The Laird's Lady. Joanne Rock
allegiances among the people if ye decry me. Would ye honestly want yer tenants to revolt and risk their lives against trained knights of war to preserve ye as their ruler? And dinna mistake me, ’twould be risking their lives.”
“You brute.” Rosalind rose from her seat so that she might look down at him. “How dare you threaten these good people when they have already done everything but kiss your bloody Scottish boot soles.”
He could have stood, as well, and intimidated her, but he remained seated, as if unperturbed by her outburst. Or was he perhaps still feeling some of the sting of the wound she’d given him three days before?
“’Tis well ye know I threatened no one. ’Tis my way of asking ye to lend me yer support and nae rile all yer household. If only ye will allow yerself to be reasonable in this, ye will see the truth of my words.”
“Be reasonable?” Anger churned through her. “I am being more than reasonable allowing you into my chamber. I am being reasonable every moment I do not spit in your face. It is completely unreasonable of you to ever think I will submit like an obedient little maid to a hostile enemy, just because you have the advantage over me at the moment.”
“Ye will risk the people of Beaumont to bolster yer wounded pride?” His voice rumbled with restrained anger and his fingers flexed tightly around his drinking chalice.
“I will not risk my people, heathen.” It occurred to her that at some point during their conversation she had realized she could rail at this man without fearing for the Beaumont folk. Although the warlord might seize her home, he would not vent his annoyance on her people. How odd to think, in this small way, she had already come to trust him. “I shall be rid of you before long. If the king will not come to our aid, Will has other allies to turn to.”
They glared at each other, brilliant blue eyes locked with hers, as the two of them reached an impasse.
“I think our talk is at an end,” Rosalind said finally, spinning away.
Malcolm rose, returning his cup to the tray with a clank. “Nay, Rosalind.”
The low rumble of his voice, the supreme confidence with which he contradicted her, gave her pause. Her heartbeat faltered.
He strode to her and, before she knew what he was about, clamped her shoulders in his heavy palms and held her a scant foot in front of him.
The heat of his hands permeated her thin summer kirtle. His touch confused her, for, although it was hardly gentle, neither was it threatening.
“If our talk was more successful, I would see no need for this.” A look akin to regret crossed his face. “But as it stands, ye will have to be confined to yer chambers until we can come to a more favorable understanding.”
Her heartbeat thrummed in her ears. “Favorable for who?”
His grin was slow and deliberate. “For me, of course. Sooner or later ye’ll be coming around.”
He actually winked at her before striding out of the solar.
Rosalind picked up a pillow from her chair and threw it at the door. The gesture helped vent her frustration, but did not take away the tingling she still felt where he’d touched her.
Chapter Four
“If the steward remained with us, he could have bloody well handled the harvest.” Malcolm squinted out over Beaumont’s fields, which were ripe with grain. His brothers stood beside him.
Beaumont had been his for a mere seven days, and already problems arose from all sides—disputes among the tenants, angry whispers among the servants about his treatment of Lady Rosalind, who remained confined to her chambers. Still there had been no news from Robert the Bruce. And now the obstacle of organizing the harvest.
Usually, Malcolm could count on his family to help him with most any crisis, but even the three McNairs together couldn’t seem to solve Beaumont’s current dilemma. Experience in battle did not prepare a man for the demands of the land, it seemed.
Malcolm nudged his younger brother as he leaned back against the low rock partition separating the wheat fields from a cow pasture just outside the keep’s walls. “Ye dinna know anything about bringing in crops, Jamie?”
“I never took an interest in such things. I was meant for more lofty pursuits from the time I was the smallest of lads.” Jamie plucked a cherry from a nearby tree and took a tentative taste.
Ian laughed, a deep rumble that fairly rattled the low branches. “More like ye were afraid to soil yer hands.”
“I didna ever see you helping with the harvest at Tyrran.” Jamie snatched another fistful of cherries, popping them into his mouth in quick succession. Ever the well-bred McNair, he topped his brothers in refinement, but he ranked as fierce a warrior as the elder two.
“Too busy making war,” Ian returned, a shadow crossing his features as he reached to try the sun-warmed fruit, as well. “And then last year, Mary was in her confinement….” He looked into the distance before the flash of sorrow in his eyes dissolved into a scowl.
Malcolm clapped his brother on the shoulder, powerless to alleviate his grief. Although Ian had left Tyrran, their family seat, to join his brothers on the Beaumont campaign, Malcolm knew that Ian’s late wife still claimed his thoughts.
Given Ian’s darkened mood, Malcolm welcomed the interruption of a stout female trundling out of the keep with a basket in hand. “I hope you are saving some cherries for the rest of Beaumont, my lords. Cook uses the fruit in dishes more tasty and refined than any of the crude fare you’d find in the north.”
Malcolm stood back to make way for the nurse, who seemed to preside over the household with Rosalind. “Ye’re speaking heresy to a Scot’s ears, woman. Perhaps ye need to pay a visit to a Highland keep to change yer mind.”
“You seem to have brought the Highlands to Beaumont in spite of my lady’s most fervent hopes, haven’t you?” Still grumbling, Gerta worked to fill her basket with fruit, her weathered hands moving over the branches with quick efficiency. “And even your own Lachlan Gordon admits the superior flavor of Beaumont’s dishes, or he would not have begged me to gather more cherries for the cook. But then, I should not have been surprised he could not pick his own cherries, when even the mighty McNairs seem to be flummoxed by the matter of the coming harvest.”
Jamie straightened, looking offended enough for all of them, but Malcolm elbowed him before he could quarrel with the presumptuous old nurse.
“The McNairs are warriors, not farmers, as ye well know.” Malcolm would allow Gerta to have her moment to gloat. The elder woman had been practical enough to see the merits of submitting to his rule as soon as he’d arrived in Beaumont’s great hall, after all. “Do ye know how the work is orchestrated?”
Cackling, Gerta shooed away a bird intent on stealing from her basket. “Nay, my lord, but Lady Rosalind can tell you all about it.”
Malcolm heard Ian mutter beneath his breath at the mention of Rosalind’s name. No doubt he and Jamie were still disgusted with her for stabbing him. Loyalties ran deep in their clan.
As for Malcolm, he had found forgiveness for the blade in his thigh easily enough, even if the wound still ached like the devil. Years of battle had taught him to ignore physical pain. If only he could ward off the unwelcome desire for her so simply.
“Dinna jest with me.” He took his responsibilities to Beaumont seriously, since Robert wanted the keep in good working order. For that matter, Malcolm had a very personal interest in maintaining the lands if there was a chance the Bruce would grant them to him. “I may nae know much about reaping a harvest, but I know the work is done by men, nae noble maidens.”
“Begging your pardon—” Gerta bristled visibly “—but Lady Rosalind organized the work after her father’s death. She needed her steward’s guidance the first year, but she can do it on her own now.”
“Ye