Another Man's Bride Page 10

She pretended to frown. His warm fingers wrapped around hers fair took her breath away. “But you are not. Should I fetch you a doublet and hose?”

  “Aye, if ye’ll put them on me.”

  His tone brought warmth to her cheeks but before she could answer, two servants entered carrying a host of things from her rooms to start their “court” day.

  He glanced at the men and what they carried. “What’s all this, then?”

  “Well, many mornings the court will hunt, but if the weather proves too harsh there are amusements we pursue indoors.”

  He gave her a quick meaningful smile, and she shook her head at him playfully.

  “I speak of games. We may play Six Men’s Morris,” she said, letting go of his hands and indicating the board. “Or tables, or chess.”

  She picked up a beautifully decorated manuscript and offered it to him.

  “I can read to you of Tristan and Isolde, if you like. Or I can play for you.” She indicated the harp.

  His smile widened. “I think I shall be well suited to this court life, after all.”

  “Pray, then, what is to your liking?”

  He looked over the choices. “And this is what ye do all day?”

  “The king keeps jesters and fools and magicians. There are masques and banquets and hunts. There are tumblers and dancers, the gentlemen are very fond of tennis, and, of course, everyone plays at dice.”

  “Read to me then,” he said, handing her the manuscript. “I would hear ye tell this tale.”

  Isabella sat by the fire, telling the story of Tristan and Isolde. She had just reached the point in the story when Isolde was to undergo the ordeal of the hot iron when Colyne asked her to stop.

  “There’ll be nae dinner, or supper either, if ye dinna!”

  Startled, Isabella looked up to see that her audience had grown by bounds. Castle folk from stable hand to counsel clansman were now gathered to listen to the tale, and she blushed at the number of eyes on her.

  Isabella was surprised at how the tale seemed to have delighted them in its tragedy. Even the fiercest looking of the clansmen made sounds of disappointment as she closed the book and Colyne waved them off with good humor.

  “She will read to ye another time—and mind ye haven’t lost every coo and burned every loaf of bread while ye were idlin’ aboot!”

  The folk left, scurrying with the realization that the sun had grown high and that dinner would be wanted soon.

  “Yer nae helpin’ the runnin’ of me household,” Colyne teased.

  “A pity,” Isabella returned, smiling. “I was brought up for that very thing and I have made such a poor showing.”

  “How else shall we be idle while others do our work for us?”

  Isabella glanced at the games. “Will you play?”

  “Aye, but let’s nae play at dice.”

  “You do not wager?”

  “Only on which lass is fairest,” he reminded. “An’ I dinna trust me luck against yers. I should play an hour at dice only to have ye ride out with yer dowry goods, all me coos, and me tunic as well.”

  “Well,” she teased, “mayhap a bit more than an hour. Will you play at Six Men’s Morris, then?”

  He was agreeable and she set the board, offering him choice of the white or black pieces. He chose black and she began by placing her first piece on the grid.

  “’Twas a fine tale and ye tell it well,” Colyne commented, placing a piece on the board. “How does the story end then?”

  “Tristan is wounded and loses hope. Isolde arrives to find he is already dead, so she lies in his arms and dies beside him. Ah,” she exclaimed, looking at the board where her three pieces were lined up. “I have a mill!”

  “And all the time they love, she is wife to the king?” he asked, as she deftly removed one of his pieces. “Ye would think the court would nae care for such a tale.”

  He placed a piece and she another.

  “I think the story of an ardent lover and an unfaithful wife is a compelling one—as long as she is not one’s own wife. And perhaps it is more about having what you should not. Like MacLaulach beef.”

  Or a handsome chieftain.

  He had been reduced to only two pieces.

  “I have won,” she said, surprised.

  “Aye.” He smiled slightly. “But I dinna give up sae easily.”

  “Shall we play again then?”

  “Let us to tables,” he suggested.

  “So you are better at tables?”

  “I canna be worse. And I am doubly glad we did not play at dice.”

  He played well against her, though she knew herself to be an adept and skillful challenger. He won, but only narrowly.

  “Ye’ve set me house on its ear,” he lamented, when the hastily prepared meal was set before him. “’Tis lucky we are to be fed at all.”

  “I am sorry,” she replied, amused. “Can I make amends?”

  “Aye, lady. Sing for me at meal’s end.”

  Isabella did not think of herself as a fine singer, although to play and sing had been part of her education. She had done it well enough when so tasked by the Duchess, but, knowing Colyne was watching, her fingers felt clumsy at dinner’s end when she took up the harp.

  She sang and then found herself urged by the castle folk to sing one song after the other until, laughing, she begged off to soothe her throat with a cup of ale. Colyne brought her the cup himself, taking the harp from her and laying it aside. Their fingers brushed as he handed her the ale. He threw an amused glance at those with them in the hall.

  “Ye have made them idle again,” Colyne said. When Angus strode to his side and cleared his throat as a means of getting his attention, Colyne smiled ruefully and added, “I fear I only play at bein’ a courtier. There are things I must see to, and I canna sit idle with ye all day spinnin’ dreams—much as I might wish to.”

  Isabella’s spirits fell. “Of course. I will not keep you, my lord.”

  “Will ye come again to sup with me tonight?”

  “I should like that—Colyne.”

  Colyne bowed in fair approximation of a courtier. “Until tonight then, lass.”

  Isabella stood, undecided, half hidden in the shadows of a pillar near the entrance of the great hall.

  She wore a dark red damask gown edged with gold, the sleeves split to reveal the gold silk of her chemise beneath. The damask was heavily embroidered, deeply cut to reveal her décolletage and bound at the high waist with a woven belt. A jeweled pendant that was once her mother’s hung around her neck and rings adorned her nervously drumming fingers.

  She had applied cosmetics and a scent made of rose and citrus blossom as little Mary watched her wide-eyed. From the reflection in the polished metal mirror she knew her preparations had yielded an ensemble appropriate to the English court—save her unbound hair.

  But now, hovering as she was just out of sight, Isabella chewed the inside of her cheek, wondering if Scottish women wore so much rouge and balm. Even if the women here did not wear them, surely he would have seen women at the French court—

  “Lass?”

  Isabella started, turning so quickly she was forced to catch herself against the wooden pillar she had been hiding behind.

  Colyne was looking down at her, his expression quizzical.

  “Oh,” she breathed, blinking up at his now clean-shaven face.

  His high cheekbones were sprinkled with freckles and the red-gold of his tied-back hair emphasized the square of his jaw.

  He was dressed in a belted tunic, a bright mantle over his shoulders held with an elaborate silver pin. His face was a bit pink where he had shaved, his hair neat. The effect of it all conspired to make him look lighthearted, and a great deal more civilized.

  Without the beard to distract, though, his mouth seemed fuller and she remembered very well the feel of it on her own.

  “My lord,” Isabella replied, straightening, and clasping her hands before her. “Good evening.”

  He
glanced to either side of her, frowning. “What do ye here?”

  “Here? Why, nothing, my lord.”

  He frowned. “Are ye hiding?”

  “Certainly not!”

  His look of disbelief spoke to how convincing she had lied.

  “What do you here, my lord? I should have thought you at supper already.”

  “I was lookin’ for ye,” Colyne replied, crossing his arms over his chest. “And a time I had of it, hidin’ here like ye were.”

  “I was, just now, on my way to supper.”

  “By way of the shadows?”

  “My lord, I did but pause—”

  “Lady Isabella,” he interrupted, “a bonny lass in the shadows may prove a bit too much temptation for the poor lads of this place.”

  “So I am not safe after all from your clansmen?”

  “No man would lay hand on ye within these walls without answerin’ for it.”

  “Save you,” she retorted, and dropped her gaze as the grin spread across his face.

  “Oh, I will answer for it, to be sure. But ’twill be well worth the price.”

  The horn sounded, calling the castle folk to supper.

  Colyne took her hand to lead her to the hall, the heat of his skin beneath her palm.

  Isabella expected the company to be possessed of the same rowdy exuberance of the previous evening, but to her surprise those who joined them seemed subdued and formal. Servants approached to offer clean water and linens with which to wash.

  “They are sedate tonight,” she murmured, looking over the other diners as he sat beside her.

  Malcolm, usually of high spirits and lewd jests, was seated quietly at the high table with two of his sons and his wife.

  “Are they?” Colyne asked, as the cupbearer poured wine for them to share.

  “Indeed they are. I recall being set to stand on this very table to settle a wager. I should not know myself to be within the same household.”

  “As I recall ye were acclaimed the loveliest in England—and Scotland.”

  “I hope you have no intentions of standing me on the table again. At least not before the sweetmeats are served.”

  A servant cut a thick piece of bread, placing the trencher between them. Other servants began to serve the first course, placing the food directly onto the bread for them to share.

  Colyne was careful to wipe his mouth with the cloth before he took a sip of the cup they were to share. He offered it to her as a well-mannered man would.

  Quickly she tried to school her expression but he had caught her out.

  He laughed. “Are ye surprised I know courtly ways?”

  Embarrassed, she wiped her own mouth and took a quick sip of the wine.

  “Of course not.”

  “Do ye think me an outlaw still, then? A wild man of the north?”

  Thinking of the kiss he stole, Isabella ducked her head. “I have not been thinking about you at all.”

  His lips curved and he offered to her a choice bit of beef. “Have ye a stomach tonight?”

  Isabella nodded, recalling her lack of appetite when they had arrived—and the cause of it.

  “I do confess your sister’s tending is nothing short of miraculous. I am deeply indebted to her.”

  “Ah, then the ride to the well was worth it.”

  Isabella was reminded sharply of the well, his mouth on hers, his hands running down the length of her back…

  Would it feel different now, with his beard gone, to have him kiss me?

  She cleared her throat. “I do not doubt that were it not for Caitrina, Kat, and William too, would have died.”

  “She tells me the English man is still verra weak.”

  “Yes, but stronger every day. And free to rest peacefully now that I am not endlessly chattering in the solar.”

  “I must find ways to keep ye entertained sae ye’re not tempted to hide yerself away again.”

  He nodded toward the end of the hall and she smiled, seeing that musicians were assembling to play.

  Servants brought the next course, made of many dishes, elegantly presented, finely spiced and prepared. The servants seemed overly careful in their work and Isabella noticed every gown and tunic was clean, and the tablecloths snow white. Even the laird’s hounds seemed to be on their best manners, lying with their heads docilely on their paws. A young man sang in a high sweet voice—a French song that told of winter melting into the glory of spring. The words were flowery, and the music light and refined.

  Colyne offered her some fruit preserved in honey and cooked with almonds.

  “Do ye like the music?” he asked.

  “It is not what I expected.”

  He glanced at the singer. “It offends ye?”

  “I do not see how it could,” Isabella said dryly. “It is mild enough for a prioress.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “I’d wager they know tunes that will make ye blush, if ye’d rather.”

  “I doubt it, but I entreat you, do something quickly,” she whispered mischievously. “Poor Malcolm looks like a sulking boy enduring punishment.”

  He followed her glance down the table to his uncle and gave a quiet laugh. Colyne’s uncle was neatly dressed, hair combed, careful in his drinking, and looked nothing short of miserable.

  Colyne held up his hand and the musicians broke off.

  “A gold coin for the song that makes the lady blush!” he called out.

  The musicians looked uncertain. Colyne looked toward Malcolm.

  “Ah, now Uncle, drink a cup and sing us a song bawdy enough to pinken the lady’s cheek. If ye can!”

  The Scotsman’s face lit up at the wager.

  “And who will judge?” Malcolm asked, already getting to his feet with cup in hand.

  Malcolm was not the only one who looked revived by the laird’s challenge. The clansmen’s faces brightened as they shifted in anticipation. Malcolm sang about a man cuckolded by his pretty young wife, half the townsmen, and an abbot. It was clever, and Isabella laughed with the rest of the company.

  “She blushed!” Malcolm insisted. “I saw it with me own eyes! All of ye did!”

  The group sent out hoots and groans, drowning out Malcolm’s protests.

  Laughing, Colyne waved his uncle back to his seat and invited others in the company to take their turn.

  There followed a truly scandalous recital of songs; some wicked, some merely suggestive, and some comic enough to set the room to roaring laughter.

  Colyne sang, as well. At the end of his song, Isabella sighed as if bored and imperiously waved him away to the delight of the other guests. His shoulders slumped in mock despair as he shuffled off, drawing a laugh from the company. He was followed in turn by an older widow and even Jamie, blushing under his mother’s disapproving frown.

  The young boy who had sung so sweetly of springtime regaled them with a tune considerably more spicy but hardly enough to raise eyebrows.

  “Fie then! why sit we musing,

  Youth’s sweet delight refusing? Fa la.”

  A few of the company were dancing now, twirling in the space before the high table as the wine and ale filled and refilled cups. Malcolm led his wife, spinning her with obvious pride.

  The cupbearer filled their goblet and Isabella took a sip of the new offering. It was excellent—curiously so.

  She narrowed her eyes at Colyne.

  “More of the French wine meant for my new husband?”

  “The dowry is mine, but nae the bride. Would ye deny me all pleasure, Isabella?”

  She dropped her gaze. “How do I deny you? You have taken what you want.”

  “Nae,” he murmured. “I have not.”

  Lying beside hers on the table, his hand was close enough she could feel the warmth of his skin as the boy continued his song.

  “Say, dainty nymphs, and speak,

  Shall we play at barley-break? Fa la.”

  Lightly, Colyne brushed his thumb along the back of her hand. Finding no resistance
, he wrapped his fingers around hers, their palms pressed together.

  “Shall we play at barley-break?” he asked.

  A smile touched his mouth, as he was clearly aware she must know that term for dancing also meant another, more intimate, pairing. At the heat of his touch, the warm timbre of his voice, Isabella’s heart hammered.

  “A gold coin, my laird!”

  Startled, Isabella looked around to find the singer pointing at her.

  “Look ye! I have made the lady blush!” the boy cried.

  She felt the heat spread over her face and down to her chest as she saw the entire company was looking at her. Instantly they raised a cheer. Mortified lest she be caught holding hands with the laird, she pulled her hand away before any should mark it. Colyne applauded and tossed the boy his coin.

  The musicians broke into another tune—a jaunty victory song—and the group, still laughing, raced to find another thing to wager on.

  Isabella tensed her body to flee but, as if reading her thoughts, Colyne tugged at her sleeve.

  “Stay, lady.”

  She should leave; she knew it so. She was betrothed, and he kept a mistress—likely more than one. For all she knew half the women in the castle lay with him.

  “I’m a fool,” he said solemnly, pitching his voice so only she could hear. “A baseborn scoundrel. I’faith, ye would be well served to see me thrown in with the pigs. I should die of shame. Preying upon a poor country maid such as yerself.”

  She turned to offer retort but it was hard to resist his teasing eyes.

  “You have the devil’s own charm, MacKimzie,” she allowed. “I should run from this room and have no more to do with you.”

  His eyes were haunted now. “And I should send ye back to the king and Douglas this verra night, and damned be the ransom. Ye’ll be the death of me, lass, even me bones tell me so, just as I know I canna let ye go.”

  Isabella swallowed hard. “Perhaps ’tis best I take my leave then, my lord.”

  A rueful smile curved his mouth. “It will make nae difference. I will only follow after ye.”

  Isabella forced her gaze away to watch the dancers. Acutely aware of his presence beside her, she found she had no will to leave.

  “Will you dance, lady?” he asked, his tone light again. He took her hand and dropped a kiss to her palm.