Riona ran farther back into the garden, to a place by the inner curtain wall deep in shadows.
    Not willing to let this conversation end with her condemnation, Nicholas followed her to her hiding place, standing directly in front of her so that she was blocked from sight by his body. She was breathing rapidly, her rising and falling breasts pressing against her gown.
    Her hair smelled of spring blossoms, natural and wholesome.
    His annoyance lessened.
    A servant hurried past without seeing them, yet when he was gone, neither of them moved.
    "You don't find me the least bit attractive or intriguing?" he whispered.
    "No."
    "I think you do.
    She looked to either side, then doted her head to regard him with unwavering steadiness. "I have no particular interest in you at all. We're here because my uncle was convinced we should come, and I didn't have the heart to refuse."
    "I don't believe you."
    "Which would be further proof of your arrogance, if I needed
    it."
    "Then why have you stayed in the garden?"
    "Because I saw no reason to flee. Should I be afraid of you, my lord?"
    God's rood, she had an aggravating way of accusing him. "Of course you needn't fear me. I'm a knight sworn to protect women, not harm them."
    "Perhaps you should remind some of your fellow Normans of that part of their oath."
    He didn't want to discuss the vows of Norman knights. Despite her words, he wanted to take her in his arms and kiss her until she was dizzy. Or begged him to take her to his bed.
    "What of your potential brides, my lord?" she continued. "What if you're seen here in the garden with me? /don't care what your Norman friends think, but shouldn't you? They probably already question your judgment for allowing my uncle and me to stay.
    What will they conclude if they hear we've been together, and so intimately, too? And what of the ladies? They may think twice about offering themselves to you."
    His annoyance kindled into anger. "This is my castle , and I will do what I will."
    "Not if you're to get yourself the sort of bride you're after," she replied, apparently not a whit disturbed by his tone. "I can hear them now." She continued in a slow, haughty drawl, in an amazingly accurate imitation of Lady Joscelind. "And the fellow had the effrontery, the audacity, the sheer bad taste, to actually talk to that poor Scot