Page 9 of Lord of Dunkeathe
“No, thank you, Sir Nicholas,” she replied, giving him no sign that she was puzzled and curious. “I’m sure you’ve got plenty of other things to do.”
His brows lowered. “As a matter of fact, I do.”
“Then please, don’t linger here chatting with me. My uncle and I can manage our baggage quite well.”
The man she was now quite sure was Sir Nicholas of Dunkeathe bowed stiffly, then turned on his heel and strode away, leaving Riona to ponder why a Norman nobleman would pretend he was not.
ASHORT TIME LATER, the lord of Dunkeathe stood looking out the narrow arched window of his solar surveying the yard below, which was now almost clear of wagons, horses and guests.
The room was as austere as the man himself. No tapestries graced the smooth stone walls. An unpainted wooden chest with leather hinges and bronze lock that held the tithe rolls and accounts of the estate stood against the wall. The rest of the furnishings were likewise simple and plain, and the floor wasbare. On a table near the door stood the only articles of any beauty—a silver carafe and two finely worked silver goblets.
His hands clasped behind his back, Nicholas watched the young woman who had guessed who he was, or perhaps found out some other way. Since he’d left the courtyard she’d gotten down off the rickety cart, but she hadn’t ventured from its side. She must still be waiting for her mistress or master to tell her where to go.
“Ten ladies, with their noble relatives, twenty-six servants, and one hundred and ten soldiers have arrived,” his steward noted behind him. “That’s two more ladies and their entourages than we’d expected.”
Which one of the nobles did that bright-eyed, brown-haired young woman belong to? Nicholas wondered. She wasn’t a servant of the complaining Lord Chesleigh and his beautiful daughter, or they would have chastised her for speaking to an unknown man.
She’d been amazingly and boldly impertinent to him in a way few women, and no servants, ever were. Indeed, she’d been so bold and intriguing, he’d been very tempted to suggest she join him in his bed. Her bright sparkling eyes seemed to promise passion and desire and excitement.
He wouldn’t have, of course. He’d never in his life seduced a servant. And he certainly shouldn’t now, when he was supposed to be wooing a wife.
Robert Martleby delicately cleared his throat, reminding Nicholas that he was still there.
Nicholas forced his mind to the issue at hand and turned to face his steward. “In spite of the unexpected arrivals, you’ve seen to it that all the guests and their servants have been accommodated?”
“Yes, my lord. We’ve had to pitch tents in the outer ward for several of the soldiers. I had some of ours join them, so there would be no accusations of poor treatment, and to keep an eye on them, as well.”
Nicholas nodded his approval. “You’ll have to find larger quarters for Lord Chesleigh and his daughter. He wasn’t pleased with those you assigned him. He thought they were too small.”
Robert frowned and studied the list in his hand.
“Does that present a problem?”
“Perhaps I can switch 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.
