The Countess (7 page)

The wolf snarled at her, and seemed to coil itself to spring. It was clearly not a stupid creature, for it had associated the bird's dive with freshly killed meat. Eglantine had heard many old tales of the cleverness of wolves, though she had never seen one. They had been driven from Crevy more than a century before.

Were they truly as fearsome as reputed? Did she have any options to save Melusine?

“It takes a particular kind of fool to step between a wolf and his meal.”

Duncan MacLaren's words nigh made Eglantine jump from her skin. She spun to find him leaning against a tree, watchful and amused. Despite that, he looked no less wily, unpredictable and dangerous than the wolf.

And no less inclined to pounce.

Jacqueline and the boys stood behind him, Jacqueline holding the reins of the steeds. Duncan evidently noted her glance for he shook his head. “I forbade them to come further. You are in peril here.”

There was no heat in his words and he seemed more interested in studying the wolf.

“Are they as vicious as repute?”

His voice was deceptively soft. “Aye, when cornered, when hungered, when tempted.”

“But I cannot leave Melusine to fare for herself. Her tether is caught, it inhibits her ability to defend herself, and that tether adorns her at my behest.” Eglantine met Duncan's gaze, noting that he seemed surprised by her words. “How does one deceive a wolf?”

His smile was not without admiration. “Are you not afraid?”

“I am terrified. The beast seems wrought to fight, but that changes naught of my responsibility.”

He pulled out his knife, cleaned its blade on his chemise. His eyes gleamed with intent and he looked grimly purposeful. “'Tis not a task for a lady,” he murmured, then moved with the same swift grace as the wolf. “Restrain your dogs.”

The creature seemed to sense that it had met its match, for it crouched warily. The other three wolves backed away slightly, their poses wary. Melusine flapped and struggled as Duncan eased toward her. He moved slowly but deliberately, with a grace and economy of movement Eglantine had not expected of him. His boots made no sound on the deadened grass.

When he stood half a dozen paces from the wolf, rabbit and peregrine midway between them, the wolf snarled a warning. It was claiming possession of the meat, of that Eglantine had no doubt.

Duncan stood still so long that Eglantine thought he had frozen in place. Just when she was convinced she could wait no longer, he lunged forward with the speed of lightning.

Duncan kicked the rabbit aside. The wolf leapt after the meat, its teeth flashing, not realizing that Duncan followed. He cut Melusine's tether without missing a step, then fell on the distracted wolf. The bird meanwhile flew high above. The wolf turned and snapped in surprise, but Duncan snatched at its snout and held it closed with one powerful hand. He drove his knife into its chest and jerked the blade hard.

The wolf sagged to the ground. Duncan wiped his blade and sheathed it, meeting the gaze of each of the lingering trio of wolves as though challenging them.

They sniffed the air, then melted into the forest once more, becoming one with the shadows so quickly that they might not have been.

Duncan picked up the rabbit, examined it for damage, then offered it to Eglantine. “Your kill, my lady.” He gave her a mocking bow.

And truly, the way he hunted made her activity look frivolous and feminine. “I would have left them the rabbit.”

He snorted. “And taught them that you are a source of food. 'Twould not be long before they entered your camp and feasted as they chose.”

Eglantine had not thought of that. “I would never imagine that a wild creature would be so bold.”

He smiled, then bent to gut the wolf with deft gestures. “They make much of opportunity.”

She whistled and lifted her fist, relieved when Melusine immediately came to her. She hooded the bird and whispered to it, reassured to find it uninjured. She sensed that Duncan was watching her. “You have killed wolves before.”

“Aye. Kill or be killed is often the choice of it.” His eyes twinkled unexpectedly. “I have always preferred the former option.”

“Will the others return?”

“Perhaps. Wolves are not unlike men, in that felling their leader leaves them uncertain how to proceed.”

“I am surprised they do not linger to see what scraps you leave.”

His features hardened. “They do not eat of their own.”

'Twas as though he admired the savage creatures, and truly he seemed to have much in common with them. Perhaps they had an understanding of each other, all these wild creatures and men.

But a measure of civility was required. Eglantine took a deep breath. “I must thank you for your aid, no less for it being unexpected. I should think you would be relieved if I met with misfortune.”

Duncan chuckled at that. “Ah, but my lady, if you were to be killed here, there would be no one to lead your people away.”

There was little she could say to that. She watched him work, curious at the difference in their ways. “Do you intend to eat its meat?”

“Nay. 'Tis strong and unfit for a meal.” She saw that he trimmed the liver, dicing it in his hand before he tossed it toward her dogs. The hounds fell on the raw meat, consuming it with gusto. “There is little loss in giving your dogs a taste for wolf, if your cooks do not mind butchering it for them.”

“Then there is no point in wasting it. I should be glad of the meat and 'twill be good for the dogs.”

“Then 'tis yours.” Leaving the offal on the ground, Duncan slung the wolf's carcass over his shoulder and strode back to her side, looking as though he did such deeds all the time.

The horses shied at the heavy scent of blood, but Jacqueline held their tethers fast. The boys regarded Duncan with undisguised admiration and Eglantine could not completely hide how impressed she was by his courage and skill.

“I will keep only the pelt for myself.” He held the tail toward her, as though daring her to touch it. “'Tis most soft.”

She would not give him the satisfaction of balking at his challenge. Eglantine smiled coolly and touched the fur, its softness making her gasp. 'Twas a thousand shades of silver and grey, thick and luxuriant, the hair so long that her fingers were swallowed by it.

“More than one man has won a woman by offering her a bed heavy with such furs,” Duncan murmured, a predatory gleam in his eyes. Eglantine felt that unwelcome heat of awareness once again, though she strove to hide her response.

She stepped back and eyed him. “Indeed? 'Twould be a simple woman who exchanged her future for no more than a few pelts.” She spun and marched away from him, mounting her steed and leading her party back to the camp. He strode along with them, silent and watchful, and she could not shake the sense that she had been rescued from one predator by another.

* * *

Duncan could not make sense of the fact that the countess would have sacrificed herself to save the bird. For a moment, he had believe that her heart was not wrought of stone, that she had some compassion in her soul.

But then he realized the truth. A trained peregrine was an expensive frippery that none would be anxious to lose. Perhaps it had been a gift from a doting admirer, and she would have to answer for its loss.

Either way, she held the investment dear. And she was clearly one who loved the hunt at all costs, for this was not a morn that many would have ventured forth. 'Twas wet and damp, a morn that would have been better spent abed. Preferably abed with a dozen wolf pelts and a willing wench with soft thighs.

He wondered how soft Eglantine's thighs might be. Something heated in her gaze when he made suggestive commentary, the sight doing much to heat his own blood.

That she could bestow such a simmering glance, then put him out of her mind—as she clearly had—was sobering though. He had called her nature aright that first moment. She was manipulative, cold and selfish.

He had best remember as much the next time she granted him such a look.

They neared the awakening camp in silence as a child's cry rent the air. The countess turned her steed, seeking the child, her frustrated expression an ominous portent of that child's fate.

“Esmeraude!” she muttered, her expression furious.

The countess Eglantine dismounted with smooth economy, flung her reins to a servant, then strode toward the wailing child. She moved with lightning speed and was far closer to the child than he. Duncan cast aside the wolf carcass and darted after her, noting that even the maid bouncing the toddler looked alarmed by her lady's arrival.

If the countess struck that child, Duncan should see her pay!

“Give her to me,” Eglantine commanded, much to the evident astonishment of the maid.

Closer proximity revealed that the child was richly garbed. She must be the unhappy toddler he had seen carried not far behind the countess upon her arrival.

Was this the lady's own child? If so, 'twas appalling—though not surprising—that her own babe was naught but an inconvenience to her.

“Enough is enough,” declared the countess. The wide-eyed maid surrendered the child, who took one look at the noblewoman and screamed fit to shatter the ears of all of them.

The child pounded her fists upon the countess and kicked savagely. Her face was red with fury, her temper fearsome. It sounded as though she wailed for “papa” though she was so distraught, 'twas hard to tell.

The child's blows made no apparent impact upon the countess, who stood as though she was wrought of stone. Duncan marveled at this, though he knew he should not be surprised. Surely the lady would be bruised, but she ceded naught to the child.

She must be very angry to so forget her own comfort. Duncan pushed through the gathering throng even more quickly, fearing the worst.

“Esmeraude! Cease this nonsense,” the countess said sternly. “I will no longer tolerate such behavior from my own blood.”

'Twas her child!

But there was no triumph in calling matters aright, for the truth was too sad. Esmeraude clearly did not even recognize her own mother.

This countess must be one who thought others should raise her children. Duncan had never been able to believe that a woman with a shred of compassion could hand off her children after their birth and never trouble herself with them again—but he had seen it, time and again, in the south.

He did not like to see such behavior here. Why this one could barely be weaned, yet the countess was slim and sleek. Clearly she was so vain that she refused to risk her figure in nursing her own child.

The countess gave the toddler a shake. “Esmeraude! We have had enough of these shows of temper.”

Aye, the child could not be suffered to be inconvenient. 'Twas no wonder they all grew to be so cold when they were denied any love as children. Duncan felt his eyes narrow, just as Esmeraude struck her mother's face so hard that she left a red handprint upon the countess' cheek.

The maid gasped and stepped away. The household froze, watching the countess for her inevitable retaliation.

But Duncan would not stand by. He stepped forward to intervene just as the lady put the child abruptly on the ground.

Duncan did not wait to see what she would do. Indeed, he did not so much as look at her. He crouched down beside the child, who was in such a frenzy that she did not even notice his presence. Esmeraude kicked and screamed, as though she would strike unseen adversaries, she bellowed fit to wake the dead.

“Esmeraude,” Duncan said firmly. “Now, there is a name befitting a princess.”

Esmeraude, perhaps all of two summers old, stopped crying at the sound of his voice. She cast a wary eye about herself and immediately spied Duncan. She sat up, eyed him, sniffled and hiccupped. The countess caught her breath, but Duncan would save his condemnation of her choices for later.

Aye, he looked forward to telling the lady his thoughts. He was not one to speak softly when he was angered by injustice—as he was in this moment—and in his experience, women fled weeping when he roared.

Perhaps that would drive the countess back to Nemerres, where she clearly belonged.

But for this moment, Duncan sat down on the grass, leaving a reasonable distance between himself and the child. He took a deep breath and schooled himself to speak gently, for the child had undoubtedly seen enough abuse.

“Aye, I remember a song of a princess named Esmeraude.” He flicked a glance to the flushed and clearly curious child. “Would you like to hear it?”

Esmeraude nodded once, her expression turning coy. She granted him a half-smile, obviously well aware of her own charm, and smoothed her kirtle over her dimpled knees.

Duncan fought to hide his surprise at how young these noblewomen polished their airs. “Well, you cannot cry or you will not hear the words.” He spoke carefully, knowing she would find his French accented and difficult to comprehend. “You shall have to sit quietly or I shall halt the tale.”

Esmeraude's lips pursed as she considered him. She was a pretty child and would undoubtedly become a lovely young woman. Her skin was fair, her face already heart-shaped. Her lips were so red 'twas as though they had been touched by carmine, their shape a perfect cupid's bow. Her eyes, a beguiling blue, were thickly lashed, her tousled curls the shade of flax.

“Tell! Sing now!” she insisted, raising her chin imperiously. This was one accustomed to having her way, of that there could be no doubt.

Duncan supposed he should have expected naught else.

At least, she had ceased to cry. And the countess had not struck the child. That was worth the telling of a tale. He turned to face the sea, rearranged the words to ensure that 'twas indeed about a princess named Esmeraude, then began to sing.

“There was a maiden Esmeraude,

Her fairness paid sweet ode,

In song from outside her abode,