In the Laird's Bed. Joanne Rock
and approached the building, boots kicking up freshly fallen snow.
He tried the door, expecting it to be locked. Instead, the barrier swung open easily and the scent of sweet mead rolled toward him in fragrant waves. The scent of Cristiana.
Indeed, this was her domain. And she must have risen with the dawn like him to be at her work so early. But there she stood, all alone and toiling over a table, her shoulders bent to some work he could not yet see. She had not heard him enter, her full attention devoted to whatever project she labored over.
The building was a brew house unlike anything he’d ever seen before. It functioned as far more than a mere corner of a kitchen where special cauldrons were set aside for mead-making. The entire, fine structure appeared dedicated to Cristiana’s brewing gift.
A hot fire burned in the center of the room, the blaze surrounded by protective stones to contain it. Some of the exterior wall of the tower was stacked with wood, but most of the walls were lined with other cauldrons.
The tower’s only low windows were placed above a worktable near where Cristiana stood. The skin-covered openings allowed the dawn’s light to spill over clay pots of dried herbs and spices. He could see now that she’d cut some sticks of cinnamon into smaller pieces, her hands dusted in fragrant powder.
“Cristiana.” He spoke softly so as not to startle her, but her name became an intimate sound on his lips.
Startled anyway, she whirled around as if expecting to see a field full of marauding Danes.
“Duncan.” Clutching a hand to her chest, she seemed to quiet her heart by force. “I am usually alone out here at this hour.”
Her cheeks were flushed from the heat of the fire as she turned back to her worktable. An amethyst-colored kirtle swung about her feet as she moved, the fabric falling in time with her rhythmic cutting.
“You tend your potions well, Cristiana.” He stepped deeper into the chamber, taking in the rainbow span of flowers drying on the rafters.
The scent of spices and dried berries mingled with the tang of yeast. Being in the brew house was like stepping into a late summer day with the rich warmth of the harvest all around.
“The Domhnaill mead is prized in trade. But I must use care in the making, since I can only obtain a certain amount of honey. Once I run out, I cannot replenish my stores until spring, so I dare not burn any.”
Carefully, she scraped the worktable clean of the cinnamon she’d cut, swiping the last of the powder into her hand. When she’d gathered all she could, she brought it to a pot on the far wall and scattered it over the surface of the brew.
No wonder she carried such an enticing smell on her person at all times. She must absorb the fragrance right through her skin.
“Your father has invested a great deal in this trade.” Peering up at the ceiling, he noted the excess rafters for additional space to dry herbs out of the way of the boiling cauldrons. Mortars and pestles, cups and small jars lined the shelves of an open cupboard.
“Our mead sells for a very good price. In turn, full coffers keep the men paid and attract strong alliances.” She rinsed her hands in a bowl of water kept on the hearthstones and dried them on a linen rag tied to her girdle.
“Your father has not raised a fighting force in many years,” he observed, pacing the perimeter of the structure to view the contents of the fermenting cauldrons. “His coffers must overflow with the excess. He could have made you a fine marriage long ago.”
The dowry Duncan was to have received for her five years ago had been more than generous, especially considering his sons would have ruled Domhnaill one day. What would the laird offer to the man who wed Cristiana now?
“I do not think finding a husband for me is part of his purpose.” Holding back her plaited hair in one hand, she bent over the cauldron in the center of the chamber and sniffed delicately.
The fabric of her tunic dipped away from her breasts as she leaned forward, presenting him with a view so beguiling he stopped cold in his pacing. A jolt of undeniable interest sparked. To lust after her was foolishness. She was no experienced woman to choose a man for pleasure’s sake. She was an unwed maid, who must make a good marriage. A highborn one at that.
And he would suffer the fires of hell before it would be him after the cold way she’d dismissed him.
But the knowledge did not stop the heat streaking through his veins at the sight of her tempting, creamy flesh. The moment ended too soon as, straightening, she took up a spoon and stirred the concoction. He struggled to recall what they’d been discussing.
Ah, yes. A husband.
“Only a fool of a sire would ignore the need to see you wed. And your da is no fool.” A stubborn, hard man perhaps. But other than the misstep with the broken betrothal, the old laird was a keen ruler. Or at least, he had been.
Perhaps she had sensed his gaze on her because she paused in her stirring to peer up at him. Though they stood many steps distant, he could feel the moment the air between them grew charged. As a virgin untouched, would Cristiana even know the source of such heat?
“I choose not to marry.” Her words were so at odds with everything he’d been thinking, it took him a long moment to understand what she’d said.
“Impossible.” He drew closer, telling himself he wished to judge her features and seek out the lie. Yet he knew he was pulled toward her by a power beyond his control. She fascinated him despite their mutual mistrust. “Your father has no sons. He has no choice but to ally himself—his people—with a strong clan who can protect the legacy of his lands.”
She removed the spoon from the spinning, bubbling brew beside her and hung the instrument from a hook near the pot’s handle.
“He will choose his successor when the time is right. I do not need to wed to secure our fate.”
She spoke madness. Her father indulged this? He would question the old man about it when he obtained an audience with him, since it would make Duncan’s work here easier if he did not have to fight off a suitor for control of Domhnaill. For now, he would have answers of a different sort from her.
She stared up at him with that steady, gray gaze of hers. She had become a practical woman. Efficient. Hardworking. But he remembered another facet of her. A passionate, unrestrained side that she’d locked down like it never existed after that day by the wishing well.
Suddenly, he had to know if that part of her still existed or if it had been stamped out forever by cool practicality.
“You would deny yourself a man’s touch for all your days?” He reached toward her, telling himself he did so only to tease her. To make her feel a fraction of the frustration he’d felt years ago.
Her eyes remained locked on his. Perhaps she did not notice the approach of his fingers until he brushed a lock of her hair just above her temple. The touch had the sense of fate about it, and he recalled another touch, another kiss, another moment so similar to this one. The fact that Cristiana was no longer his did not alter a compelling urge to take her. To steal as much from her and the moment as she would allow.
Chapter Three
Cristiana held her breath at the feel of Duncan’s fingers skimming her temple to sift lightly through her hair. To allow such a touch was foolishness, when they were utterly alone here. Her sister had been wooed to ruination once, and paid for it still. Would Cristiana follow in her footsteps?
Yet a part of her wanted to know if she had imagined the delight she’d once found in Duncan’s caress.
Heaven help her, she had not.
“I understand there will be sacrifices with my choice,” she answered finally, willing herself to step back, out of his reach.
But with her heart thudding a slow, insistent rhythm in her chest, she could not hasten her feet to do her bid ding. There had