The Heiress

Chapter 2

Driven from her late husband’s estate, Countess Eglantine de Crevy fled to wildest Scotland to claim a castle, only to find a ruin—and a clan chieftain standing guard. Kinbeath was hers, she declared, vowing to rebuild the manor and launch a bride quest so her daughters could marry for love. But Duncan MacLaren had devised a bride quest of his own, swearing to win the land—and the fiery countess—in a war of sweet seduction…

Eglantine declared she would never be captured by this barbarian. Yet Duncan awakened passions she had never known before. She promised to fight him with every weapon at her command even as he vowed to woo her for a year and a day—and make her his pagan bride.

Each thought Kinbeath the prize the most desired, a prize to be won at any price. Until passion turned to love, and the chieftain found himself fighting for the heart and hand of the woman he was born to possess.

“Master storyteller Claire Delacroix has done it again with this marvelous medieval romance. The Countess is a keeper!”

“Master storyteller Claire Delacroix has done it again with this marvelous medieval romance. The Countess is a keeper!”Old Book Barn Gazette

Excerpt from The Countess Copyright ©2000, 2012 Claire Delacroix, Inc.

February 1177

February 1177Eglantine was growing to loathe Theobald with a most uncharacteristic vigor.

Not only were they crossing a land of barbarians, but the weather was foul beyond expectation. They had traveled much longer and farther, under more primitive conditions, than Eglantine had ever expected.

And still, they were not there. She had never imagined Christendom to be so very large. She was chilled to the bone, her wet wool traveling kirtle weighed more than could be imagined and, worst of all, her feet were nigh frozen. She cursed Theobald soundly beneath her breath as she rode, surprising herself with her creativity.

It could not be said that their passing went unnoticed. Eglantine traveled with a retinue of some fifty souls, including maids and squires, stablehands and scullery maids, cooks and a candle-maker, a seamstress and a saucemaker, a falconer and a stonecutter. She had borrowed a retinue of palfreys from Guillaume’s stables, assuming that he would not want her to travel unprepared for every eventuality—along with, of course, the requisite trap and wagons, tents and pots, hunting dogs and tools.

The same rationale had prompted her to partake of her brother’s treasury, though she had left him a note of apology for that. Her daughters’ happiness, after all, rode in the balance, and Guillaume could well spare the coin. But one eventuality for which Eglantine had not prepared was the cursed rain. ’Twas incessant, ’twas a burden upon the soul. It turned the rough excuse for a road into a river of mud, it frayed tempers thin, it prompted usually tranquil steeds to fight the bit and defy command. ’Twas no mystery why they found so few inhabitants in these parts, nor indeed why Theobald’s deed was held so worthless.

Eglantine was more than prepared for a roof and a hearth, though none loomed ahead. “Surely, Louis, we draw near by now?”

“I cannot say, my lady.” The châtelain gestured to their local guide. “And he most certainly will not say.”

The rough and rude individual hired to guide them was no better than a crooked gnome from some child’s tale, though he kept a killing pace. He cackled incomprehensibly to himself and trotted ahead of the horses, his knobby knees moving in a blur, his pace one that the horses had trouble matching in the mud.

Eglantine knew she had never seen a more ridiculous garment than his long yellow chemise. Leather sandals were strapped to the guide’s feet, but otherwise his legs were bare, as crooked as the rest of him and decidedly hairy.

“In the manner of the Scots,” Louis had supplied in response to Eglantine’s incredulous stare upon introduction to this creature. “The leine chroich, ’tis called, the saffron shirt, though my pronunciation of the language of the Gaels may be somewhat lacking. And I do question the availability of saffron in such a cold clime. Perhaps they use other sources for their dyes.”

leine chroich,The man had been untroubled then by their obvious discussion of him and still did not appear to care that Eglantine conferred with Louis in familiar French. Louis had taken it upon himself to develop a passing familiarity with the language of the Gaels, a talent that had already served them well.

When they encountered other living souls, at least. Her palfrey’s hooves made a sucking sound as the creature struggled to follow the guide. They passed yet another of the tall stones standing on end that seemed to fill this barren countryside, and Eglantine glared at it.

“One would think that even a land of barbarians could put this curious habit to better use,” she commented to Louis. “Put a few of these stones together and one might have a wall, some thatching would make for a shelter far better than any we have enjoyed these few weeks.”

“I believe I did warn you that ’twas not a land for tender sensibilities,” Louis replied, and there was naught that might have been said to that.

Esmeraude began to wail, as she had done more or less constantly since leaving Arnelaine. Eglantine steeled herself against her own child’s cry, her heart clenching in compassion. She knew all too well that her intervention would only make matters worse.

Eglantine cursed Theobald yet once again, this time for the child’s dependence upon him alone. He had been so jealous of every moment Eglantine spent with the babe that it had seemed simpler to cede to his suggestion to use a wet nurse. But now Esmeraude was inconsolable without her papa or the wet nurse’s teat. There was no prospect of either making an appearance soon in this sorry place.

Unless they had traveled all the way to hell. The faithless wet nurse earned a silent curse from Eglantine, too—they had not been long departed when it became clear the young girl lied about Esmeraude being weaned. Too late it was obvious that the wet nurse had not wanted to leave Crevy—and had been prepared to say whatever was necessary to so ensure it. The toddler wailed, her cry echoing over the hills and setting the entire party’s teeth on edge. Eglantine felt an ache begin to loom behind her temples. She hoped that Theobald was rotting in hell for his considerable list of sins.

wasIndeed, what else could go awry?

Their guide disappeared suddenly over a small rise ahead of them, his absence giving Eglantine a new fear. What if they did not draw near to Kinbeath at all? What if their guide led them astray? What if they had been led into a trap to be robbed?

Who would know?

Who would aid them? They were past the ends of the known world!

Eglantine and Louis exchanged a concerned look. Eglantine gave her steed her heels and crested the rise, with Louis fast behind.

But there was no one other than the guide lurking ahead. Eglantine was only briefly relieved, for her eye was drawn over the desolate landscape arrayed before her. The sea gleamed in the distance, the shadow of distant islands rising in the mist that shrouded the horizon. Birds wheeled overhead, their cries shrill.

They truly had come to the end of the world, for the sea continued to the very horizon.

The land stretched before her feet was rough and rugged, cut in sharp crags that fell into an angry sea. Another of those cursed stones stood on end just ahead, and at the edge of the point, a curious rounded tower stood, its roofline crumbling. The setting sun touched the stone with gold, as savage and forbidding a sight as she had ever seen.

“Ceinn-beithe,” the guide croaked as he beamed at her, then gestured broadly to the land ahead.

Eglantine’s heart sank to her chilled toes.

Despite his Gael pronunciation of the estate’s name, she immediately understood that they had arrived at their destination. Though the point itself was stony, a thick copse of trees grew a short distance away.

“But where is the manor?” she asked, fully expecting ’twas hidden by the trees.

The guide shrugged.

Eglantine frowned, in no mood for guessing games. “Where is the manor?” she demanded again, biting out each word even though she already guessed the truth. Her voice rose in frustration, though she knew that volume would not magically grant him understanding of her language. “The house? The dwelling? For the love of God, where is the stable? And the church? There must at least be a chapel!”

Louis translated but the guide shook his head slowly. He indicated the sky, then mimicked sleeping, his face on his folded hands, his smile beatific.

Eglantine understood him perfectly well. She swore with an eloquence that obviously startled her châtelain.

“It seems, my lady, that our guide heartily endorses slumber beneath the stars.”

“This will not do! This cannot be so. We shall not sleep in the open air like barbarians.” Eglantine reined in her temper with difficulty, heaved a deep breath, then continued with self-control more fitting of her position. “Louis, is our guide entirely certain that this is Kinbeath?”

The châtelain repeated the question in limping Gael and the guide nodded so emphatically that his meaning could not be missed. He launched into a monologue, complete with fulsome gesture, which obviously was an endorsement of the property and its charms, but Eglantine was not persuaded.

“What nonsense is this? This is Theobald’s inheritance? It cannot be so!”

This“If I may be so bold as to remind you, my lady, the title was held to be worthless.” Eglantine turned to her châtelain as a thought struck her. “Louis, can there be two holdings known as Kinbeath? Are we on the right estate?”

But the crooked little man shook his head and pointed, alien words falling quickly from his tongue.

Louis translated crisply. “Kinbeath, it seems, means the point of the birches, in the region’s excuse for language. I am assured that not only were there once trees in abundance across the entire point, but that structure, known as a broch, is a fortification of considerable local renown.” The older man cleared his throat. “Which perhaps is why those men have chosen to occupy it.”

“Men?” Eglantine spun to look.

Only now she saw them, their garb blending in with the hues of the land, the shadows of the stones disguising their silhouettes and exact numbers. They watched her and her party, their stillness sending a chill down her spine.

There were quite a number of men. Large men. Dangerous-looking, unpredictable, barbarian men. Undoubtedly they were ruthless savages. Their uncompromising expressions did little to dissuade Eglantine of that conclusion. Indeed, she shivered.

Excitable chatter broke out in the ranks of her company, but Eglantine stared at the trespassers in silence and gritted her teeth. She had come all this way, faced every adversity, had her feet nigh frozen, only to be confronted with another challenge.

Would naught be simple in her life again?

But to turn back would be a surrender to Reynaud.

The price of comfort was still too high.

Indeed, Eglantine had faced worse foes than a ragtag company of illiterate men! No doubt they were lost, or vagrants who could be quickly encouraged to move elsewhere. If they wanted food or coin, she might share a small measure of bread. ’Twas better not to encourage beggars, after all, but she could afford to be somewhat charitable.

Indeed, they might be so awed by her manner that they would flee to whence they had come. One heard of such responses from barbarians faced with their betters. Louis cleared his throat pointedly, but Eglantine had no need for his advice in this moment.

She knew what she had to do.

She lifted her chin, giving her steed her heels. Lady of the manor, that was who she was, despite the state of her clothing and the absence of fine jewelry, despite the sorry condition of the manor she would claim. Her steed was not an old nag, and the creature seemed to sense her mood, for it stepped high with new vigor.

Eglantine felt every eye of her company follow her progress. The men before her folded their arms across their chests as they surveyed her approach. There were more of them than she had first realized.

Eglantine’s heart began to hammer when one man stepped forward from the rest. He was tall and broad, wearing a saffron shirt of the same style as their crooked guide, though upon his broad shoulders, it had a certain élan. A length of wool was wound around his waist, the end cast over his shoulder. His bare legs were thickly muscled, his hair as black as midnight and all unruly waves. He was unshaven, unshod, and unamused.

The sight of him awakened a feminine awareness deep within Eglantine. Aye, she was not surprised that half the women she had seen in this land had been ripe with child, not if all the men were as ruggedly appealing as this one.

Fortunately, she was immune to the base allure of a barbarian. All the same, she noted that he was several hands taller than her and decided not to leave her saddle. That way she had the advantage of height.

And the ability to flee quickly, if necessary.

Aye, there was a glint of danger in this man’s eyes, a determination in the line of his lips that did not bode well for her plan. He did not appear in the least bit intimidated—indeed, he seemed angry, as if she trespassed!

sheThough Eglantine knew that was not the case, there was a persuasiveness to the thought. The wind and the rain seemed to suit this man, seemed to make him look more aggressively male and more at home in this wild place, than she would ever be. Eglantine urged the steed forward at a quicker clip, as if to deny her uncertainties, and halted the beast with a flourish. She gripped the reins as the horse stamped.

The man propped his hands on his hips, tipping his head back to meet her gaze. His eyes were a stormy gray, not unlike the tempestuous sea behind him.

She had a sense that she faced a wild being, like the boars occasionally found in Crevy’s woods, strong creatures that fought to their dying breath for their sole desire. The sole desire of the boars was to be free, to survive.

Eglantine wished that she knew what this man’s sole desire might be.

His gaze swept over her assessingly, the appreciation in his eyes when his gaze met hers making Eglantine’s flesh heat for the first time in days.

Aye, she knew what he desired.

A part of her shivered in response.

Two months amid barbarians and she became no better than they! Eglantine inhaled sharply and sat even taller, determined to maintain her noble bearing. She held his gaze with what she hoped was regal disdain, and braced herself for the inevitable vulgarity of his speech.

“Welcome to Ceinn-beithe, called Kinbeath by the Normans,” he declared in smooth Norman French.

Eglantine barely kept her mouth from dropping open. Norman French was a vulgar approximation of true French, but she was temporarily silenced by this barbarian’s fluency all the same.

“I am Duncan MacLaren, chieftain of Clan MacQuarrie, who holds sway over this land. I would suggest your party seek its amusement elsewhere, as you are trespassing.”

Indignation quivered through Eglantine. “You may hold sway, but you do not hold title,” she retorted with equal clarity, savoring the advantage of her educated speech. “Kinbeath is my holding by dint of law.”

The hint of a smile touched his lips, though indeed no humor reached his eyes. The expression made Eglantine doubly wary of him.

This Duncan, she was forced to concede, looked like no man she had ever met before. Certainly, none of her acquaintance had ever made her tingle with a mere glance!

Her uncharacteristic response obviously had more to do with her exhaustion than this man’s presence. Indeed, in her experience, men were painfully predictable; surely he was no different.

“And how might you hold title to a land hereditary for eons?” Duncan’s tone was mocking.

“Even hereditary land can be sold, as is more than clear, since this property was sold some ten summers past.”

“Sold?” His brows drew together in a black furrow and he glared at her. “How can that be?”

Eglantine felt a quick stab of victory. She smiled coolly. “Surely even among barbarians, it is known that land can be traded for coin.” A dangerous gleam claimed his eye, but Eglantine was not deterred. “This holding was sold to my family and passes now to me. By dint of law ’tis mine.”

He took a hasty step toward her and it took all the fortitude within Eglantine not to retreat.

“Sold by whom?” His question was more of a growl, his eyes narrowed to dangerous slits.

“One Cormac MacQuarrie.” Eglantine nodded as the name was clearly recognized by the man’s companions. A whisper made its way through their ranks.

Her opponent, however, glowered at her. “This cannot be true!”

“Nonetheless ’tis.” Eglantine offered her formal little smile to the company of men with no discernible effect. She would be gracious in victory, her fluttering pulse be damned. “I would suggest that you vacate my holding, as my party will require every last measure of it. We are quite numerous, as you may have noted.”

She cast a deliberate eye over his party and nodded. “Much more numerous than your group of companions. Surely you can find another locale to better suit you?”

But this Duncan folded his arms across his chest. “I see no reason to move, purely on the assertion of a woman, a noble and a foreigner.”

Eglantine’s spine straightened at the list of her attributes, no less at how his tone cast them as liabilities. She glared at the man and was sorely tempted to embarrass him. “The king will endorse my claim.”

Duncan arched a dark brow, unexpected mischief flashing in his eyes. “And we see so very much of good King William. Why, he could arrive at any moment.” He repeated his assertion to his companions in their vulgar tongue and they laughed. That mocking smile claimed his lips as he met her gaze anew, a challenge lighting his eyes.

So, she was beyond the authority of the king. Eglantine should have expected no less.

But she was right and she knew it. And he expected her to simply back away, leaving him in control of her holding.

“Our lord king Dugall, King of the Isles, is rather unlikely to support your claim. He, in marked contrast, could be readily summoned.” The cur smiled. “If the lady so desires.”

Eglantine had not come so far as this to surrender to an arrogant pagan.

“There is no need for the king,” she declared, “nor even his scribe, if you are lettered.” Then she caught her breath and let her eyes widen in mock dismay. “But what is in my thoughts? How would a man learn to write in these remote lands?”

“Touché,” he said wryly. There was no anger in his tone, and that smile played over his lips in a most disconcerting manner. “But of course I am lettered. A man’s birthplace does not determine all he makes of himself.”

Wretched creature! ’Twas twice he had surprised her, and Eglantine did not particularly care for the sensation.

And worse, she had a sense that she was amusing him, a most unwelcome situation. She was not in the habit of providing entertainment to rough men.

Eglantine unfurled the deed from her satchel. “Then, indeed, you may read the grant for yourself.”

She expected the man to falter but he reached for it, and fearing suddenly that he would destroy it, she snatched it back.

His eyes flashed and she knew she had yet to truly see him angered. “How am I to read it unless you give it to me?”

“You will pledge to return it unscathed.”

He smiled then. Eglantine’s belly quivered, though she knew ’twas only because she faced a dangerous opponent. His gaze roamed over her once again, leaving her flesh oddly heated, and Eglantine acknowledged that the man posed an entirely different sort of threat than she had first imagined. He desired her—indeed, the most witless fool could not have misinterpreted the way he looked at her.

“And you would accept the pledge of a barbarian?” he asked, his tone almost teasing.

“Pledge on the hands of your father and your grandfather,” Eglantine demanded, for she had learned from Louis that such a pledge was sacred to men in these parts.

Duncan arched a brow and she knew she had surprised him for a change. There was no chance to feel victorious, however, for he made the pledge and moved treacherously close to her. His gaze did not swerve from her own, and Eglantine was aware of naught but the simmering silver of his eyes.

Her breath caught as Duncan rested a hand upon her steed’s bridle—as if he feared she would flee while he read—the evident strength of his tanned fingers snaring Eglantine’s gaze. She cursed her feminine awareness of him.

Did she not know all she needed to know of men?

Aye, he was no different. With the deed in his hand, he forgot all else, his attention fixed on the document’s contents. Eglantine breathed a sigh of relief that this at least conformed to expectation.

His thumb moved in a slow stroke across the front of her saddle, where he had gripped it, and Eglantine found herself transfixed by the motion of that tanned thumb. It moved slowly, as if memorizing the texture of the worn leather. An unwelcome part of her imagined that thumb sliding across flesh with the same deliberation, leaving a trail of heat in its wake.

Aye, there were some traits of men that were not without reward.

She flushed and straightened, forcing her thoughts back to more practical matters. Duncan frowned in concentration as he read the deed, his expression growing more ominous.

Until suddenly he smiled.

Eglantine blinked, but his delight was evident. There was a sparkle in his eyes when he looked up at her, and Eglantine caught her breath at the change in his expression. On the verge of laughter, he looked young and playful.

’Twas not the response she had expected.

“’Tis signed by Cormac MacQuarrie,” he said, as if this was of great import.

“Of course ’tis,” Eglantine said crossly. “I already told you as much. Who is he?”

He looked away. “The former chieftain of the clan.” His voice dropped low as he sobered. “He has been dead these two months.”

He was so clearly grieved that Eglantine almost offered sympathy before she recalled that he wanted her land.

“If he were chieftain, that would indeed give him the right to sell the property, would it not?”

“It would.” Duncan’s gaze locked with Eglantine’s once more and she was put in mind of the sea shimmering in the sunlight. “’Tis unfortunate that Cormac cannot provide an accounting of how this document came to be.”

“No personal endorsement is necessary! His signature is there. I have the document and ’tis more than clear that he sold this land to another.”

there.That roguish smile touched his lips fleetingly again. “Is it so clear as that, then?”

Eglantine’s eyes narrowed. What did this vexing man know that she did not? ’Twas clear he knew something, and equally clear that he believed whatever ’twas to be to his advantage.

something,While Eglantine fought her urge to dispatch this Duncan to keep Theobald company in hell, the wind gusted suddenly. The skies launched an abrupt, cold, and intense volley of rain upon them.

And the ink ran down the parchment in Eglantine’s hand.

“Nay!” Eglantine snatched up the deed in horror and shoved it beneath her cloak, hoping that the damage was not too extensive. She mopped at it beneath the shelter of her fur-lined cloak, relieved to see that only a measure of the text was now illegible.

Then she fired a lethal glance at her adversary. “I knew you would try to destroy it!”

Duncan shrugged amiably. “Perhaps ’tis the elements who would prefer not to endorse your claim.”

“What madness is this?”

His eyes shone with unexpected devilry. “It has long been said that a ghost haunts this place—perhaps ’tis that phantom who challenges your suzerainty.”

“A ghost!” Eglantine snorted. “Such tales are for children, and foolish ones at that.” She tapped the document now safely out of the rain. “Any court would uphold my right, ghost or no ghost.”

But Duncan eased closer, his voice dropping persuasively low. “Perhaps ’tis the souls of our forebears, whose blood stains the stones and whose tales are whispered by the wind, who would argue against your claim.”

Eglantine shivered despite herself, then spared him a skeptical glance. “’Tis the law that is of import in this matter.”

“Then seek yourself a court,” Duncan suggested with a smug certainty she longed to defy. “I believe William’s court is convened in Edinburgh, some weeks ride to the east.”

“I know whence Edinburgh lies.” Eglantine would never forget that town, for it had been the last place she had slept in warmth and dryness.

“Then I bid you a safe journey. Godspeed to you.” Duncan bowed slightly, mockery in every line of his body, then turned to saunter back to his companions. Their confident grins exceeded Eglantine’s tolerance.

“Nay Godspeed to you, Duncan MacLaren,” she called after him, the determination in her voice obviously catching his ear. He glanced over his shoulder just in time to see her beckon regally to her company. Eglantine savored the sight of his surprise.

Then his gaze flew to her and Eglantine smiled. “We, of course, shall remain, precisely as planned. Kinbeath is mine by right of law, though you have every right to question that claim when next the king and his court pass this way.” She widened her eyes deliberately. “Unless you choose to leave and seek that court immediately.”

Duncan folded his arms across his chest anew, his humor dispelled. He looked as likely to move as the stones scattered across the point. “Is that a challenge that you would make?” Eglantine lifted her chin. “Nay, ’tis a guarantee and one I shall keep.”

guaranteeHis eyes shone, that smile tinged with what might have been admiration. Whatever ’twas, the sight made Eglantine’s heart race anew. “And upon whose pledge do I have this challenge?” he demanded, his voice low once more.

“I am Countess Eglantine de Nemerres,” Eglantine lied. Aye, though the title was hers no longer, she would take it as her own. And there was no estate that she knew of with such a name. This was her chance to foil any attempt Reynaud might make to follow Jacqueline here, by creating a new identity for herself. “I have come to establish my court upon the land to which I hold title.”

Duncan’s smile faded abruptly. “A court? Why found a court here?”

“Because ’tis my right. ’Tis here at Kinbeath that I shall found a holding to rival the finest in Christendom.”

Duncan cast a dubious glance over the land, then looked back at her. Suddenly he threw back his head and laughed, the rich sound of his merriment echoing across the land.

Over her land. Eglantine fumed but her response made no impact on his laughter.

herA madman, he could be naught else.

“I should like to witness that,” he declared when he had exhausted his amusement, though his lips still twitched.

“Then leave Kinbeath to me and return in a year.”

“Oh, nay. I should not wish to miss any of your triumph.” Duncan’s eyes gleamed in a most disconcerting manner and he strode closer, his hand landing upon her bridle.

He grinned up at her, at once the most engaging and unpredictable man Eglantine had ever encountered. “I shall indeed remain to watch, my lady Eglantine.” Duncan tapped her knee boldly with a fingertip, his light touch sending sparks along her flesh. “Upon that, you have my guarantee.”

my His hand rested boldly upon her knee. He stared up at her, his silver eyes dancing in challenge, as if he would dare her to move away. A glow spread from beneath the weight of his hand across Eglantine’s flesh. It kindled a heat in her belly, a heat she could have comfortably been without. She stared into this man’s eyes and remembered what ’twas like to claim pleasure herself.

“And, my lady,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble of unwelcome intimacy, “the land is known as Ceinn-beithe.”

“Kinbeath, I was told,” she declared breathlessly.

“Then, Kinbeath, if you must,” he insisted, those silvery eyes twinkling. He emphasized the soft “-th,” the tip of his tongue pushing against his teeth, the sound slipping from his lips like a caress.

Eglantine felt her color rise, though ’twas not simply because she had mispronounced the name of her holding.

“Kinbeath,” she echoed, suddenly aware of the harsh “-t” of the ending when the name fell from her lips. The sparkle in his eyes made her cheeks heat in mortification. Eglantine tried again, and again, despite a dawning awareness that she could not make that soft “-th” sound.

And Duncan, curse him, knew the truth all too well. He grinned up at her, superior in his ability to properly say the name of a holding that Eglantine knew was her own.

“I could teach you to make the sound,” he suggested, easing closer. His hand tightened on her knee, the knowing glint in those silvery eyes revealing his awareness of his effect upon her.

Aye, she knew what he wanted of her! Eglantine drew the reins up short and her horse stepped back abruptly.

Duncan smiled, folding his arms across his chest to watch her.

“It matters little what barbarians call my holding,” she retorted. “Kinbeath is mine all the same.” Then she smiled primly, granting him no opportunity to reply before she turned to issue orders to her company.

Eglantine could feel his gaze burning into her back, and her cursed knee was tingling from his touch. Aye, she could hear the way her name slipped across his tongue like a caress, his accent lingering exotically on the vowels.

Kinbeath. She played the sound in her thoughts and tried to move her tongue as he had done. Curse him! She could not make the sound—and ’twas vulgar of him to point out the truth!

Aye, Duncan was no more than a barbarian knave, enamored of his own charm. A coarse creature, common and base—indeed, he had no right to touch her! And he had no right upon her land. She would succeed in driving him from Kinbeath; she would secure her holding, if only to prove him utterly wrong.

’Twould be good for him.

And good for her to be rid of such trouble, she admitted silently, for she had no need of earthly temptations. ’Twas her daughters’ futures that were her concern, her own liaisons with men a matter of the past.

Desire burned bright in her belly despite her resolve, as if ’twould remind Eglantine that Theobald was dead, not she. She sniffed as she approached her company, her chin held high. One touch of a barbarian and she forgot all she had ever known.

’Twould not happen again.

The Countess

The CountessBook #4 of the Bride Quest

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