Page 12

Duncan muttered a curse, throwing down the last bit of trencher. “What did you want me to do, then? Cleave them in half for speaking to her?”

Kinnon only looked at him, reproach heavy in his eyes. Then he shook his head with a snort and went back to his food.

Duncan tried to shrug off the gloom and concentrate on his meal, but he found that the crude conversation that had begun again between the men at the end of the table suddenly irritated him to the point of distraction.

Throwing a baleful glare at Kinnon, he lurched to his feet and growled, “Enough! You two—” he pointed at the plump Dougal and his wiry companion.

“Get out to the courtyard and polish the rusty swords. Now!”

The men leaped to their feet, bits of bannock cake and oat broth dribbling from their beards. They had the temerity to look ill-used, blinking and mumbling in feigned innocence, until Duncan followed his command with a wordless bellow that sent them tripping and scuffling out of the great hall.

Sitting back in his chair, Duncan picked up his bread again. He paused with it halfway to his mouth, then threw it down again. Tilting his mug to his lips, he drank deep before slamming it to the table.

Kinnon brushed a few crumbs from his fingers, taking time to sop up the last of his broth before tilting his gaze to Duncan. “A bit testy today, are we?”

Duncan made a scoffing sound. “Eating tasteless food tends to have that affect on a man.” He cut him a glare. “Of course you’re an exception to that.”

Kinnon skirted the gibe. “It’s not Bridgid’s fault that the larders hold little more than oats and kale.

The men have become lazy for the hunt. And the MacLeods have not been properly intimidated by your return.

They keep stealing our livestock, to test us.

We must take action against them soon.” Kinnon swung his leg over the bench and stood up.

“And yet much as those clans be thorns in our sides, it is not they, nor the poor food that be chafing at you this morning, Duncan.”

Duncan contested Kinnon’s cool gaze with a lift of his brow. “Nay? Then pray sit back down, cousin, and give me the true reason.”

“I do not need to sit to tell you what any eyes but your own can see. MacDonell or no, you took in yon girl as your leman, and you’re not in the habit of allowing anyone in your service to suffer mistreatment—unless you be the one offering it, of course.

You didn’t help her when she might have used your influence just now, and that’s what’s sticking in your craw, cousin. ”

With that, Kinnon nodded and started toward the door, but as he strode away, he called over his shoulder in challenge, “Then again, you’re the laird. Think on it as you wish.”

Duncan scowled and stared back into his empty cup as Kinnon left the hall.

Laird . Aye, he was the leader of the wild MacRaes.

But his men were more apt to carouse than fight, and as added insult he’d been cursed with a slip of a woman who looked the picture of her depraved sister while behaving like either a shrewish magpie or a timid mousie.

Just then Bridgid charged by with a platter of steaming oat pudding. Before he would let himself think too much more about what he wanted to do, he pulled her aside.

“Get the MacDonell woman back here. I need to tell her something.”

“Ach, don’t we all! But I don’t know where she’s taken herself off to.” Her voice thick with sarcasm, Bridgid added, “One of her kind, perhaps she’s taking a beauty rest—or could be that she’s out wandering the edge of the loch to let the sea breeze flow through her hair.”

Duncan sighed and pushed himself away from the table. It was clear that he’d not be getting much assistance from his bailie . He tried to look stern. “When you see her, tell her I need to speak with her tonight.”

Bridgid nodded and started away to her tasks, but Duncan stopped her again. “And keep her occupied in the kitchens today. Somewhere away from the men.”

Rolling her gaze skyward, Bridgid stomped off, muttering about coddled brats under her breath.

Duncan scowled as he set off to find Kinnon.

He stepped out into the misting rain and breathed deep, flexing his hand within its leather glove to ease the ache that the damp brought to the poorly mended bones.

He could waste no more time on troublesome women.

His cousin had been right when he’d warned of the unrest among the neighboring clans.

He needed to contact the MacKenzie soon and make plans for stemming the growing problems, or it seemed likely that the question of how to handle Aileana MacDonell would soon prove to be the least of his worries.

Shadows had fallen over the waters of Loch Duich by the time Duncan allowed himself to consider taking his rest for the day.

The rain had dissipated by late morning; now the setting sun tinted the billowing clouds pink and gold, finally fading to smoky violet as he called a halt to the sparring and war practice he’d overseen for most of the afternoon.

The evening meal had taken place in virtual silence. Kinnon was wrapped in his own thoughts, and the others were so exhausted from the day’s activity that they’d barely kept their heads steady above their venison stew.

Duncan smiled wryly and chewed the end of a narrow bone.

At least his frustrations had had one positive result today; he’d managed to incite a sort of terrified enthusiasm for the hunt.

Many of the men had chosen to take to the wood rather than face him in the hand-to-hand fighting he’d pressed on any that decided to remain at the castle.

The reward had been three fine bucks and a doe, with meat aplenty for Bridgid to make several hearty meals in the kitchen.

Yet for all of his efforts, the most difficult task still lay ahead of him. At the top of the curved steps, in what used to be the haven of his bedchamber, Aileana MacDonell lay in wait to ruin his sleep for a second night in a row.

He stole a wistful glance toward the end of the hall. Several of his people sat around the massive fireplace to hear the clan senachie tell tales of battles fought during times of old, when the MacRaes had first pledged their allegiance to the great MacKenzie overlords.

The bard painted a glorious picture of Duncan’s ancestor, Lachlan MacRae, who’d joined in a bloody battle when the MacKenzie was protecting Wester Ross from the MacDonalds; Lachlan killed many in the conflict, crowning his victory by slaying a MacDonald chief.

Then he sat on the body in the middle of the battlefield.

When the MacKenzie saw him there and asked why he fought no more, Lachlan had replied that if everyone killed as many MacDonalds as he had that day, the MacKenzies would win the day.

Duncan frowned. Would that he’d been so sensible in his response when Robert MacDonell had asked him if he wanted to take Aileana in payment for Gavin’s crimes.

His mouth tightened. But stubbornness had prevailed over common sense, inciting him to meet the challenge with one of his own.

Greedy for revenge, he’d added insult to the harm he was about to inflict.

And now he was stuck with Aileana MacDonell because of it.

There was nothing redeeming about this mess.

He couldn’t even bed her. Memories of the evil her clan had wrought made that unthinkable.

Yet at the same time, Kinnon was right in believing that his conscience wouldn’t allow him to stand idle while others abused or insulted her. Revenge or no, he couldn’t stomach it.

He clenched his jaw and looked down at his right hand, flexing it against the warm, smooth leather of his glove. Aye, it was a fine mess. And there was no way out of it that he could see, save finding a way to make Aileana MacDonell give him the Ealach and go home.

The sound of laughter pulled him from his thoughts, and he looked again toward the gathering at the hall’s end. One of the village wenches had hopped onto Angus’s lap and was winding her arms round his neck in invitation.

A pang shot through him. For thirteen years in the hell of the Tower he’d longed for such warmth.

Not only for the release to be found in a woman’s softness, though that need drove him the same as any man.

Nay, more, even, he’d ached for the simple want of touch, the peace to be found in a loving woman’s embrace.

He craved the perfect sense of belonging he’d been so close to knowing with Mairi before she’d been killed.

He’d loved Mairi in the way of youth, the emotion sharp and sweet, but it had never come to full fruition.

When he’d returned from captivity, he’d sought out female companionship, eager to feel again, to have something other than the grinding pain of regret and vengeance twisting in his gut.

But every time he looked into their faces he’d seen it.

The shadow of fear. His scarred face and ruined hand made them shudder.

Nay, being with women only left him feeling more alone and more aware of the truth—that if Nora or Tyra or any of the other women warmed his bed, it was due to their respect for his position as the MacRae or the pleasure he might give them, nothing more.

More laughter and cheers rose from the senachie ’s corner, and Duncan pushed himself to his feet.

He had to leave. Self-pity was an emotion he rarely indulged, and that he had just now surprised him.

But he couldn’t afford to dwell on the past; his present difficulties demanded attention and would wait no longer.