by Dianna Love
~#~
Duncan’s fingers halted their exploration of the intricate design on the large Broach of Lorne, the only thing of value his father had left to his keeping. His thoughts were on Beth, his troubled heart comparing his parents’ loveless marriage to his own.
Why had that all too familiar steely look returned to Beth’s eyes as she coolly thanked him for the lemon tree? ‘Twas certainly not what he’d expected. Indeed, ‘twas far from it. Could he have been mistaken thinking her expression had softened as he spoke? Been mistaken thinking he saw a warmth in her eyes, a slight turning up of her full lips as she touched his chest? Nay. It had been there, truly, if only for a few precious moments before it vanished. So what in the bloody hell had he done or said wrong to make that softness, her interest, fade? Ack!
“Remembering old times, Duncan?”
Startled, Duncan frowned at his advisor. “Aye.”
“Some things are best forgotten, my friend.” Isaac held out his hand for the heavy gold broach that had once belonged to the long dead Robert the Bruce. He turned it over in his palm. “Melting this down could solve some of yer financial woes, friend.”
“Give it here, ye heathen.” The broach, named by a predecessor for the land surrounding him and the Firth of Lorne, had been in MacDougall hands for generations. According to family lore, Ewin MacDougall married Red Comyn’s daughter. When Robert the Bruce later murdered her father in 1306, the MacDougall and Bruce clans became sworn enemies. Years later, Robert—after a hasty crowning at Scone—-had been forced to retreat before the victorious English into Argyll where he had hopes of reaching his Campbell allies, but he’d been surprised by the MacDougalls at Dalrigh near Tyndrum. Robert escaped, but on his discarded cloak was found the magnificent broach Duncan now held in his hand.
As always happens, political power and alliances between clan chiefs shifted back and forth over the years—to the point of Robert the Bruce’s granddaughter marrying Duncan’s grandfather, but this generation now had a new score to settle.
Hearing a trumpet’s blare signaling the Bruce’s launch from shore he placed the broach into its temporary hiding place beneath his diary. When he had use of the solar again, he would return the broach to its proper hiding place in the headboard. None besides his intimates knew he held it.
“Come Isaac, we need meet our guests.”
~#~
Duncan greeted the Bruce in the bailey. John was nearly as tall as he and well turned out in a gold collar, tall hat, ridiculously long-toed shoes, and a rabbit furred houppelande—-a short fur-lined tunic—all clear indications of his status and income. By law, none with a yearly income of less than a thousand pounds sterling could don such finery. Duncan again silently thanked God for Beth’s labors within the keep and was pleased she would wear what fur he owned. He wore his simple best; the blue brocade jerkin over a close fitting red tunic and high leather boots. He despised hats of any style and so greeted his guest bareheaded.
“Good eve, John. I hope ye found the way easy.”
“Aye, ‘twas fine weather.” The Bruce looked about the bailey. “Ye’ve made fine improvements in these five years past, I see.”
As they walked to the keep entrance, the Bruce’s gaze roamed as much over the castle battlements as it did over the stables, kirk, and workshops. Duncan grinned. Many of his keep’s nastier defenses like the nags—the catapults that threw fire bombs at enemy ships—and the machicolation, which allowed him to pour boiling oil onto enemy heads, were all hidden behind the innocent interior parapet walls.
Inside the keep, Duncan felt renewed pride watching the Bruce’s stunned reaction to Beth’s idea of a well-turned-out hall. Even he had to admit it looked like the home of a wealthy man, filled with the rich glow of candlelight, tapestries and flowers on every surface. At each place at every table lay a woven reed mat, a trencher, a two tined fork and a carefully folded napkin, so it appeared a fleet of swans floated on seventy wee green ponds. The head table overflowed with bouquets and the colorful tableware he’d brought back from Italy. The keep even smelled rich, the fresh air wafting in through uncovered windows infused with a delightful mix of beeswax, flowers and roasting meat.
Beth entered the hall. As she glided toward him wrapped in a new aura of confidence, Duncan’s mouth gaped. Not only had she transformed the hall, she’d transformed herself.
He snapped his jaw closed as she dropped in a deep curtsey before him.
“Good eve, my lord husband.”
“Good eve, my lady.” He swallowed the lump in his throat as he took in her now sultry eyes and rose-tinted lips. Still dumbfounded by the change, he mumbled, “Sir John, may I present my ladywife, Beth...ah...Lady Katherine MacDougall.”
John the Bruce bent over her hand. “My lady, ‘tis indeed a pleasure.” When the man continued to hold Beth’s hand for longer than Duncan thought appropriate he cleared his throat.
Beth, looking quite satisfied with the Bruce’s attention, extracted her hand and waved toward the sitting group. “My lords, if you please, come this way.”
Leaving the Bruce’s contingent in conversation with MacDougall clansmen, Duncan and the Bruce followed Beth to the chairs before the fireplace and found a wee feast of fresh bread, smelts and cheese awaiting them. More shocking was finding the hammered bronze and silver chalices he’d plunder from Persia now polished to a soft glow and holding mead.
Once they were seated Beth said, “Supper will be served within the hour. I’ll ring the bell when it’s ready.” She dipped in curtsey and murmured, “If you’ll excuse me...” then glided away.
John’s gaze followed her. “Yer ladywife’s speech...I must be getting’ old for my ears couldna keep up with her.”
Duncan tore his gaze from his wife’s fine rump to stare at the Bruce. “‘Tis naught yer ears. Her rapid and odd manner of speech ‘tis their way in York, or so she tells me.”
The Bruce reached across the table for the chalice sitting at Duncan’s elbow. “‘Tis good then that ye have a way with languages, MacDougall, or ye’d be reduced to waving yer hands like a mute.” He tasted the mead.
“Humph.” ‘Twas nay reason for the Bruce to have switched challises. When he finally chose to kill the bastard, he’d do it like a man—with a sword.
Reaching for the more elaborate chalice Beth had intended for the Bruce, Duncan mumbled, “Ye know naught the truth of yer words.”
His ladywife had been using hand gestures to show her displeasure all week. Some he couldn’t help but laugh at. He liked the fist in the air and arm slap combination the best. Reminded him of the Romans’ ways. And God’s teeth, could the woman roll her eyes. She could go through life without saying another word and be perfectly understood. But he did miss her lilting voice and warmth, particularly in the wee hours when he couldn’t sleep for worrying. About her, the Bruce, and about whether or not he should take up arms again. Unlike Isaac, he wasn’t as sure his shoulder would be adequately healed in time for the jousts.
Around a mouthful of cheese the Bruce said, “My people are excited about the tournament. Will ye be bringing a large contingent?”
“Large enough.” Duncan had only three tents. Many within his sept would be sorely disappointed hearing they would have to stay behind, every tournament and accompanying fair being something the clan always looked forward to and enjoyed. Well, mayhap he could sell some of their kine and find a way.
“Ye’re very pensive this eve, MacDougall.”
“Nay, just wondering what my ladywife has prepared for our entertainment.”
“‘Tis naught a wife’s nature to be predicable.”
“Ye speak more truth than ye know.”
The Bruce’s eyes narrowed as he devoured more bread and cheese. “Hmm. Ye do favor this lass.”
Duncan shifted in his chair. “Though odd in her ways, I canna deny she is good-hearted and clever.” Reluctantly, he wondered how her tales of York and ghosts could be reconciled with this truth. And he never woul
d reconcile it if she continued to ignore his peace-seeking overtures. Just this morn he’d set a pretty speckled starfish in the solar for her to find but she’d said naught, and he’d climbed off a damn cliff to get it. At least, she wore the key, had exclaimed over the lemon tree, and had smiled just a moment ago. Surely, that meant he’d made some progress.
Around a mouthful of smoked fish his enemy asked, “Have ye thought on how we’re to proceed with the tournament, MacDougall?”
“Aye.” And so they discussed the broad points of the contest. To his surprise Beth had assigned Flora to supervising their needs. As she tended them, he found it odd the Bruce paid little heed to his voluptuous sister-by-marriage. Odd.
Before they started working out the finer points of the tournament, specifically who would be entrusted with the prizes they planned to accumulate, the bell rang and the hall began filling.
Beth led them to their seats at the head table. She placed the Bruce to his right then took her seat to his left.
Duncan grinned watching his enemy examine all that lay before him. He well understood the man’s surprise.
Once everyone had found their seat, Beth clapped and a parade of women entered carrying course after course. Platters plied high with fragrant venison, succulent roasted boar with turnips, piping clams in broth, filets of white fish, and roasted leeks smothered in a delicious cream sauce seasoned with rosemary were laid on each table, and then consumed by all in prodigious amounts.
When he thought his stomach could hold no more, a dozen women arrived with dense bread puddings soaked in rich aqua vitae—-whisky—-and cream sauce.
At his side, Beth reached for her wine, and Duncan throwing caution to the wind, enfolded her hand in his before she could snatch it away. It might kill him but he would make the best of this marriage. He brought her hand to his lips.
“My dear ladywife,” he whispered so only she might hear, “I have never dined so well, neither in Italia nor at Albany’s table.” He turned her hand and kissed her wrist. “Ye are indeed worth ye weight in or, Lady Kathy.”
Chapter 18
Beth’s heart slammed against her ribs. Wide-eyed, she whispered, “Please repeat thyself, husband.”
For some reason a mischievous twinkle came into his eye as he kissed her knuckles. “‘Tis apparent from yer expression ye heard me well enough.”
Her pounding heart and racing blood made her body quake. He finally understood!
Duncan pushed back his chair. “Come, dearest lady, we must yet speak...in private.”
Feeling herself blush for no good reason, she turned her attention to the room. “But our guests, surely...” She glanced quickly from the musicians as they readied for the evening’s entertainment to her room full of guests. Her gaze, as if by its own accord, fell on Flora sitting in the middle of the second row before her. Beth frowned.
The beautiful woman’s hands were at her throat, her normally porcelain complexion had darkened to a deep fuchsia, and her eyes were wide in panic.
Damn! Wondering why the woman couldn’t choke to death in private, Beth jumped to her feet, yanking her hand from Duncan’s relaxed grip. Ignoring his startled exclamation, she ran around the table and back toward the center isle.
As she slid between the rows, the man to Flora’s left, apparently realizing his dinner companion was in trouble, slammed her hard on the back to no effect. Beth elbowed him aside to get directly behind Flora.
Adrenaline had the blood pounding in her ears as she wrapped her arms under Flora’s ribs. She made a fist and pulled back with everything she had in one quick motion right below Flora’s solar plexus. Within a heartbeat a large piece of meat flew out of the young woman’s mouth and across the table. Beth released her own breath when she heard Flora’s rewarding gasp of air.
“Are you okay—-better—now?”
With tears in her eyes and her coloring returning to normal, Flora nodded.
“Good.” Beth held Flora’s tankard to her lips. “Now take a small sip.” When she swallowed without difficulty, Beth patted her shoulder.
God, can you give it a rest? Enough, already.
Miss I’m Too Sexy was her third choking rescue in as many years. And who said food service didn’t have its perks?
She looked up to find Duncan and the Bruce standing shoulder-to-shoulder staring at her. The Bruce simply scowled, but was it astonishment or appreciation lurking in Duncan’s steel gray eyes? No matter. He had his lover back and had her to thank for it. And right now she needed a drink. Or two. Maybe three.
Duncan remained standing until Beth flopped down in her chair. At his side the Bruce murmured, “Ye did not exaggerate, MacDougall, claiming yer wife was resourceful.”
Duncan nodded as he reached for the flagon of wine. Silently he topped off Beth’s goblet. Still unnerved by her quick and successful action—for he’d seen a good man choke to death as Flora nearly had, he handed her the goblet. “Here, lass, ye need this.”
“Thank you.”
Rachael came to her side and squeezed her shoulders. “Mon ami! I didna ken what was happening until the venison took flight.”
They all glanced at Flora who, having recovered her composure, now spoke with her hapless male rescuer. Rachael whispered, “Ye must enseigner—-demonstrer—-ooh...” She flapped her hands in frustration.
“Teach is the word ye seek,” Isaac murmured coming to his wife’s side. He smiled at Beth. “’Twas well done, my lady.” To his wife, he said, “Come, let our lady take meat in peace. Ye can speak of this later.” He bowed to Beth and took Rachael’s arm to lead her away.
Angus finally looked up from his trencher. He expelled a large burp and asked, “What? Did I miss something?”
Beth suddenly laughed. Her laughter then escalated to the point of tears and gasping.
“My lady?” Duncan eyed Beth closely.
Between gasps she managed, “I’m fine.” She waved him to his seat. “Ask the musicians...to play.” She looked down the table at Angus only to start laughing again. The Bruce sensing something equally amusing joined her. Giving up, Duncan did as she bid and the room filled with the lilting tones of a flute and mandolin.
Two goblets of wine later Beth began humming and tapping her foot.
The Bruce leaned toward him. “Ye lady appears ready to dance.”
Beth started in surprise. “Can we dance, Duncan? Really?”
He grinned. Aye, his ladywife, looking decidedly lovely tonight, was also decidedly in her cups. He’d yet to get her alone again—-to plead his case—but said, “Why not.” The night was young.
He motioned the lass clearing the tables to him. “Please clear the sitting area for dancing.” As she walked away he called, “And tell Sean we have need of his pipes.”
~#~
Watching Beth and his liege lord whirling in circles to the deafening music, Isaac whispered in French, “What say ye, my love? Is she sane or not?”
“Odd to be sure, my dear, but saner than you and I together.” Rachael studied the dancing pair for a moment. “It has been discussed that if it be His will, some do return, no?”
Isaac nodded, having heard a rabbi ponder reincarnation.
Pensive, she continued, “It would explain Beth’s beliefs and different ways.” She then grinned watching them dance. “She’s in love with him, you know.”
“Yes. And he with her, though he’s yet to realize it. If she doesn’t forgive him soon, he’ll drive us all into our cups.”
His wife frowned. “He deserves to be punished.”
“Aye, but do we?” He took Rachael’s hand. “He drills the men unmercifully as he works to regain his strength, grumbles incessantly and still harbors an unhealthy hatred for him.” He nodded toward the Bruce now dancing with Lady Flora.
“There’s little any of us can do to solve our liege’s problems, husband.”
He studied Flora Campbell. “You have done well keeping Flora away from Lady Beth.”
His wife sno
rted. “The witch does not comprehend the danger she courts with her constant attempts to speak with Beth. You should have seen our lady’s expression when I told her Flora would be present tonight. Beth may be skilled in many ways, but she is not adept when it comes to hiding her true sentiments.”
“Aye, but mayhap, you can solve everyone’s problems.”
Rachael gaped at her husband. “And how am I to do that?”
“Duncan has learned Flora meets with a man of the Bruce clan in Oban. He asks that you accompany her whenever she leaves the keep. Should she meet this man and you see this, then Duncan will have just cause to send her—lock, stock and baggage—back to Dunstaffnage Castle. He’ll be rid of her without having to worry about a Campbell reprisal. In fact, the Campbell would need worry should Duncan hear she’d not been punished appropriately for her duplicity.”
“Aye, that’s all well and good, but who will care for our son as I traipse after this thorn in everyone’s side?”
“I, my love.” When she looked askance at him and raised a brow, he mumbled, “I know. I’ve been negligent in my duties to both of you of late. If you do this, I promise to begin preparing Jacob for his Bar Mitzvah.” He grinned sheepishly. Rachael had been after him for months to start.
Rachael heaved a resigned sigh. “As you wish, but you’d best keep a careful eye on Jacob. He has it in his head to become a knight, and too often I’ve caught him wielding a sword.”
Though he saw no harm in Jacob learning a knight’s skills Isaac nodded to placate his wife. He then turned his attention to the hall’s occupants only to spy Flora, flushed and eyes blazing, marching away from the Bruce.
He frowned. “Now what have we here?”
Chapter 19
Duncan silently blessed the man who had first created wine as Beth, breathless from dancing, laughed and collapsed against him. The wine had lowered her guard enough that she again appeared willing to listen to his whispered praise and mumbled apologies. And now she smiled at him.