by Lily Baldwin
He continued to follow her as they made their way past the final row of long wooden tables, but as she continued toward the high dais, he hesitated. At the high table a young woman sat, her back ramrod straight, her head demurely contained by a wimple and veils, her dress fine and richly embroidered. On one side of her sat Alex’s brother, Will, who looked as polished as a new penny in a rich velvet tunic. Though when he looked up and smiled at Rory, his face was still dirt-smeared and his hair stood on end.
Rory smiled and looked past Will to where his traveling companions and the steward of Luthmore Castle stood. Clearly, they were awaiting the arrival of the lady of the keep before they would sit down themselves. Rory was not one of them, nor had he ever wanted to be. He looked at the people who surrounded him with their easy smiles, simple tunics, and relaxed postures. This is where he belonged. He found a free seat at the end of one of the tables and sat down, greeting those around him. Ravenous, he reached into one of the trenchers in the center of the table and grabbed a piece of meat. His fingers dripping with gravy, he groaned in response to the delectable flavor.
Alex smiled at her waiting guests as she mounted the steps to the high table. Then she looked over at Mary, whose eyes lit up as she drew closer. Alex bit the side of her cheek to keep from smiling at her cousin who she knew was bursting beneath her smooth, calm facade. The arrival of four handsome lowlanders had not escaped Mary’s notice, and she was clearly dying to ask Alex who they were and why they were there.
Alex cleared her throat, keeping her own excitement in check. Then she glanced back to point Rory to one of the chairs, but she faltered. He was gone. She paused and gazed out over the hall, finding him at one of the long tables, his shirtsleeves rolled up, his elbows on the table while he bit the meat off a bone and laughed at some jest from Corc who sat next to him. It was not hard to hide her disappointment. Her years as an agent to the cause had honed her skills of concealment, but she felt his absence in a way that surprised her. She proceeded forward and dipped in a low curtsy in front of Michael, Adam, Robert, and Timothy.
“Forgive my delay,” she said.
Adam came forward then and bowed at the waist. “There is no grievance to forgive, my lady. Do not hurry dinner on our account. We will happily continue to wait while ye change.”
“Change?” she said. Then she looked down at her tunic. It was one of two that she alternated every day. She brushed at some of the dust, revealing a patch of Flemish wool dyed to match the heather. It was actually her favorite of the two. Over the years, it had softened and felt like a gentle, warm breeze on her skin. Alex’s thoughts returned to Abbot Matthew’s letter. Clearly, Adam expected her to behave like a ‘proper’ lady. One mark against Adam.
Michael cleared his throat and gave her a pointed look. She knew the direction of his thoughts. No doubt he wanted her to take Adam’s advice, hurry up to her chambers and pull on her finery so that she looked more like Mary, but that was no surprise. Ever since she was a wee lass running barefoot across the moors, Michael was always trying to persuade Alex to behave in a more ladylike manner. In her own defense, she had always argued that she was a proper lady—she cared for her clan—with her own back and her own sweat and tears. Over the years, she had met several gently born ladies who thought more of their own comfort than the wellbeing of their people. Typically decisive, she suddenly found herself in a quandary. The only times she had changed for meals was the rare occasion she found herself the guest in someone else’s fortress. But then she looked at her father’s empty chair. Her clan needed a chieftain. She curtsied again and was about to turn on her heel and slip behind the screen to the stairwell that would lead to her chambers, where she might dig a piece of finery out from a dusty trunk, when her stomach growled loudly. This was ridiculous. She could not wait dinner any longer.
“I’m afraid I am famished,” she said, directing her comment to Adam.
He smiled, gently conceding. “Then let us feast.”
She smiled in return. At least he hadn’t pushed the point. She held out her hand for him to escort her to the table, but Robert cut in front of him, beating him to the job.
“My lady,” Robert said in greeting. “Allow me.”
She craned her neck to meet his lively blue eyes. He really was incredibly tall and more handsome even than she first judged him to be. More than that, he possessed such a joyful countenance. Hmmm…one mark for Robert.
She took the seat next to the chieftain’s chair while Robert claimed the chair next to hers. Adam respectfully moved past her father’s chair and William’s and sat on the other side of Mary. Timothy sat down next to Michael on the far end of the high table.
A moment later, a young woman stepped over and filled their cups. “Thank ye, Fenella.”
“Yer most welcome,” she said, bobbing in a quick curtsy.
Following just after Fenella, several servants arrived bearing trenchers of meats and bread.
“Tell me of yer family, Robert,” Alex said, reaching for a piece of meat.
“’Tis good of ye to ask, my lady. My father is a horse breeder. In fact, my family’s horses are celebrated throughout Scotland and England and even across the water in France.”
“Really? Is there a secret to yer family’s success?” she asked.
“Indeed there is, and it is one I do not mind imparting to anyone willing to listen. The Gow family looks to our horses as extended members of our family.”
This confession warmed Alex’s heart. “I have always loved animals as well.”
“I’m so happy to hear ye say that,” Robert said agreeably. “Then ye will understand that occasionally I’ve even taken to one of the geldings as if I were its mum. Well, not its real mum, obviously, but a close second, like its Godmum.”
Her hand froze, the bread almost to her lips. She cast Robert a sidelong look. “Ye’ve been a Godmum to a horse?”
He smiled. “’Tis strange I know, but true all the same. At least my feelings have been true.”
She cleared her throat, trying to squelch the chuckle looking for a way out. She reached for her cup and took a long sip, dousing her amusement. When she felt composed, she placed the cup down, ready to continue their conversation. “Now that ye mention it, in his letter the abbot did say that ye were something of a horse expert.”
Robert blushed ever so slightly, shaking his head.
Well, he wasn’t arrogant. Another mark for Robert, although he had just said he was a horse’s Godmum. Hmmm…she would have to think on that one.
“I’m certainly not an expert,” he said.
“Ye’re not?” she said, surprised.
He shook his head even more vehemently. “Dear me, nay. I don’t believe anyone could truly claim to be a horse expert. One could spend their whole life studying horses, and still one would learn something new every day. I would be better described as having a passion for horses.”
Well there was nothing wrong with that, she decided. “I have an interest in horses as well,” she said.
His face brightened. “Really? Well, did ye know that horses are ticklish?”
This time she could not contain her laughter. Surely, he jested. But his face grew increasingly serious, and she realized that he was speaking in earnest.
Smothering her laughter, she adopted a serious tone, “Nay, I was not aware of that.”
He smiled, clearly very happy to enlighten her. “Indeed, they are, and in truth, ye’ve always known this.”
She cocked a brow at him. “I have?”
“Aye, ye’ve just not put the pieces together.”
Biting her cheek to contain her smile, she managed to say, “I’m sure ye’re going to solve this puzzle for me right now.”
“Most willingly,” he said. “Ye see, horses shudder to shake flies off their backs, which means their hides must be sensitive to the itch and annoyance of the flies’ little legs.”
“But what does that have to do with tickling? When I think of tickling, I
think of the sort that produces laughter.”
Robert crunched his fingers and touched the top of her hand with fast feather-light flicks of his fingertips. “But cannot tickling also be an irritant?”
“I can think of other things that are much more irritating,” she said dryly, withdrawing her hand from his touch and placing it on her lap. “I need more wine,” she said, gesturing to Fenella who stood in wait with the jug. After she refilled their cups, Alex gestured to the seat next to Robert’s. “Fenella, please join us.” Then she said to Robert. “Fenella loves horses.”
Robert smiled in greeting and soon the two were conversing easily, allowing Alex a moment’s peace. Sitting back in her chair, she took another sip of wine while she considered her sampling of men. So far, she had learned little of Adam, other than he was handsome, evidently a very skilled knight, and favored social conventions. He seemed to be in possession of several admiral qualities, but he was bound to find certain aspects of her character wanting.
Girlish laughter erupted from the trestle table where Rory sat, drawing her gaze. Corc had slid farther down the bench. Now, bright-eyed lassies surrounded him. They were all leaning close, clearly hanging on his every word.
She forced herself to look away. She had clan business to consider. After all, they needed a laird. Her eyes darted to Rory again, but she shook her head against the direction of her thoughts.
A laird of noble birth.
Her fingers gripped her cup tighter. Where was she? Oh, aye, then there was Robert. Robert had winsome looks and a cheerful disposition…but…could she tolerate a lifetime of odd horse talk?
This time it was a rich masculine laugh that pulled her attention back to Rory and his gaggle of love-struck MacKenzie lassies. Alison, Helen’s youngest and still unmarried sister who was not known for her good sense, was leaning close to Rory, whispering something in his ear.
Still, Rory and Alison’s conversation was none of her affair. Clan MacKenzie needed a laird of noble birth, not a man as alluring and forbidden as Rory. She clenched her fists against the weakness of her own thoughts.
All right, back to business. She leaned forward, looking past Mary, Adam, and Michael to where Timothy sat. He and Michael were engaged in what looked like sensible and serious conversation.
Hmmm…mayhap Timothy was the one. He appeared level-headed and cared nothing for useless conventions. Even Abbot Matthew had said that Timothy was the man who would accept her for who she really was.
Suddenly, less than jovial feminine voices drew her attention. Alison and another lass were now squabbling for the seat closest to Rory.
“Right,” Alex said under her breath and placed her hands on the table, coming to her feet.
The men at the high table began to push back their chairs to stand as a courtesy to her. “Nay, gentlemen, please keep yer seats.” She walked the length of the table and leaned next to Michael.
“We have been remiss,” she whispered in Michael’s ear. “One of our guests has not joined our company at the high table.”
Michael looked across the room, following the direction of her gaze. “He is a peasant,” he said under his breath.
“He would not be the first peasant to grace this table. Look. Fenella is sitting at the end there speaking to Robert. William is not truly of noble birth.”
Michael flattened his hands on the table. “Fine,” he whispered. “I will go and bring him to our table, although he looks rather comfortable where he is.”
Alex looked across the room to where Rory sat. He looked too comfortable. She knew she couldn’t have him, but she certainly wasn’t going to let another MacKenzie woman have him either. Moments later, while Michael and Rory approached the high dais, she looked for empty chairs. There was one chair free at the very end of the table next to Timothy or there was the chair next to hers, her father’s chair. In that moment, she wanted nothing more than for him to fill the chieftain’s seat, but she resisted the baser commands of her body and allowed Michael to lead Rory to the last chair.
She leaned forward to see past the line of faces separating them and raised her cup. A warm smile lifted his full lips and set her heart to racing. She quickly leaned back to escape the sinful sight of him. She had to keep her eyes on the true prize, on what mattered most—the wellbeing of her people. More than anything, they needed a laird, and as much as she wanted Rory, hungered for him, the peasant son of a dockhand could not be the one. It would be a direct insult to the MacLeod, which would endanger her people. She drained her wine and sat back, noticing that the table of MacKenzie lassies was silently eying Rory, however, now from a safe distance.
Go ahead and look all ye want, lassies. How could she blame them? Rory was the kind of man that could bring even the most chaste of women to their knees.
Chapter Nine
After nightfall when the great hall was quiet, Rory disappeared behind the screen and followed Alex’s directions to her solar. Two large warriors stood guard at the door. Rory eyed their battle-hardened physiques, which were naked to the eye in the simple plaids they wore. Typically, when there was a guarded room to which he needed to gain access, he sought entry only after days, sometimes weeks, of planning, and never without the support other agents. Instinct bade him find another way into the room or arm himself for battle, but Alex had assured him that the guards would let him pass.
Well…there was a first for everything.
He strode purposely toward the guards, wearing a friendly smile on his face.
“Good evening, Rory MacVie,” the guard on the left said.
Rory paused for an instant but quickly recovered from his initial surprise at hearing his name spoken. “Good evening,” he began. “I am meant to—”
“We ken,” the guard on the right said. “Ye’re here to meet with Alex. She’s already told us.” He opened the door and motioned for Rory to enter. “She said to make yerself comfortable, and that she’ll be along shortly.”
“Ye have my thanks,” Rory said as he stepped into the room. The door closed behind him. He stood for a moment, taking in his surroundings. A small fire smoldered in the hearth on the right side of the room. Facing the orange embers were two high-backed, ornately carved chairs. Above the mantle was a painting of a woman with fierce, dark eyes and hair so fair the artist’s brush made it as white as the moon that shone in the upper corner of the canvas. The woman exuded grace and power. Rory stepped closer and considered the eyes of the subject. She stared back as if life pulsed in her painted veins.
Tearing himself away, he forced his feet to walk farther into the room. There was a large desk, littered with parchment. Several rocks clearly painted by children tamed the papers with their weight. He drew closer, drawn to the images of wee handprints and flowers. Just then a gust of wind blew and a piece of parchment not weighed down lifted and zig-zagged in a slow dance to the floor. Rory bent over and picked up the page. He set it down and started to walk away, but from the corner of his eye he read his name. He splayed his hands wide on either side of the letter and began to read.
My Dearest Alexandria,
My heart is heavy as I too grieve for your father. As you know, Donnan was my dearest friend from youth. Never has there lived a kinder or more generous man. Take comfort knowing that he now sits with our Lord at His table. Also, please know that you are not alone. I received your letter and am fully prepared to guide you in finding a husband. Marriage is a sound choice at this time. To this end, I have sent you a selection of men, three in number.
“So, Abbot Matthew is playing matchmaker,” he said aloud, shaking his head in amazement. He should have guessed there was an ulterior motive sending the unmarried, young, generally pleasant noblemen north. “As if any of them could handle a woman like Alexandria,” he scoffed.
A nag of suspicion crept up his back. If the abbot had set aside his vows long enough to lie to Adam, Robert, and Timothy, had he also lied to Rory? “What is my true reason for being here?” he said, skimming the
letter.
“What the blazes,” he cursed, straightening and seizing the letter in his hands.
I have sent another man to you, Rory MacVie. He is NOT one of the men I have put forth as a potential husband. I have sent him to aid you in moving the weapons you have hidden away. This is the only capacity to which Rory is to avail himself to you. He is a great many things and a great man, but he is not the sort of man a respectable lass marries.
“So, that is how it is to be, Abbot Matthew,” he said, scowling. His head jerked up. He looked hard at the door. Alex had just called out to her men in greeting. He placed the letter down before silently crossing to the fire and quickly sitting in one of the high-backed chairs just as the door swung open.
“Good evening, Rory,” she said, moving confidently into the room. “Forgive my delay. I was going over tomorrow’s menu with Jean.”
Rory’s mind raced. He was torn by being offended by the abbot’s words or accepting some blame for the monk’s frank assessment of Rory’s past—not that Rory considered himself a rake. He was never dishonest with women. He did not feign affection or make false promises to fill his bed. Certainly, he enjoyed women and had never apologized for that, but he also had never met one who could lay claim to his heart. That being said, if his sister Rose ever strutted around with a man like himself, he would beat the blackguard to the ground. In the end, he supposed it was fair of the abbot to not recommend Rory to Alex as a potential suitor. And by God, he had no interest in being laird. Adam, Robert, or Timothy were all more suitable choices. Still, if that was true, why in God’s name did he feel like beating the living hell out of all three of them?
“I hope ye’ve not been waiting long,” she said, sitting down in the chair beside his.