Tamed by the Barbarian. June Francis

      ‘Where any sensible person is at this time of night—in his bed. Now, don’t wriggle. I will release you if you promise to sit still and listen to me.’

      She considered what he’d just said and calmed down. ‘You mean you’ll tell me what you were doing creeping out of the kitchen?’

      ‘I heard banging and wondered at first if it was some misguided traveller, who had lost his way and come seeking shelter,’ he said smoothly, not wanting to frighten her. ‘I had fallen asleep and had no idea what watch of the night it was when I woke. Not wanting to disturb those sleeping in the hall by opening the main door, and uncertain whether the traveller would be a friend or foe, I decided to make for the kitchen door. When I looked outside I realised that any traveller would have to be a madman to be out on such a night.’ His expression was grim. ‘It appears I will not be going anywhere in the morning.’

      ‘The snow might not be as deep as we fear,’ she said quickly.

      ‘Perhaps. I pray so. My enemies will take my land if I am delayed here too long.’ She wondered who his enemies were, but did not ask because he was speaking again. ‘What set you to wandering about the house?’ he asked.

      ‘The wind had blown my shutter loose and woke me up. I managed to fix it. I realised how hungry I was and came in search of food.’

      ‘Of course, you missed your supper. There is still food aplenty.’ She caught the gleam of his strong teeth in the firelight and the arms constraining her slackened.

      She shot off his knee as if stung. ‘Don’t let me keep you from your bed, Lord Mackillin.’

      She put some distance between them by going over to the table and leaning against it. She waited for him to leave the kitchen, but he made no move to do so. Tension stiffened her shoulders and she forced herself to relax and walk over to the fire, where an enormous log slumbered, its underbelly glowing red. She estimated it would last out the night, ensuring a fire would not have to be relit in the morning, a difficult task at times. A few feet away, her favourite mouser twitched in its sleep.

      ‘You remind me of night, all black and silver,’ said Mackillin abruptly.

      His words startled her into staring at him. ‘What did you say?’

      ‘If you did not hear, I will not repeat it.’ He rose to his feet. ‘Sit down by the fire, mistress. I will fetch some bread and fowl. I have slept enough and who is to say that you might not hesitate to knife me if I were to slumber.’ His expressive eyes mocked her.

      Several times he had shocked her by his words, but that he should believe she would stab him as he slept and the idea that he should wait on her were two things not to be tolerated. ‘I would not harm you. Indeed, if you are to extend your stay, you cannot continue to sleep in the hall. You need privacy. As for you fetching and carrying for me…nay, my lord, it is not right.’

      ‘I do not care whether it is right or wrong.’ His tone was adamant. ‘I am not so high and mighty that I cannot serve another. Did Christ not wait on his disciples during the last supper? No doubt the following days and weeks will prove difficult enough for you in the light of your father’s death, so take your ease and do not argue with me. And if you are worried about my hands being dirty, I’ve washed them.’

      He left her to think on that while he fetched food and drink, trying not to dwell on how erotic he found her appearance in her mourning garb. He had to remind himself that she was the daughter of the house and that he could find a far more suitable bride in Scotland. He had almost made up his mind to marry Mary Armstrong. She was the daughter of one of his neighbours, an arrogant man who ruled his household with an iron rod. His wife had died in suspicious circumstances and Mackillin would like to rescue Mary from her father’s house.

      Besides, his mother, the Lady Joan, had been a great friend of Mary’s mother, and she had spoken in favour of such an alliance years ago, although his father had been against it. There had been no love lost between the two men. The disagreement had resulted in one of their quarrels which always ended up with his mother preserving an icy silence towards her husband for days on end. As a young girl she had been carried across Mackillin’s father’s saddlebow on a border raid like a common wench and she had never forgiven him for treating her in such a fashion.

      His mother had found no welcome in her future in-laws’ house, one reason being that she could never forget that she belonged to the highborn English family, the Percys. It was to them Mackillin had been sent after his half-brother, Fergus, had tried to kill him seventeen years ago, when he was eight years old. His Scottish half-brothers had resented him, almost as much as they hated his mother. His upbringing would have been less violent if they had been girls instead of boys, but then he might have stayed home instead of leaving to be educated in Northumberland and indulging his love of boats and travel.

      Cicely decided that perhaps it was best to do what Mackillin said and sat in the chair he vacated. She stretched her cold feet towards the fire, not knowing what to make of the man. What kind of lord was it that waited on a woman? An unusual one who excused his lowly behaviour by speaking of Christ’s humility. She wondered in what other way he would surprise her during his sojourn in her home. What if he ended up staying a sennight or more? She was thankful there was still food in the storeroom: flour, raisins, a side of bacon, salted fish, smoked eel, a little butter, cheese, fresh and bottled fruit, honey, oats and barley. Also, enough logs remained piled high in one of the outhouses. The animals were not forgotten either and there was some straw and hay, as well as corn in the barn.

      She heard a noise and, glancing over her shoulder, saw Mackillin carrying a platter. She rose hastily to her feet. ‘You should not be doing this, Lor—Mackillin,’ she said, taking the platter from him and placing it on the table.

      He ignored her comment and put a napkin and knife beside the platter before leaving the kitchen. She sat down, wondering if he would return. No matter. She was famished and the chicken leg and slices of breast meat looked appetising. She picked up the meat and sank her teeth into it. It tasted so good that she closed her eyes in ecstasy.

      ‘This will wash it down,’ said a voice.

      She opened her eyes and saw that Mackillin was holding a silver-and-glass pitcher of what appeared to be her father’s malmsey, a wine he had called the best in the world. ‘You’ve drunk some of that?’ she asked.

      He nodded. ‘Jack said it would go well with the pears and green cheese.’

      ‘But not chicken,’ she said firmly. ‘We always drink a white wine from a kinsman’s vineyard in Kent with fowl.’

      ‘We had some of that, too.’

      She stared at him suspiciously. ‘My brother was not drunk when he went up to bed, was he?’

      Mackillin raised his eyebrows. ‘Nay, lass, he wasn’t. I drank most of the white wine. Although I have to tell you that I have tasted better. Not your fault, but if I’d known I might be snowed in here, I would have thought of bringing some of my kinsman’s vintage from the Loire, instead of shipping it with a courier to my mother. Still, you have the malmsey and that will do you good.’ He added conversationally, ‘The grape used in making malmsey is from the Monemvasia vine, now grown in Madeira, but native to Greece. Sugar is also cultivated on the island and together they produce this sweet dessert wine.’

      ‘I wanted Father to take me with him on his travels,’ she murmured, watching Mackillin pour the tawny-coloured wine into a beautiful Venetian drinking vessel, which seemed out of place in the kitchen.

      ‘Perhaps one day someone else might take you there,’ he said, handing the glass to her. ‘Bon appetit, Mistress Cicely. I will leave you to enjoy your wine and see you in the morning.’

      She murmured her gratitude, watching him leave the kitchen. He had left the lantern behind, its flame winking on the sparkling glass. Sipping the malmsey, she pondered the unusual behaviour of a certain Scottish lord and sensed it was even more imperative for her peace of mind that he left as soon as possible.