“The man sitting by the hearth?”
“Aye. Mayhap it is for him.”
That only made her more curious. Her father had specifically sent her away, telling her that the Scotsman didn’t need assistance, but perhaps that wasn’t the case. Her dedication to duty demanded she return to that room – and the ill visitor.
“I will bring it,” she said. “Go about your business.”
The servant obeyed. Corisande went to the vault beneath the kitchens where they stored things like meat and butter and anything that did well in cold storage, including the frost wine, which was made from frozen grapes and prized for its sweetness. She found three dusty earthenware bottles, sealed with wax, and brought them up to the kitchens.
Between her and the cook, they managed to dislodge the wax on all three bottles and pour the contents into two big pitchers. With the pitchers and cups on a tray, Corisande headed for her father’s solar once again, grimly determined to be of help. When she reached the chamber door, she didn’t bother to knock.
She walked right in.
The men in the room turned to her, surprised she had made a reappearance, but she ignored them. Anteaus, always the good brother, rushed to help her set the heavy tray upon the table that contained the things their father needed to manage the de Bourne empire. Vellum, quill, and maps were pushed away to make room. A cup with a little ale left at the bottom, old, spilled when Anteaus accidentally knocked it over in his haste.
He wiped it off with his hand.
“My thanks, Cori,” Alastor said, though he didn’t sound pleased. “You did not have to bring this yourself.
Corisande brushed off her hands after having wiped up the remnants of Anteaus’ spill. “I know,” she said, her focus drifting over to the man seated before the hearth. “But this wine is quite… strong. Mayhap our guest should be aware.”
Alastor suspected that she knew it was for the Scotsman. She was obvious about that, and he knew she only wanted to help a man that was clearly in distress, but her presence was starting to annoy him.
“Go, now,” he said. “You may leave us.”
Corisande ignored him. She poured a full measure of the wine into the cup and went to the man on the chair before her father could stop her.
“Here,” she said. “Drink this. It will make you feel better.”
Canmore eyed her, eyed the drink, and his thirst won out over his stubborn pride. Refusal had been written all over his face, but he wanted the drink. He needed it. He snatched it from her with quivering hands and downed nearly half the cup in two big swallows. Licking his lips, he eyed her again.
“There’s no poison in this, is there?” he asked suspiciously.
Corisande cocked an eyebrow. “’Tis a little late to be asking,” she said wryly. “But I will answer your question – of course there is no poison in it. That is a very fine wine from Saxony. It is quite strong, so be cautious.”
Canmore’s gaze lingered on her and took another gulp. “It is a woman’s drink.”
He said it as if that were a bad thing. “I notice that has not stopped you from drinking it,” she said. “Drink it all down. It will help warm and calm you.”
He obeyed and downed the rest of the sweet, tart wine. He seemed quite normal about it until Corisande reached out to take the empty cup. Instead of handing it to her, he grabbed her hand and yanked her hard against him. The cup clattered to the ground and, in an instant, his hairy arm was across her neck.
In an instant, the tables turned. The captive was now in control and the sounds of swords being unsheathed echoed against the walls.
But Canmore was prepared.
“I’ll kill the lass if ye dunna drop yer weapons!” he growled, backing up against the wall next to the hearth and dragging Corisande with him. “Do ye hear me, ye bloody Sassenachs? I’ll kill her if ye dunna do as I say!”
Corisande yelped as he gave her neck a good squeeze and she grasped his arm, trying to keep him from strangling her. All she could see was her father and brothers in front of her, various stages of outrage on their faces and weapons in their hands. Ares was positively red with fury. But her father forced them to back away and she found herself looking at Cole de Velt.
He moved to stand right in front of her, absolutely fearless.
“I did not think you were this stupid, Canmore,” he said in that deep, grumbling tone. “You disappoint me. My father still holds your wife. If you release Lady Corisande, I will not tell him of this, but if you refuse, I will send word to my father about your behavior. It will not go well for your wife.”
Canmore was trembling all over, his edgy gaze glaring at the man with the unusual eyes. “Ye’ll send word tae yer father tae release her or I’ll snap this lass’ neck and ye’ll no’ be able tae do a thing about it. Do as I say!”
Cole didn’t move. His gaze was fixed on Canmore like a hunter sighting prey – unblinking, unmoving. After a moment, he smiled, but it was humorless.
And terrifying.
“Give her to me and I will not tell my father what you have done,” he repeated. “If you do not, do you want me to describe what my father will do to your wife? And do you wish for me to describe what will happen to you? I hope pain is something you enjoy because you will have your fill of it. And so will your wife.”
Canmore’s trembling seemed to grow worse and his grip on Corisande tightened. “Ye dirty, lying bastard,” he said. Then, he looked around the chamber at the faces gazing back at him, but he mostly focused on Alastor. “All of ye are dirty bastards. De Bourne, I made ye a fair offer and this is how ye repay me? Do ye no’ realize that the Northmen are coming tae reclaim their lands? If ye dunna stand with them, ye’ll die. All of ye will die.”
“You first,” Alastor growled.
Canmore sighed heavily, his nasty breath on Corisande’s neck. “Ye’re the descendants of the Bloodaxe,” he said as if the man were a dolt. “These lands belong tae ye. How can ye no’ want what is yer due? We’re offering tae help ye. Can ye no’ see that, ye fool?”
Alastor stepped forward, standing next to Cole. “’Tis you who are the fool, Canmore,” he said. “I do not know who has been feeding you tales of victory, but this is a battle you cannot win. There is a whole massive country to the south with thousands of men who will come north and drive you and your Northmen allies back into Scotland. They’ll drive you all back into the sea.”
“Tis our right!”
“’Tis madness.”
Canmore’s mouth was working furiously. “This was once the land of the Picts, long ago,” he said. “The Northmen came and took Lindisfarne and Berwick, and they ruled for many years in the north. They are willing tae share this land with us – and ye. Yer bloodlines come from the last King of Northumbria. Eric Bloodaxe was a bloody ruler, a strong ruler. Would he no’ want ye tae reclaim yer right?”
They were arguing the contents of Alpin’s missives to Alastor for all to hear. This was everything he’d sent to Alastor in those hastily scribbled missives he’d been sending over the past year. But Alastor was grateful for the opportunity to discuss them because he wanted to make it clear to Alpin, as well as his allies, where he stood.