Page 6

Fergus MacLeod sat at the head of the table, tearing into the meal with all the grace of a starving boar.

Davina had hoped the stale bread and common pottage might dull his appetite or offend his expectations.

No such luck. So long as the ale flowed freely, the man hardly noticed what passed his lips.

Rosselyn sat quietly on the bench along the wall, across from Davina, her posture attentive, though her eyes remained lowered.

She played her part well. Normally, Davina dined shoulder-to-shoulder with her household, laughing and sharing stories, treating staff and kin alike.

But with MacLeod here, the charade of station and propriety resumed. Just for tonight.

The glutton drained the last of the ale and thunked the tankard down. The young maid, Beatrice—barely fifteen—rushed in from the serving room with a fresh jug and replaced the empty one with trembling hands.

MacLeod’s eyes followed her retreat, lingering far too long.

“So, how was your journey from…” Davina tilted her head, ta pping her chin in mock thought. “Oh, I forget. Where is it you hail from again?”

“Inverness.” MacLeod’s tone soured, heavy with disapproval.

“Oh, that’s far, isn’t it?” She widened her eyes with false innocence.

He snorted. “Aye, lass. Three, four days’ ride, give or take.”

“My goodness.” Davina sipped her ale, hiding her distaste behind the rim. If being a simpleton kept him from asking the right questions, she’d play the part.

MacLeod grabbed a crust of bread and dunked it with a grunt. “Business no’ so good, then?”

She blinked. “I beg your pardon?” She leaned forward, her expression poised.

“I expected a better meal than this.”

Davina smiled with practiced sweetness. “I would’ve gladly prepared a feast, but my husband failed to mention your visit. We’d no time to ready a finer spread.”

“Ah, well,” he said with mock humility, scratching at his neck. Then he glanced sidelong at her. “I did send a missive more ’an a month ago. I’ll be sure to remind him next time—aye?”

“He’s a busy man,” she said, her tone lighter than the lie it carried. “I’m sure it just slipped his mind. I’m terribly sorry we didn’t have better fare for you.”

MacLeod leaned in, thick fingers patting her knee. The contact sent a jolt up her spine, and she nearly dropped her spoon.

“Nay need tae apologize, lass.”

His hand lingered too long. She slid her knee away, gaze dropping to her plate as though she hadn’t noticed.

“’Tis a shame yer bed’ll be cold this eve.”

Davina smiled without warmth. “Oh, you needn’t fret about that, sir. Rosselyn here does a masterful job of keeping my bed warm.” She winked at her handmaid.

Rosselyn bit back a laugh, her eyes twinkling.

MacLeod’s brows shot up. “She what?” He looked to Rosselyn, scandal widening his eyes. “Why, ‘tis unnatural!”

Davina tilted her head, feigning confusion. Her eyes darted between them. “What’s so unnatural about putting coals in a bedwarmer, sir?”

“Oh. A bedwarmer, ye say.” He cleared his throat awkwardly. “No, aye… Ye’re right. I just… Ne’er mind.”

Davina hummed thoughtfully and resumed eating, smug behind her spoon. Rosselyn’s lips twitched.

MacLeod, seated indecently close to Davina’s right, slouched on one elbow, swirling his ale. The glint of mischief in his eyes dimmed into something darker.

“Lady Davina,” he drawled, taking a slow drink. “Ye’ve a beauty tae rival angels. Tell me—how does a woman like yerself manage in a house so…empty?”

She stiffened but kept her expression even. “I manage well enough, Mr. MacLeod. My household is far from empty.”

He chuckled, leaning in, his breath sour with drink. “Aye, but with yer hoosband away so oft. Must get lonely, eh?”

His fingers brushed hers beneath the table—slow, deliberate. Not a mistake. Not this time.

Davina snapped her hand back, her tone turning to ice. “My people are all the company I need.”

MacLeod smirked, undeterred. “Ah, but I’d wager a woman like ye still longs for a man’s touch now and again. The warmth of it. The strength.” He reached for the jug of ale and tipped it toward her cup, despite the fact she’d barely sipped from it.

Her hand came down over her mug, steady and firm. “I’ve had enough, thank you.”

Rosselyn’s gaze flicked from across the room, silent and alert, reading the shift in the air. MacLeod was pushing his luck—and Davina’s patience.

He shrugged and filled his own tankard instead, ale sloshing over the rim. “Pity. There’s fire in ye, Lady Davina. A real blaze. Shame to waste it on an empty hall and cold nights. I could keep ye warm, ye ken.”

His fingers crept toward the armrest of her chair, brushing the carved edge with the presumptive ease of a man who’d gotten his way too many times.

Davina stood, the scrape of her chair harsh in the heavy silence. “That’s enough, MacLeod,” she snapped. “You forget yourself.”

He blinked, momentarily startled, then chuckled. “Ah, forgive me, my lady. Only mean to flatter. A woman like ye must be used to kind words.”

Davina turned to her handmaid. “To the kitchen with you now, Rosselyn. We’ve had enough entertainment for one night.”

Rosselyn slipped through the serving door, her eyes never leaving MacLeod.

Davina remained standing, posture stiff as a post.

“Mr. MacLeod,” she said slowly. “I doubt you’d speak so freely if my husband were sitting at this table.”

He gave a dry laugh. “But he isnae, lassie.”

Then he reached—brazen and unrepentant—for her backside.

Davina slapped his hand away, the crack of the blow echoing like a bullwhip between them.

“That’s quite enough. I’ll have my guards escort you to your room.”

“Oh, no need f’that.” He drained his tankard with a sloppy gulp, then let out a long, echoing belch that turned Davina’s stomach.

He waved her off, weaving slightly. “I kin find me own way tae that wee guest room ye shoved me in. Horrible hosssspitality, I say. Yer hoosb’nd’ll hear— hiccup —all ‘bout it.”

“Then I’ll leave that between you and my husband.”

Davina turned on her heel and stormed through the serving room, slamming the door behind her as she entered the kitchen. Rosselyn and the rest of the staff stood at attention, anxious expressions waiting for her command.

“You.” Davina pointed at the kitchen maid, who paled under her gaze. “Stay away from that wretched man. Do you hear me?”

“Aye, milady.” The girl nodded quickly, a breath of relief escaping her lips.

“I don’t want any of you entering the Great Hall until he’s gone to bed. If he passes out in there, leave him—and the mess—until the morrow. And if he summons any of you to his room for any reason, you take one of the gate guards with you. Understood?”

“Aye, milady,” came the chorus.

Davina huffed. “I’ll alert the guards before I retire.” With Rosselyn trailing behind, she muttered, “Vile man. Rosselyn, I’ll see you upstairs.”

Her handmaid nodded and they set off in opposite directions. Davina marched across the courtyard to the gatehouse, where she issued her instructions edged with impatience. Their nods were solemn, their posture stiff.

On her way back through the foyer, she caught sight of MacLeod—still at the high table, sloshing more ale into his tankard with all the grace of a cow. She shook her head and climbed the stairs.

In her chambers, Rosselyn was already laying out the nightclothes and setting the bed warmer with glowing coals.

“Shall I warm your bed for you, milady?” Rosselyn asked, giggling as she slid the copper pan beneath the blankets.

Davina laughed. “Did ye see the look on his face?” She dropped her voice an octave. “’Tis unnatural.”

They both dissolved into laughter, the tension finally lifting.

“What you should’ve done was dump the pitcher of ale on his head when he reached for you,” Rosselyn muttered, emptying the coals back into the hearth before hanging the pan on its hook.

“Don’t think I didn’t want to,” Davina said, unfastening her belt. “But the last thing we need is the trouble he might stir up.”

“I suppose you’re right.” Rosselyn helped Davina undress down to her shift. “Shall I bring you some tea afore you bed down?”

“Nay.” Davina kissed Rosselyn’s cheek. “Go on to bed and get some rest. We’ve all had a trying day.”

Though Rosselyn served as her handmaid now, she’d once been the girl tugging Davina’s braids and sneaking honeyed oats from the kitchen. Myrna’s daughter and her equal in every way that mattered, she was more sister than servant—Davina’s only true confidante.

Davina slipped between the warm covers, sighing as the heat soaked into her weary limbs. She hugged the quilt to her chin, her thoughts spinning.

MacLeod’s arrival had unsettled more than just the staff. Her husband had removed any locks she’d had on her doors, but since his absence, she hadn’t needed locks since threats to her were gone. Now she wished they’d been installed.

She closed her eyes, praying the brute passed out cold—and left before dawn, as he claimed he would.

∞∞ ∞

Broderick moved like a shadow through the mist-choked streets of Stewart Glen.

The crooked buildings loomed above him, their weathered beams and stone facades pressing inward as if judging his presence.

He walked tall, unbothered, meeting their silent scrutiny with the confidence of a predator in familiar territory.

Men like Davina’s husband weren’t rare—they were the rot that festered in plain sight. And where there was rot, there was feeding to be done.

The night was damp and thick, the fog swallowing color and sound alike. His footsteps made no sound on the cobblestones as he slipped between pools of lantern light.