by Gwyn Brodie
"I see. Well, since you've met Kila, I assume you've also had the distinct pleasure of meeting her stepmother, Verona, as well."
He frowned. "To my misfortune, indeed I have. I can hardly tolerate the irritating female."
The earl chuckled. "You'd best get used to her being around, for Verona and her worthless brother, Balfour, will be traveling with you and the lass. According to the missive, she has insisted on being her stepdaughter's chaperone."
Duncan shook his head. "You should hear how she speaks to the lass. She told me at the inn that her stepmother has always treated her badly, but her behavior toward Kila has worsened considerably since her father's death."
Ranulf frowned. "It troubles me to hear so. Aileen can hardly tolerate Verona, and has had, on many occasions, to hold her tongue to keep from speaking her mind."
Duncan shook his head. "I'd no' tell Aileen until they leave here, but the woman cannae stand the sight of me. She didnae want me sitting at the same table as the two of them at the inn, and asked me to move to another seat."
He chuckled. "Which you refused to do, of course."
"Aye, and it displeased her greatly. In fact she left the table, dragging Kila along with her."
Ranulf smiled. "You're correct in no' wanting your sister to ken, for if she did, she would certainly give Verona Murray a tongue lashing over such poor treatment of her younger brother."
Duncan chuckled, knowing it was the truth. It would take a good three weeks travel to reach Whitestag Castle. Could he hold his own tongue so long without telling Lady Murray just what he thought of her arrogance? He wasn't certain. But for Kila's sake, he would at least try to put forward his best behavior. "Now, I'll bid you goodnight."
"Rest well and I'll see you in the morn when we break our fast."
"Betrothed," Duncan murmured beneath his breath, shaking his head, as he made his way down the corridor to his bedchamber. Why had she not told him? Deep in thought, he didn't see his sister until he was nigh upon her. Aileen was a wee lass with the top of her head reaching only an inch or so above his elbow.
"Well, did you have no intention of telling your own flesh and blood goodnight?" she teased.
He grinned, then grabbed her about the waist, spun her around, and planted a kiss on her smooth cheek.
"Duncan MacDonell put me down!" she scolded, while trying to control her obvious amusement.
He gently set her on the floor, then noticed the earl standing down the corridor, a broad grin on his face. He truly loved Aileen, of that Duncan was certain, for he'd seen that same look of affection on Kade's, Galen's and Cin's faces whenever they looked at their own wives.
"I bid you goodnight, Countess," he said, dramatically bowing before her.
She chuckled, and patted his cheek, just as she did when he was a wee lad. "I must say, life at Stonehill Keep is never dull when you're about, dear brother."
A few minutes later, Duncan was in his bedchamber, undressed and sprawled across the bed on his back. He raked his fingers through his hair and stared up at the ceiling. He couldn't understand why Kila hadn't told him about her betrothal when he had kissed her that night at the inn. He was attracted to her, he'd not deny it. He blew out a breath. Saints above! How would he ever keep his distance from the tempting lass for three whole weeks?
AS THEY RODE INTO STONEHILL Keep, Kila could hardly control her excitement at seeing the earl and countess again. As a child, she'd visited them often with her parents, and had always been treated like a member of the family. Since marrying Verona, her father had visited less often, and Kila had truly missed them.
As they stepped into the entry, beautifully decorated with greenery and flowers, the countess saw them from across the room and headed their way. Her mass of dark curls had been twisted atop her head and secured with several shell combs. The lavender gown and matching slippers she wore were exquisite, but it was the gold necklace with the purple stone hanging around her neck that drew Kila's attention. She remembered the countess telling her mother the earl had given it to her on their wedding day.
"Kila, 'tis so good to see you," she said, hugging her, and giving her a peck on her cheek. "Ranulf and I were in France and didnae learn of your father's untimely death until recently." She shook her head. "He looked in such good health the last time we saw him, 'twas a shock, indeed."
Kila nodded, fighting back her tears.
The countess suddenly smiled. "You've grown into such a beautiful young woman, the spitting image of your dear departed mother, God rest her soul."
She curtsied. "You look lovely as well, Countess." She wasn't used to hearing such kind words since her father's death. He had told her often how much she reminded him of her mother, whom he had greatly loved.
"Much thanks, Kila. I'm so glad you're here," she said, patting her arm, before turning her attention to Verona. "The earl and I are most pleased you were able to arrive in time for the festivities tonight, Lady Murray."
Balfour stood behind his sister, his gaze fastened on the pretty, young, fair-haired servant girl waiting nearby. No doubt he'd have her in his bed before their stay was over. Aye, he had a way with the lasses', but they didn't know him the way she did. He was cold and heartless, and could be quite cruel, when he wished to be.
Verona bestowed her sweetest smile upon the countess. "Aye, as are we. Your wonderful ceilidhs are spoken of far and wide, Countess."
She was visibly pleased with Verona's compliment—however insincere Kila knew it to be. "Much thanks." She motioned to the servant girl, who stepped forward under Balfour's lustful gaze. "You must be exhausted. Maggie will show you to your bedchambers, before seeing to your belongings. The ceilidh starts promptly at six-o'clock, and you'll wish to be well rested beforehand, for there will be much music and dancing, as well as a great deal of food. Now, if you will excuse me, I must see how the preparations are coming along," she said over her shoulder, as she headed toward the great hall.
Kila smiled, feeling happier than she had for a long while, and followed Verona and Maggie up the stairs. The lady of the keep had a way of making her guests feel most welcome.
Maggie showed Verona and Balfour to their bedchambers, but Kila already knew where hers would be—overlooking the garden with its grand fountain. The room had always been hers when she visited, but this time her father would not be in the library below having a dram of whisky with the earl. She blinked back her tears as she sat down on the cushioned window seat and looked out over the garden filled with bluebells—her favorite—roses, and many other vibrant flowers, Directly below her window, water spewed from the mouth of a large fish into the pond beneath. She'd loved sitting on the nearby bench as a child, listening to the soothing sound of the trickling water.
"Are ye unhappy, m'lady?" Wyn's face was filled with concern.
"Nay. I've but been reminiscing about Father. Being here brings back so many memories."
The maid nodded. "I thought as much. A bit of rest will make ye feel better," she said, drawing the elaborate bed curtains to shut out the light and folding back the covers.
Kila sighed. "Aye. I am a bit weary," she said, yawning, then allowed Wyn to help her undress down to her shift, and slipped into bed. Tonight's ceilidh would be her last chance to dance and enjoy herself, before she wed Colin, and she meant to make the most of it.
DUNCAN ENTERED HIS bedchamber and closed the door behind him. Fortunately, Aileen had ordered the servants to fill the wooden tub situated in one corner of the room with streaming water. Unfortunately, she'd also added a floral scent so strong it saturated the entire bedchamber and burned his eyes. After a long day of mock battles with the guards, he was covered with dirt and sweat. And in much need of a bath before approaching Kila for a dance. And he had every intention of dancing with her—if she would allow him the pleasure—for he couldn't wait to hold her in his arms again.
After unfastening his belt and removing his plaid, he sat down on the chair to remove his boots. His gaze fell on the s
hirt spread across the bed, alongside his best plaid, and his brows shot upward. Clearly, his sister wished him to wear it to the night's festivities, but with such frills about the neck and wrists, he deemed it much too fancy for a Highland warrior—such as himself. If Kade, Cin, or Galen ever caught sight of him in such a dainty thing, he would never hear the end of it. Then he remembered Connor and Eadan should arrive during the ceilidh, and they could be unmerciful in their teasing, as he'd learned long ago.
After giving his body and hair a good scrubbing, he stepped from the tub and dried himself. He sniffed his forearm, and frowned. Perhaps the smell would wear off soon, or so he hoped. His gaze again landed on the shirt, and he exhaled loudly. Aye, his dear sister would be angry with him for not wearing it. But she'd not be for long, she never was, where he was concerned.
Duncan pulled his best shirt from his pack and shook it out, before slipping it over his head. He rubbed his hand over the chest and sleeves. It was a bit wrinkled, to be sure, but no matter. He was not about to wear the other. After securing his plaid about his shoulder with a broach his father had given him his fourteenth summer, and donning his new doublet, he brushed out his damp hair, leaving it loose about his shoulders, then left the bedchamber and headed downstairs.
Kila had most likely arrived, and the prospect of seeing her again had him scanning the great hall. Aye, she was betrothed, but Monro was not about, and he planned to dance with her as often as possible. Besides, she would be in his company every single day—and night—for the next three weeks, and he needed to get her out of his system once and for all, for as much as he disliked the idea, she belonged to someone else.
CHAPTER FOUR
Kila held her breath, as Wyn tightened the cords of her bodice.
"Will that do, m'lady?"
"Aye. I dinnae wish it to be too tight, for I plan to try a bite of everything."
"As lovely as ye look in that gown, ye'll be much too busy dancing to worry about filling ye belly."
Humming a lively tune, Kila twirled around the bedchamber, admiring the skirts of the yellow gown embroidered with tiny bluebells. "I love this gown. Remember, Wyn? Father gave it to me upon his return from France—before he became ill," she said, tears suddenly blurring her vision.
"Aye, I remember. The laird chose well."
She wiped her eyes, wondering if the pain would ever go away.
"I've yet to do ye hair, m'lady."
Taking a seat, she sat very still while Wyn brushed out her auburn waist-length hair, then secured it atop her head with six small tortoise shell combs, that had once belonged to Kila's mother.
Wyn stepped back, surveying her handiwork. "'Tis quite lovely, if I do say so m'self."
Kila studied her reflection in the hand mirror. "I think it looks lovely as well." She put down the mirror and shoved her feet into her slippers, just as Verona's shrill voice pierced the thick oak door.
"Kila! The music is already playing below. Surely you've finished dressing by now!"
"Aye." Kila said, as she opened the door and joined her stepmother in the corridor.
Verona was dressed in a gown of deep crimson that emphasized her pale skin, and a plunging neckline that left little to the imagination. She hardly glanced in Kila's direction, as she led the way down the stairs and into the great hall, where pipers played a lively tune that made her want to tap her foot. The tables were heavily laden with foods of every sort, and she could hardly wait to have a taste of it all.
Her stepmother took a seat near the fire. "Sit down, Kila. A lady never wishes to appear too eager."
She wanted to tell Verona she should take a bit of her own advice, but held her tongue. She reluctantly took a seat, but what she really wanted was for someone to take her into his arms and twirl her around the room until she was giddy—someone like the handsome Highlander, Duncan. Her thoughts flitted back to the day she'd met him, and she clearly recalled the hardness of the muscles of his arms and chest when he had pulled her against him. Her face heated at the memory.
She smoothed out the skirts of her gown and looked around the room. Except for her, everyone appeared to be having a great deal of merriment. Above the music, familiar male laughter reached her ears, and she searched for its owner. Just inside the doorway, talking with the countess, was the man who had saved her.
Her heart pounded, as his gaze scanned the room, before locking with her own. A slow smile spread across his face, then he winked. She quickly looked away, feeling the heat rise in her cheeks. When she'd left The Black Bird Inn, Kila never thought she'd see Duncan again, but there he stood, across the room, looking more attractive than ever.
Verona leaned toward her and whispered, "Umph, I cannae believe the earl would allow such a barbarian to attend a gala of such proportions."
"I think him quite handsome." And he was, in his belted plaid, and black doublet.
Her stepmother snorted. "You would, of course."
She ignored Verona's snide remark. Kila wasn't about to let her stepmother ruin the evening for her. Her gaze moved once again to Duncan. He had recently taken a bath, for his damp hair lay loose about his shoulders. How would it feel being drawn through her fingers? Would it be as silky as it looked?
Couples twirled around the room as the pipers started to play another reel.
Duncan crossed the room and stopped directly in front of Kila. "Might I have this dance, my lady?" he said, bowing at the waist.
Her stepmother glared at her, daring her to accept the offer. She would more than likely receive a tongue lashing later for doing so, but she didn't care. She wanted to dance—with him and no one else. "Aye," she said, rising from the seat and taking the Highlander's outstretched hand.
Duncan smiled down at her, as he twirled her around the room, never missing a step to the old reel being played. "You look beautiful, Kila."
She smiled. "Much thanks for saying so."
"'Tis true. I'd no' have said it if it were no'.''
Kila sniffed the air. "Is that lavender I smell?"
"Perhaps."
The more they danced, the more impressed Kila became with his footwork. "You dance quite well."
He threw back his head and laughed. "My sister would be proud to ken you thought so."
"Your sister taught you to dance?"
He nodded. "Aye, and at the time, I wasnae interested in learning."
Her curiosity was waving at full mast. She'd known all along he was high born, from his dress and his manner of speech. And as a guest of the earl's he had to be someone of importance. But just who was he?
The music stopped playing and he returned her to her seat, but Verona was no longer sitting there.
"Much thanks for the dance, lass. Might I have another one later?" His attention was suddenly torn between her and the two young men who had just arrived.
"Of course," she said, already anticipating being in his arms again.
He grinned, then headed toward the men, who greeted him with utmost affection.
Wondering where Verona had gone, she scoured the dance floor, finding her seemingly engrossed in whatever the older gentlemen on her arm was saying.
Kila frowned. Obviously, she was searching for another older laird to sink her claws into. Deep in thought, she didn't notice the countess until she spoke. "You look absolutely lovely, Kila."
"Much thanks, Countess. Father brought me the gown from France."
She smiled. "Laird Murray had excellent taste—in most things," she said, her gaze directed at Verona.
Kila brought her hand to her mouth to hide her smile. Like most women, the countess had never been very fond of Verona.
She suddenly turned to Kila and smiled. "What do you think of that brother of mine?"
"Brother?" she asked, confused as to whom she meant.
"Aye. My Duncan. A handsome devil, if I do say so myself. He would have been even more so had he worn the shirt I left for him, instead of that dreadfully wrinkled one he's wearing."
&nbs
p; Duncan was the countess's brother? Kila had always known she had a brother, but had never met him. He had either been away at university, or elsewhere, when they visited. "Oh! He dances wonderfully, and I understand you taught him how?"
She laughed. "Aye. 'Twas no easy feat, to say the least. He'd have much rather been out roaming the moors with his friend, Cin, than having to learn to dance, and I cannae say that I blame him."
Kila looked across the room at Duncan, only to find him watching her. With the countess being his sister, there was a good chance he already knew about her betrothal to Colin Monro. But if not, then she must tell him. It was certainly the right thing to do. But for some reason, the thought of doing so caused a cold, hard knot to form in the middle of her stomach.
"WHO IS SHE, DUNCAN?" Connor asked, his pale blue eyes twinkling. His long fair hair hung well past his shoulders, but he'd tied it back with a thin strip of leather for the occasion. He leaned toward Duncan and sniffed. "You smell good enough to dance with," he said, grinning.
Eadan had to sniff as well. "He's right. I'd no' get downwind of anyone deep in their cups, or they might try to compromise you."
Conner snickered.
Duncan frowned. "I suppose you two think yourselves amusing. The lovely lass in question is Lady Kila Murray," he said, remembering how the yellow dress had brought out the gold in her eyes while they were dancing.
Eadan snorted. "The one what's betrothed to Laird Monro?" His eyes, black as his long hair, widened with surprise.
"Aye, one and the same."
Connor chuckled. "The way you're looking at her, it appears you want her for yourself."
Duncan frowned. "Dinnae be daft. She's no' mine to want." But that did not keep him from it. The piper began to play. "I'll introduce you to her later, but right now, she has promised me another dance." He left them and crossed the room. "Might I have this dance, Lady Kila," he asked, bowing deeply.