her dowry. But curse the Fates, he’d been in a foul mood by then.
He did not appreciate her looks of wide-eyed horror. Today’s scrambling exit to escape with the bold lie of the eating knife was the last straw. As long as he celebrated the holiday at Domhnaill Keep when it overflowed with visitors from all over the Highlands, he would use the time to seek another wife to fatten his coffers and fill his bed.
But first, he would open Helene’s eyes to what she missed in running from him. Indeed, he would take great pleasure in such a diversion. It was the holiday season after all. Enticing a delectable maid to forget her reservations would be a gift beyond measure.
He just needed to find a way to seek her out alone. Preferably under cover of night so he could whisper to her in the darkness. That way, she would not know she spoke to the fearsome Highland lord who had unwittingly caused the death of his first wife. Helene would think she merely conversed with another suitor, a circumstance which she might greet with eagerness given her obvious aversion to him.
Nay, she would not run from him again. Tonight, he would ensure she came to him instead. Once he had her—alone and unprotected—he would soothe his wounded pride with the taste of her lips. Her first flush of passion.
Only then, when she panted sweetly beneath him wouldhe consider today’s slight assuaged. It was a fitting retribution. Considering his reputation for slaying his brides, stealing a feel of Lady Helene’s sweet treasures was hardly a high price for the hardhearted maid to pay.
Chapter 2
A woman could starve to death for the sake of her pride.
Helene paced in her chamber later that evening while the rest of the keep danced and played games for the Twelfth Night festivities. Every now and then, when she dared to move the tapestry away from the room’s lone window, she could hear the sweet strings of the clàrsach harp drifting on the icy breeze of a coming snowstorm. She could also smell the roasted fowl and boar meat that made her mouth water and her belly angry that she had been too much of a coward to walk to the great hall with Léod.
A knock at her door distracted her from her disgruntled musings.
“Yes?” She tucked the tapestry back over the casement and hurried to her chamber door, hopeful her mother had brought her a trencher left over from the meal.
Her father had sent a servant to check on her earlier when she’d not appeared at the table, but Helene had sent a message back saying she did not feel well. She walked a fine line with Léod when she made excuses not to speak with him or spend time with him. Helene feared returning to the great hall after her abrupt leave-taking tonight in the event he—or her father—would upbraid her for her behavior.
They did not understand what it was like to lose their freedom—possibly their life—to a mad Highland laird.
Wrenching open the door to the tower hallway beyond, Helene found no one. Yet a tray sat at her feet, carefully arranged with three sugared figs and a small parchment scroll.
Curious.
She strained her eyes in the flickering shadows cast by the weak tapers on the far ends of the corridor and failed to find any hint of who had left the small pewter tray or the treats within. Bending to retrieve the gift, she gobbled a fig and moved deeper into her chamber to unroll the parchment. Someone had cut the piece to size and it lacked a wax seal. She simply needed to press the curling edges apart to read the missive within.
I missed seeing you at sup. There is a full tray keeping warm in the mead house if you would like a meal. I only want to speak with you before you are wed and I have lost the chance forever. If you fear for your safety, bring one of the hounds from the hall.
No signature followed.
Helene dropped the parchment and tugged open the doorway to look out into the corridor once more, but the hall remained as silent as ever save the far-off sounds of the clàrsach. The sweet wail of the instrument echoed the swirl of unnamed emotions in her breast. Bereft at the thought of disappointing her father and—more so—her mother, who did not deserve a disobedient maid for a daughter. Indignant at the thought of being betrothed to a murderous lord who demanded utter submission from his people. But more than anything else, she felt the quick race of daring in her blood to defy them all. With a dirk in her garter and a hound at her side, why should she not venture to the mead house for a meal provided by an admiring stranger? Lady Cristiana of Domhnaill had not invited ruffians to her Twelfth Night festivities save one Léod mac Ruadhán. So who would dare accost Helene on the lands of their wealthy and generous hostess?
Helene slid a dagger into the band about her hose and fluffed the train of her gown to ensure it remained hidden. She peered into a small looking glass to find her cheeks flushed with high color and her eyes bright with hopefulness. Ah, she had forgotten the rush of blood through the veins at the thought of a stolen kiss by a handsome man. There had been a time she had looked forward to betrothal and the kind of union that brought other women pleasure. But that had been before she’d learned what awaited her in the marriage bed was not the bliss
Tossing a woolen cloak about her shoulders for the short walk beyond the main keep, Helene scurried out the door of her chamber and down the drafty halls, careful to remain in the shadows even though all of the guests appeared to be within the great hall. The sounds of laughter and music grew louder as she reached the main floor, then quieted again when she hastened toward an exit out into the courtyard. She peered about for a likely hound to accompany her—the scroll’s suggestion had been a good one—but the cagey beasts must all have found refuge in the great hall where bones would be plentiful after the feast.
Undaunted, Helene shoved open a wooden door guarded by two of Domhnaill’s men-at-arms. Engaged in a dice game, neither man spoke to her since both appeared as deep in their cups as any holiday reveler. She drew her hood farther over her head and braved a gently falling snow to cross the smooth stones near the entrance to the keep. Bonfires dotted the landscape as other men-at-arms kept their vigils and celebrated the season at the same time. The scent of burning pine and oak mingled, both sweet and pungent, in the crisp, cold air. Her heart eased at the sight of so many sentries about. Despite the lack of a hound to protect her, she would be safe.
Besides, if anything seemed amiss, she would simply take the tray and depart. She was starving, after all.
Arriving at the mead house, she could smell the fragrant honey and clover in the air from the brewing vessels within. The Domhnaill clan made the best mead in all of Scotland and the hope of receiving the sought-after libation brought guests from far and wide for Lady Cristiana’s winter revel. Now, Helene stepped inside the darkened structure lit only by an untended blaze at the back of the room where a cauldron hung low over banked heat. The dull glow of hot ashes and a few short blue flames was not enough to reveal much of her surroundings and Helen kept the outer door open to the moonlight for a moment while her eyes adjusted.
“You came.” A soft masculine whisper drifted over her though the voice emanated from a place far off.
The sound felt unearthly and very real at the same time, sending a shiver along her spine.
“Who’s here?” she demanded, tensing. She was grateful to be standing so close to the door in case she needed to run.
“The bearer of your dinner,” was the reply. The voice seemed calm and steady, as if the man behind it reclined in a distant chair and made no move toward her. “I left it by the fire so it would stay warm.”
Was it her hunger, or could she suddenly smell roast duck and a rich glaze? Her grip on the door loosened, her gaze sweeping over the room’s dark corners in the hope of finding her mysterious host.
“I would prefer to eat here in case I do not like your company, sir.” Although, truth be told, she rather liked his voice. Warmth and confidence lurked in his tone. A vital man rather than a boy.
“Then you shall remain hungry, for you must retrieve it yourself from the middle of the room. For my part, I have promised myself I will not move from my perch