Moira looked down at the bedraggled garment she had worn through the disasters of the last several days and laughed. No wonder everyone had stared at her. “A fresh gown and a bath would be lovely.”
* * *
Duncan watched as their clansmen surrounded Moira, welcoming their returning princess home. She had always been a favorite. Smiles and bursts of laughter followed her as she worked her way slowly through the crowd. Moira spoke to each one, doing her duty as a member of the chieftain’s family without making anyone feel that was why she did it.
Sàr whined beside him.
“No need to fret,” Duncan said and patted the dog’s head. “She’s safe now.”
Duncan wondered if he had brought her to safety only to lose her. Now that they were back among their clan, their time at the MacCrimmons seemed a world away. Perhaps if Moira had given herself to him wholly, Duncan would know she wanted more than to forget Sean for a few days. He had been patient, waiting for her to tell him she was ready.
She never did.
Connor signaled to Duncan, Niall, and Ian to remain on the beach while the others drifted back to the castle. Duncan watched Moira’s back as she and his sister walked arm in arm up the hill to the castle’s bridge.
“’Tis safer to talk here,” Connor said when the beach was empty except for the four of them. “The walls of Dunscaith have ears.”
“You and Moira both look like hell,” Ian said to Niall, who had his arm slung over Ian’s shoulder to take the weight off his injured leg. “But I can tell somebody fed ye well.”
“That would be Caitlin MacCrimmon,” Niall said in a wistful voice. “I’m in love with her.”
This was a fairly common ailment for Niall, so they ignored the remark and went on to discuss serious matters.
“I want to know why my sister has come home without her husband,” Connor said, “and how she and Niall came to be injured.”
Connor’s expression grew darker and darker as Duncan told him of Sean MacQuillan’s mistreatment of Moira and how Sean had died.
“There will be hell to pay for it, but ye did well to bring her home,” Connor said.
Duncan then gave a brief account of the storm and their stay with the MacCrimmons—leaving out the parts that he and Moira spent naked. He gave Niall a hard look to encourage him to keep his mouth shut about them sharing a cottage.
“Did ye learn anything about the MacLeods from the MacCrimmons?” Connor asked.
“I did,” Niall piped up. “The lasses who visited Caitlin’s cottage—that’s where I stayed because she’s a healer—were loose-tongued about the MacLeods.”
Duncan felt Connor’s gaze on him and feared he was about to ask where he and Moira had slept. Fortunately, Niall kept talking.
“They heard that the MacLeod chieftain left Dunvegan with a dozen of his war galleys,” Niall said. “They didn’t believe he was going to his fortress on the isle of Harris, because he left his wife and daughters behind.”
“People will say anything to my charming brother,” Ian said. “Especially twittering lasses.”
“I wonder where the MacLeod was going with so many war galleys,” Connor said, narrowing his eyes. “If he was attacking us, he would already be here.”
“If ever there was a time for us to try to take Trotternish,” Duncan said, “’tis now, while Alastair MacLeod and hundreds of his warriors are away causing trouble for some other clan.”
The others were quiet for a long moment as they considered his suggestion.
“We must take the castle first,” Ian said. “Without it, we have no hope of taking the peninsula—or of holding it once we do.”
“I agree,” Connor said. “We’ve all been inside the castle, but we know nothing about how many men the MacLeods have there, how well trained they are, or what sort of man commands them. We could have a bloodbath going in blind.”
“Shame we don’t have spies there,” Ian said. “That’s one lesson we could learn from Hugh.”
“Aye,” Connor said. “What I wouldn’t give to know if the MacLeods had shored up that weak wall my father never had repaired.”
Niall had been glancing at Duncan ever since Connor had mentioned the keeper of the castle. Duncan hesitated to tell what he knew, but he was already keeping one secret from Connor and did not wish to keep another.
“I know something about Trotternish Castle,” Duncan said.
“What is that?” Connor asked.
“The keeper is my father.”
* * *
Moira stood in the center of her old bedchamber and turned slowly in a circle. “’Tis almost as I left it, except that there are no gowns strewn across the bed and the bed curtains are a bit faded.”
It was odd to find her old chamber had changed so little when she could hardly remember the lass she had been when she lived here.
Moira smiled at Ilysa when she noticed the branch of holly in a jug on the side table. “This must be your doing.”
“’Tis hard to come by anything in bloom this time of year, so I thought the holly berries would brighten the room,” Ilysa said and dropped her gaze to her feet. “Connor never mentions the flowers I put out on the tables and in his chamber in summer, but I think he appreciates them all the same.”
Moira doubted it. “The holly is lovely.”
“I’ve been managing the castle household for Connor as he had no one else to do it,” Ilysa said with a slight quiver in her voice. “I hope you’ll find everything in good order.”
“I’m certain you’ve done a fine job.”
“When you’re planning the menus with the cooks,” Ilysa hurried on before Moira could say more, “Connor doesn’t care at all for goose liver, though he’d never say so. He’s never one to complain.”
Ach, no. Did the poor lass fancy herself in love with Connor? That would never do. Even if Ilysa caught Connor’s eye—which seemed unlikely in that old woman’s cap and ill-fitting brown gown—Connor would never act on it. Her father had no such scruples when it came to women, but Connor would never dally with his best friend’s sister. And when he wed, he would put duty first and make an alliance for the clan.
“I should warn ye that Tait is the orneriest of the guards,” Ilysa rattled on, “but he’s always the first to lend a hand when ye need it. And then there’s…” Ilysa stopped speaking and clasped her hands together. “I’m sorry. I’m sure ye don’t need my advice.”
Clearly, these responsibilities had become very important to Ilysa.
“Good heavens,” Moira said. “I hope Connor doesn’t expect me to manage his household for him.”
“Ye don’t wish to?” Ilysa asked, her eyes going impossibly wide.
“Would ye mind doing it awhile longer?” Moira asked. “I’m so distracted with worry over my son that it would be an unwelcome burden to me.”
“I’d be happy to,” Ilysa said.
“Duncan told me ye lost your husband at Flodden,” Moira said. “You’re so young. Surely ye will want to marry again and set up your own household before long.”
Ilysa dropped her gaze to the floor again and shook her head.
“Well, Connor is bound to marry soon—he should have already,” Moira said in a soft voice and touched the younger woman’s arm. “Ye do know that when Connor weds, his wife will take over these duties?”
“Of course,” Ilysa said.
Connor had always been tediously responsible. In fact, Moira suspected the only reason Connor had waited this long to wed was that the time was not yet ripe to make the best match possible.
How different she and Connor had been as children. Moira had rushed headlong into things, letting her heart lead her wherever it would, while Connor thought things through. Living with Sean had taught Moira to be cautious and calculating like her brother.
Moira could not help Ilysa win Connor, but there were plenty of fine warriors in the castle. Ilysa was a pale thing, but she had a pretty face. If only she didn’t wear the drabbest
colors and loose gowns that did nothing to flatter her slender figure.
Intent on giving Ilysa some pointers, Moira pulled her over to the standing mirror, a gift her father had brought all the way from Edinburgh for her.
“God have mercy!” Moira cried when she caught her own reflection in the mirror. “Look at me!”
“Is your face as painful as it looks?” Ilysa asked, scrunching her delicate brows together.
“Painful? It’s hideous!” Her face was a misshapen mass of bruises, ranging in color from purple to a sickly greenish yellow. And her gown looked even worse than she had imagined.
Moira sat down on the nearby bench with a thump. Ach, she must have looked even worse before. She thought of all the hours she’d spent with Duncan. Especially the hours in bed. In the afternoon, when it was light.
Moira did not pretend she didn’t know she was beautiful. Men had lusted after her since she was thirteen, so she was well aware it was her looks that drew them to her.
But despite how revolting she looked now, Duncan had wanted her. In truth, no one had ever made her feel more beautiful—not even Duncan himself when she was seventeen and the prettiest she would ever be. She was touched by it. Did it mean he truly cared for her?
Moira was not sure, but she suddenly wanted to see Duncan. It seemed as if it had been hours since she was standing beside him on the boat.
“Ah, here’s your bath,” Ilysa said, waving in the servants carrying the washtub and buckets of hot water. “Before I leave ye, I’ll lay out a few of your old gowns for you to try.”
Moira hurried through her bath and, with the servants’ help, squeezed into an old velvet gown in a midnight-blue that matched her eyes. After searching the hall for Duncan, she went out into the courtyard to look for him. She found Connor instead.
“Ye look a wee bit better,” Connor said with a smile and kissed her cheek.
“Where is Duncan?” Moira asked.
“He’s gone home,” Conner said.
“To his mother’s cottage?” They had always called it a cottage, though it was just two rooms built against the outer wall of the castle.
“No, Ilysa lives there,” Connor said. “Duncan often sleeps in the hall with the men, but he has his own house.”
“Where?” she asked.
Connor pointed to a white cottage she could barely see near the top of the hill behind the castle. “Duncan says that he can keep a lookout for anyone approaching Dunscaith from up there, but I know he just needed a place of his own.”
“The view must be lovely,” she said. “I’d like to see it. I think I’ll pay him a wee visit.”
“Why?” Connor asked, narrowing his eyes at her. “Is there something between the two of ye I should know about?”
“Of course not.” It was none of Connor’s business.
“Ye should wait until you’re invited,” Connor said.
“Whatever for?” Moira asked with a laugh.
“Duncan likes his privacy. Ye should—”
“He’ll be happy to see me.” Moira winked at her brother over her shoulder as she left, feeling like her old self.
* * *
Duncan opened the door to his cottage. He had been proud to have a home, a place that belonged to him. He kept it freshly whitewashed and in good repair, and his sister had planted a dog rose by his door that bloomed in summer.
But as he stood in the doorway and looked at it with different eyes—with her eyes—he saw that it was just a humble, two-room cottage. Two chairs and a small table fit comfortably in the main room with the hearth. Ilysa had proclaimed it cozy, but he could see now that it was simply tiny.
He sat down on one of the chairs and rested his head in his hands. What a fool he’d been. Moira had lived her entire life as the mistress of fine castles. He could never ask her to live with him here. Her gowns alone would take up the entire second room.
“Duncan, you’re home!”
He started at the sound of the voice coming from the other room and turned. What in the hell was Rhona doing here?
Chapter 21
Before Duncan could stop her, Rhona bolted across the room and threw herself at him. He unlocked her hands from around his neck and set her on her feet.
��Ye said you’d be gone when I returned.”
“A woman can change her mind,” Rhona said, cocking her head to the side, “and a wise man doesn’t remind her that she has.”
When she reached up to run her fingers down his cheek, Duncan caught her hand. “It’s finished between us.”
“Finished?” Rhona’s eyes widened.
“It was done before I left.”
“Ah well, I decided to forgive ye.” She looked at him from under her lashes and gave him a slow smile. “I know how ye can make it up to me.”
“I want ye to go,” Duncan said. “Now.”
“Ye don’t mean it,” she said giving him a coy smile.
Duncan paused. He may as well make it plain. “Moira is here.”
“Moira?” Rhona said her name in a shriek, then she narrowed her eyes to slits. “I should have known. Ye were always such a fool for her.”
He was, but there was no point in discussing it.
“And did the little princess let ye pleasure her in bed like she used to?” Rhona said. “That’s all Moira thinks you’re good for. She won’t be seen with ye in the light of day.”
“Don’t,” Duncan warned her.
“Ye don’t like hearing the truth?” Rhona’s eyes were snapping fire as she poked her finger into his chest. “Moira never thought ye were good enough for her.”
“If ye have anything in my house, take it with ye now,” Duncan said. “You’re not coming back.”
When Rhona did not budge, Duncan took the large cloth bag from the hook on the wall and started tossing in the odds and ends she had left in his house. He’d never really noticed them before.
“As soon as ye left for France, Moira started sneaking off with that handsome Irish chieftain,” Rhona said. “She used my clothes, pretending she was me, just like she had with you.”
“That’s enough.” Duncan did not want to hear it, did not want to believe it.
“While ye were bleeding for her as ye crossed the sea to France, I had to listen to Moira prattle on about what an important man her Irish lover was,” Rhona said, waving her hand in the air, “and all the things he could give her.”
Duncan shoved the bag at Rhona and opened the door. “Out!”
“She forgot ye like that.” Rhona snapped her fingers in front of his face as she left. “And she’ll do it again.”
* * *
A hint of spring was in the air, and the view from the path to Duncan’s cottage was indeed wondrous. Moira spread out her arms and drank it in. When she was near the top of the hill, she paused in the middle of the open field to look back at the Cuillins and was pleased with herself when she could remember the names of most of the peaks. There was no place on God’s earth she would rather be than right here.
She smiled as she continued up the path. Just ahead, Duncan’s cottage was a pretty sight with its fresh whitewash and thatch. Sàr lay on one side of the door, and someone had planted a dog rose on the other side that would be lovely come summer. Who would have guessed the fiercest of the MacDonald warriors had a soft spot for dogs and flowers?
As she drew nearer the cottage, she heard raised voices. Rather, one voice. A woman’s.
Her stomach dropped. Duncan had not mentioned that he had a woman waiting at home. When Duncan touched her, he made her believe there was no other. Perhaps she had just wanted that to be true.
Only now did Moira admit to herself why she had come to his cottage. She had wanted to take that last step and let him make love to her fully. She was no longer a seventeen-year-old lass in the blush of first love. She thought Duncan did not have the power to hurt her now.
But she was wrong.
She should have known that a man as fine looking as Duncan wou
ld not be alone. Even apart from his handsome face and warrior’s body, Duncan was the sort of man who intrigued women—at least the brave ones. They were drawn by his darkness and silence, each hoping to be the one woman he would share his secrets with.
Before Moira could start back down the hill, the door opened and a black-haired woman came out. Her head was turned, and she was shouting back toward the cottage.
“Ye are a damned fool, Duncan Ruadh! Princess Moira would never have stayed with ye before, and she won’t now.”
The woman adjusted the large cloth bag that weighed down her shoulder, then started marching down the hill with her head down. Moira had nowhere to hide in the open field. After a few steps, the woman looked up, and they both sucked in their breath.
“Rhona!” Moira could not think of a single other word to say to her former maid.
“Duncan will come crawling back to me after you’ve broken his heart again,” Rhona said.
Moira stood there, too stunned to move, as Rhona brushed past her. Then she watched Rhona’s figure, swaying under the burden of the heavy bag, as it disappeared down the hill. After a while, she felt eyes on her and turned to find Duncan standing in front of the door of his cottage.
“Don’t mind her,” he said.
Moira waited for Duncan to give her an explanation, but the man said nothing. This was one of those times when she found his dark silence far more annoying than intriguing.
“So ye missed me every day, did ye?” she snapped. “I see your suffering did not include sleeping alone.”
Duncan shrugged. “Rhona and I met each other’s needs for a time, that’s all.”
“Is that all ye have to say about it?” Moira put her hands on her hips. “Judging from how upset Rhona was—and that heavy bag slung over her shoulder—you’ve been meeting each other’s needs for some time.”
Ach, she sounded like a harpy. Did she expect Duncan to have lived like a monk these past seven years? But knowing she had no cause to feel aggrieved did not make her feel less so. Moira turned her head and fixed her gaze on the sheep grazing across the hillside.
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