LORD OF DUNKEATHE by Margaret Moore Page A

these clothes and jewels for your pleasure. You were raised to many the man I choose, and by God, so you shall!"
    Joscelind's eyes filled with tears from the pain. "I want my husband to be of use to you," she whimpered as he released her. "How can he be if he lives in this wilderness?"
    "Because a man who can lead an army out of Scotland may one day have the chance to seize the kingdom. Henry's angering the English nobles by favour ing his wife's French relatives, and one day, he'll go too far. There'll be a rebellion."
    Joscelind regarded her father with a mixture of hope, greed and awe. "You think Nicholas may become the king of England?"
    "Not Nicholas," her father declared, annoyed. "Me. Nicholas can provide men and arms, and he knows how to lead men into battle , so he'll be a very useful ally. If he's my son-in-law, so much the better, for his fate will be tied to mine whether he wills it or no, and he'll have to do his best to see that I prevail.
    "So, while he may seek to sport with that Scotswoman, it's not who the man beds that's important. It's who he weds. He'll marry you, Joscelind, if you make an effort and don't act like a shrew in front of him. You're the most beautiful woman here, and I'm willing to pay a considerable dowry. Sir Nicholas must also be aware of my influence at court."
    "But if he prefers Lady Riona—"
    "I have ways to deal with anyone who gets in the way of my plans. Your part is to do all you can to win him, or I'll marry you to some rich old man and be done with you."
    Joscelind blinked back tears. "Yes, Father," she whispered. "I will."
    CHAPTER FIVE
    RIONA STOOD BESIDE her uncle at the back of the small chapel. It wasn't a large building, yet it had a very beautiful and surely expensive window of coloured glass depicting St. Michael, the warrior angel, winged and carrying a sword. In a niche at the right side stood a lovely statue of the Madonna cradling her infant son. The altar cloth was silk, and the candlesticks silver.
    Riona suspected some of those attending mass were there because it was expected or they felt the need to impress their host. Sir George stood as close to the door as possible, as if he wanted to make a speedy exit, and Sir Percival yawned prodigiously throughout the service.
    Some of the ladies were probably making petitions to Heaven and whatever saints might be listening to be selected as Sir Nicholas's bride. Riona, however, prayed for an end to the lust Sir Nicholas inspired within her, and the strength to keep her distance, as she should have done last night.
    Her gaze strayed to their host, who was wearing a different black tunic of coarser wool. He was at the front of the chapel, beside Lady Joscelind and her father.
    No wonder she'd dreamed of a black cat, for once again, he stood nearly motionless, watchful and attentive as the elderly priest led them through the service.
    Uncle Fergus nudged her. "There's Fredella," he whispered.
    Startled, and yet happy to have her wayward thoughts interrupted, she followed his gaze. Fredella was standing to the left of Lady Eleanor, who looked as fresh as a spring blossom in a gown of bright blue samite. Her cousin was with them.
    Fredella looked over her shoulder, smiled and blushed when she saw Uncle Fergus, who lifted his hand and waggled his fingers in a shy sort of wave, as if they were two youngsters instead of a mature man and woman.
    Riona looked down to hide her smile as the holy service came to an end. It had been over ten years since Uncle Fergus's wife had died. He had grieved a long time, as had all who'd known the kind, gentle Muire-all, and she wouldn't begrudge him another chance for happiness. Neither, she was sure, would Kenneth, especially if he thought his father's new wife would curb his overly generous hospitality.
    "Thank God that's over," Sir George muttered in a voice loud enough for everyone around him to hear. "I'm parched."
    Lady Eloise, who stood beside him, gave him a warning look.
    "Last night