The other three knights seemed to be interested in anything other than her. Every so often they would glance over at her, a sort of appraising glance, and then look away as if mulling over their findings. When they looked away, Jordan would spy at them to see if she could tell what they were thinking. She knew they hated her, just as she despised them. She wondered darkly if they wanted to throw her into the flames of the fire and say it was an accident.
One knight, a young, massively built blond with untamed curls, had the surliest expression she had ever seen. She was decidedly afraid of him, whereas the other two, a handsome dark-blond man with massive neck and shoulders, and an extremely tall dark-haired knight seemed to be looking at her with curiosity.
She recognized the man with the thick neck; he had ridden into Langton with William, as had the tall blond. He seemed to have a naturally gentle expression, one that was difficult to put into words, and looking at the pure size of the man, she found it difficult to believe he was gentle in any way. His eyes were inquisitive on her, honest, and she actually met his gaze for a moment.
It was an odd standoff game, everyone staring at everyone else and no one saying a word. Jordan was feeling vastly uncomfortable.
Paris stood back from the fire, watching her intently. Educated and charming, he was an arrogant rogue who had more ladies than he knew what to do with. Women seemed to love his cocky manner and charisma. Looking over at his lord’s bride, he could see why William had kept her so close to his vest. She was terribly exquisite.
“Tell me, Lady Jordan, have you traveled from Langton before?” he asked pleasantly.
She jumped at the sound of his voice. “Nay, my lord.”
“I see,” Paris replied. “Then you have never been to Edinburgh?”
“Nay, my lord,” she repeated, then added. “But my mother was born in Edinburgh. We have kin there.”
Ah, so she can speak in a delightful honeyed voice, he thought to himself. Her burr was distinct but not too heavy.
“And what sorts of entertainment do you enjoy at Langton?” he asked, making conversation. She seemed dreadfully ill at ease.
She met his eye then. “We dance and sing a good deal,” she said timidly. “And my Da reads aloud to us on occasion, though I dunna understand much of Greek poetry.”
“Greek poetry,” the surly young knight scoffed. “God, I had no idea Scots could even read.”
Paris shot him a deadly look. “I do not believe you have been invited into this conversation, Deinwald.”
Deinwald continued to smirk. Jordan, startled by his loud declaration, suddenly felt as if she wanted to cry. It was the hatred she had only felt before, now spoken aloud. The lines were established.
“Do you have a favorite prose, my lady?” Paris asked, warming to the conversation and ignoring the loud mouth knight.
Her lower lip quivered. He had inadvertently reminded her of something her father had said to her in private the night before. He had been drunk, trying to drown his guilt in whisky, and had sought her out. He had held her, reciting the story of Danae and Perseus, and of Zeus who had abandoned them reluctantly. ’Twas not her favorite prose he spoke, but it was the one that stuck with her.
“Last night my father recalled a song of the Greek Simonides, something he found particularly appropriate,” she said quietly and with feeling. “ ’Twas a long prose, but I remember the words he emphasized to me, the words Zeus spoke expressing his pain at having to send Danae and Perseus away:
‘If this danger were danger to ye,
yer small ear would attend my words.
But I tell ye sleep, my baby, and let the sea sleep,
let our trouble sleep; let some change appear
Zeus, father from ye.
This bold word and beyond justice
I speak, I pray ye, forgive it me.’”
The fire crackled in the center of the small group, the only sound heard. Paris was stunned into silence with the beauty of the words and the meaning he saw in them. The other three knights seemed equally sedate. Jordan glanced up from her trance, smiling weakly at him.
“I think he was telling me not to fear my future, and to forgive him his decision,” she said softly.
Paris managed a nod. “Aye,” his voice was strangely quiet. “My assumption as well.”
Paris was a great admirer of the Romans and the Greeks, and was amazed at this woman’s intelligence. The words she spoke had been flawless; he knew the passage. He was suddenly seized with determination to know everything about her.
“What else did your father read of?” he asked.
She blinked thoughtfully. “He read to us the story of Jason and the Argonauts. And he is a great admirer of Alexander the Great.”
“Holy Jesus, Joseph and Mary,” Deinwald muttered and shook his head. “A laird who would be emperor.”
The hostile young knight made her uncomfortable again, breaking the pleasant spell. Paris didn’t look at him; his eyes were fixed on Jordan’s sad face.
“One more comment, Deinwald, and I cut your tongue out,” he said icily. “ ’Tis Lord de Longley’s future father-in-law you speak of. Bank your mouth, although I know how difficult it is for you.”
Jordan felt a little better with the blond knight defending her against Deinwald. They sat together a few moments in silence, with Jordan staring at her hands and reluctant to say anymore. Paris could see how nervous she was and having Deinwald airing his views did not make her feel better. He felt a stab of pity for his lord’s beautiful new bride. Better to keep her talking and relieve her, he decided.
“My lady, allow me to introduce you to three of Northwood’s finest.” He indicated the other knights, the dark blond and then the brunette. “That bear of a man is Sir Kieran Hage, and that tall tree is Sir Michael de Bocage.”
Jordan turned out of politeness to greet the knights and was not surprised when they both smiled openly and bowed gallantly. She could only manage a slight nod of her head in their direction, mostly looking at the man with the thick neck; Sir Kieran. Her instincts told her that he was a man with character such as William, although she knew not why.
“And that,” Paris cocked an eyebrow at petulant young knight with the curly locks, “is Sir Deinwald Ellsrod. Now that you have been properly introduced, please feel free to insult him as harshly as you can muster. ’Tis become a sport with us.”
Deinwald glared at her before turning away and looking back over the camp. Paris would have liked nothing better than to slug him. He brought his gaze back around to see Jordan looking at him.
“You have not told me your name, sir knight,” she said.
He smiled a sort of cocky grin. “Paris de Norville, my lady. Second-in-command of Northwood’s army.”
He was a handsome bugger, obviously so. The type women swoon over, and she could furthermore see that he knew his own charm. But his smile was genuine and he had been more than kind to her.
“A pleasure to meet you, Sir Paris,” she said.
He raised an eyebrow. “I assure you, the pleasure is mine. Now, tell me; do you know much of Alexander, Lady Jordan?”
“Aye,” Jordan looked up timidly from her lap. “He was a great warrior, not only to the Greeks, but to the Egyptians and the Persians and the Syrians. He actually ruled his empire from Babylon, but it was so vast he could have ruled from anywhere in the civilized world.”
Paris was pleased. Alexander the Great was his hero, and he was well versed in the man and his tactics. He never believed a lady would be the least bit interested in an ancient soldier. He smiled broadly at her; he was beginning to like her a great deal.
“My lady, one day you and I will have to discuss Alexander in great length,” he said. “And you must give me your opinion on his war machine.”
She returned his smile shyly. “I would like that, Sir Paris,” she said, then suddenly brightened. “My Da read us the story of Helena and Paris once. ’Tis yer namesake, is he?”
“Aye,”
he replied. “I suppose that is who I reminded my mother of. Mayhap she had high hopes for me.”
From over Paris’ shoulder, still with his back to them, Deinwald snorted. “She should have named you Cyclops. That is who you remind me of.”
Paris smiled wryly at Jordan before turning around. “And your name shall be Brainless for tempting fate as you do. One day someone will cut your heart out for one insult too many.”
“And I shall be the first in line to shake his hand,” Sir Kieran said dryly.
“And I s-shall build a shrine and burn virgins once a day in his honor,” Sir Michael cut in.
“A severe contradiction,” Deinwald glanced at the extremely tall man. “I have never heard you utter the word ‘I’ and ‘virgin’ in the same breath.”
“Gentle knights.” Paris roared so they would cease their train of conversation. “Remember that we have a lady present, if you please.”
Jordan could not help but snicker until Deinwald glared at her and she lowered her head. But the smile was still there.
A very young knight, hardly more than her age, joined their group. The older knights teased him roughly over something Jordan could not quite catch, but she really did not care anyway. She was beginning to feel her fatigue. Paris gently pulled her into the conversation by introducing the young knight by the name of Corin de Fortlage. He smiled happily at Jordan as one would when gazing at a sweet plum pudding and gallantly kissed her hand. She almost giggled at his school-boy charm.
But the frivolity stopped when William appeared and the knights gave him their full, undivided attention. Jordan was amazed that the frivolity that had been there only an instant before was gone as the men looked eagerly at their captain. Even Deinwald’s churlish expression had vanished. She was beginning to see what a presence William commanded with his men, and it fascinated her. She thought she had been the only one to feel his overwhelming presence.
“Go get your food,” he ordered.
Everyone obeyed except for Paris. He was smiling at Jordan until William stepped between them.
“Take one of Lady Jordan’s maids and bring back her supper,” he instructed. “She is famished.”
“Nay, my lord, I am not,” she countered softly. “If ye will show me where I am to sleep, I shall be thanking ye.”
William looked her up and down, hands on his hips. “It has been a long ride, my lady. You need your strength.”
Her beautiful face turned up to him, the light from the fire caressing her features.
“I will eat doubly on the morrow, then, I promise ye,” she pleaded softly. “I only wish to sleep now.”
He was in deep trouble. If his life depended on it, he could not have denied her. He was appalled at himself and amused at the same time. He was not used to having his orders countered and repressed the urge to demand she eat. But he could not very well force-feed her if she was not hungry, so she might as well sleep as she requested.
Disgusted at his lack of backbone where she was concerned, he raked his fingers through his dark brown hair.
“Very well,” he extended his hand to her. “Paris, take charge of both maids for this night. I will take charge of the lady.”
Paris watched them walk away, William’s hand holding her wrist, disappearing into the darkness. His eyes glittered in the firelight. He had never seen his friend so…soft. It wasn’t so much in his voice, or his actions, but in his eyes. Paris let out a long, speculative sigh.
“Watch yourself, William,” he whispered to himself. “Watch yourself.”
CHAPTER SIX
The huge gates of Houndslow Castle, seat of the McKenna Clan and sometimes known as McKenna Keep, yawned open for the approaching rider. The sloppily dressed soldiers watched curiously as the weary man and his horse came pounding into the unkempt compound, not a one of them even offering to take the horse as they came to a halt.
No matter, though. The rider nearly fell from the horse, stumbling to the stairs of the run-down castle and taking them like a drunken man before being swallowed up by the open door.
If the outside of the keep was appalling, the inside was worse. A foul, heavy stench hung in the air and clung to every occupant like a cloak of death. It was a dank, dirty structure that could have just as well been a barn for animals.
The McKenna were a slovenly people and saw no horror to their existence; it had always been so. Dunbar McKenna sat in a shabby room off of the grand hall, contemplating the fly in his wine as the exhausted rider entered the room.
He glanced up at the young man, his only acknowledgement, before looking back to his drink.
“Ah,” he said. “I heard tale you were riding from Langton. What is it you have come to tell me?”
The man sat heavily on the nearest dilapidated chair, wondering if it were going to collapse under his weight.
“He’s gone and done it,” the man said. “By God’s Blood, if the man has not gone and done it.”
Dunbar drank the wine, fly and all. The cup clattered to the floor where it lay with several others as he rose and faced the window, hands clasped behind his back thoughtfully. “Then I pity him,” he said finally.
“I always knew Thomas Scott to be somewhat of an idiot, but I never knew the man to be weak,” he said. “Who did he pledge?”
“Who else? Jordan,” the rider replied, needing drink but not really wanting it from McKenna stores.
Dunbar mulled over that information. “So he pledged his beauteous Jordan, his only child, to the English warlord,” he chuckled bitterly. “For peace.”
“Aye, he did,” the young rider said. “He could have pledged Caladora or my sister, but he dinna. He pledged the only Scott woman worth anything.”
“Pity,” Dunbar repeated. “I was hoping to obtain the girl for me own boy, Abner. As ye know, I have pressed Thomas Scott for years to broker a contract, but he wouldna. It seems me boy wasna good enough for his baby Jordan. But by pledging her to the English lord he is insulting the entire McKenna clan. He is saying that the English are better than we.”
Malcolm Scott shifted uneasily in his chair. He knew Dunbar McKenna to be a volatile man and capable of much violence. He hoped that the man would not take this obvious insult out on him.
Malcolm was the second son of Matthew Scott, Thomas’ youngest brother. He had never quite fit in to the family with his mean streak and shabby character, and by befriending Abner McKenna, he had come to know Dunbar and think of him as more of a father than his own.
Which was why Dunbar was the first laird outside of Clan Scott to know that the English king had sent a missive proposing peace. It had then become Malcolm’s job to inform Dunbar of the decision so appropriate action could be taken against the Scotts.
The McKenna were an aggressive clan and they would rather take a dirk in the heart than live peaceably with the English. For them, there was only war. It was the common hate and the common love that they all shared. Even though they were not truly allied with the Scott clan, they were more than happy to come to their aid in a border skirmish. Anything that meant killing the English.
The McKenna were a smaller clan, numbering only about one hundred fifty men, in comparison to the six hundred that the Scotts claimed. But the McKenna were widely considered the rabble of the border and were simply tolerated because no one truly wanted to oppose them for fear that they would turn their aggressions on them instead of the English.
But, clearly, something had to be done about Thomas Scott’s treasonous act, especially in lieu of the fact that it cut into Dunbar’s greater plan. He was hoping to rely heavily on the Scotts when he united the border clans and proceed to raid and destroy every English fortress along the border, breaking down the English powerhold so that, eventually, the Scots would retain all control of their stretch of the border. This included tariffs, goods and services; anything that would fill coffers.
The McKenna of the McKenna Clan sighed darkly; if he did not regain control of Thomas Scott, then his plans cou
ld be ruined. He had been suspicious of the English messenger when Malcolm had first told him of the arrival, but he truly had no idea what the missive contained. Yet, in faith, he had suspected something. Thomas Scott had been waging a fierce war against one of the largest English fortresses for some time and Dunbar believed the message might possibly be a peace proposal.
He could not complete his plan without the Scott Clan. He needed their support, as daft as his scheme was. Yet Dunbar could be convincing, and he knew once he gained support from one clan, ’twould be a small matter of snowballing the effect until the entire border was united, once and for all. No one knew of his strategy as of yet, not even Malcolm. When the time was right, all concerned would be enlightened.
With Dunbar, it was always a grand scheme. The grander the better, and if it did not work out, then he always found someone else to blame and moved on. But this plan was by far his greatest, except that Thomas Scott had thrown a ferret into the hen-house with his damnable peace overture.
He had to do something about the Scotts. Mayhap if he could convince the English that somehow Thomas had gone back on his word, then he would not have to go to Thomas directly. Aye; a little underhanded work was just the cure for an errant laird.
Dunbar signed. “Then we shall take action,” he said. “Malcolm, how many bolts of Scott tartan can ye muster?”
Malcolm looked thoughtful. “Mayhap five or so. Why?”
Dunbar turned to him with a wry smile. “Think, lad; undoubtedly the English lord Jordan is pledged to will send a mighty escort to return her to England. They will be passing into enemy land, lad, their only safety guaranteed by the word of Laird Scott.” Dunbar sat in his heavy oak chair with a look of thoughtful glee. “Say, upon return, the English army is attacked from over the border by hundreds of Scotts. ’Twill look as if Thomas has gone back on his word, changed his mind and is attempting to rescue his daughter. We shall leave enough of the English alive to return to their laird and report what has happened. This will bring the whole bloody question of a treaty to an end.”
The Original de Wolfe Pack Complete Set: Including Sons of de Wolfe Page 47