The laird smiled and drank deeply of his cup. Waving Duncan onto the dais, he brought him and the others to the long table. Trays and platters of food, breads, cheeses, fruits and cooked meats filled the table and the laird directed them to stools around it. Once they had gained their seats, servants circled the table and the guests, filling cups, serving food and seeing to their needs.
“Your journey was a good one, Duncan?”
“Aye, my lord,” he replied, tearing off a piece of bread. “The weather held and the winds, when we needed them, were fair and strong.”
“Did you come directly here from Lairig Dubh?”
The question was asked in a convivial tone, but it was a test nonetheless. The Robertsons wanted to know who else he was negotiating with and who their competition was. The truth was the easiest way.
“Nay, my lord. We traveled to both Glasgow and Edinburgh on the earl’s business before heading north to Dunalastair.” Duncan caught Hamish’s eye as he took a mouthful of ale from his cup.
“So you having been traveling since…?”
“Since midsummer’s day, my lord.”
“We are friends, or are soon to be friends. Please call me Iain, as those in the clan do,” the laird offered.
He passed the test, apparently, for the laird nodded to several of his councillors.
“As you wish, Iain,” he replied.
“Let me make you known to my brothers, the sons of Duncan the Stout. This one you have met—” he patted the man next to him on the shoulder “—my youngest brother Caelan.” Duncan nodded as Iain continued, “He has only just recently returned from his fostering with the Mac-Leans.”
Point taken—an established relationship with the powerful MacLean clan of the isles.
Duncan watched Caelan and realized he was much too young to be husband or lover to the woman he’d met…and he was gone when the child was conceived, if Duncan knew anything about calculations. The little girl was nigh on five which meant she could not be his. Not certain why this was important to him, Duncan turned to the man seated next to him as the laird continued the introductions.
“That is my brother Padruig and his betrothed next to him, Iseabail of the MacKendimens.”
The MacKendimens were a small, but not inconsequential clan near Dalmally, not far from Lairig Dubh. Another connection made and acknowledged. Duncan the Stout would have been proud of Iain’s neat handling of showing their strength without ever raising a weapon. With a nod to both of them, Duncan waited for the last brother to be introduced.
“And that is Graem,” Iain began, with a tilt of his head at the last brother who was seated opposite of Hamish, “who has been invited by the Bishop of Dunkeld to take up studies under his tutelage.”
And that was the final connection—to one of the most powerful and important bishops in Scotland, giving the clan a link to the Church. The sons of Duncan the Stout were well-established and connected to important clans, big and small, throughout Scotland. And the clan was one of the oldest families in the land, tracing their heritage back to the Celtic lords of Atholl. Their heraldry and position had been announced more effectively than calling the roll of ancestors. Duncan admired the efficiency with which Iain had established their position.
Iain may only have been laird for just over two years, but he was firmly in command and knew his mind. From the expressions of the others seated at the table, they were proud of him as well and would back his efforts and decisions.
Duncan recognized a challenge made and he could feel the blood in his veins begin to pulse in anticipation of a good fight. He relished nothing more than a worthy adversary across the negotiating table and now knew that the next few weeks would test his abilities on every front.
“We will begin on the morrow, if that suits you, Duncan?” Iain asked.
“Aye, ’tis fine.” Duncan was anxious to get into the thick of battle.
“My steward will see to your comfort,” he said. An older man came forward and stood at Iain’s side. “If there is anything you need, Struan will see to it.” Struan bowed and, after asking about their preferences for rooming, left to make the arrangements.
The rest of the meal passed pleasurably, but Duncan discovered he did not even remember what he ate or drank, though the latter was sparsely done. He wanted and needed time to make his final review of the possibilities and their offer before night fell. He could not wait for the thrill of the process. And like a child with a wrapped gift sitting before him, Duncan found that he could not wait for the day to be over and the negotiations to begin.
Duncan would look back, at some time later, and laugh over his misbegotten anticipation and excitement of what was to come. And five days later, in the middle of a heated discussion, and for the first time in all the treaties he’d negotiated, Duncan the Peacemaker lost his temper.
Chapter Three
“You cannot be serious,” Duncan shouted as his fists pounded on the table, scattering documents and scrolls in the wake. “You already agreed with that provision nearly two days ago!”
He sensed his control slipping and could not pull himself back. Never had he felt as though the very ground beneath him lay coated with oil and his feet could find no purchase. Hamish glared at him…again. The Robertsons’s chief negotiator glared again. Even the laird, who usually stood by silently and watched the proceedings, glared. The thing that Duncan did not understand was what had sent him down such a course that resulted in his anger.
“I was under the impression, sir, that all matters were still negotiable until the laird signs the final treaty. Is that no longer the way we are proceeding?” Symon asked, turning to Iain, again, for confirmation.
Duncan leaned back in his chair and took a deep breath. He gathered and straightened the documents and scrolls he’d scattered and decided that what he needed most was a short time away from Symon before his control snapped completely, for he feared Symon’s neck would be the next thing in the room to snap. Having made the decision, he pushed back from the table, bowed in Iain’s direction and walked to the door.
“The weather has cleared and I feel that a short break now might clear my head. With your permission, Iain?”
Without waiting for permission, Duncan pulled open the door, followed the corridor and then the steps down to the lower floor and made his way to the stables. He had spoken the truth, for the last four days had been one torrential rainstorm, complete with winds and lightning that split the sky and rumbled over Dunalastair with fierce power. This morn had dawned clear and crisp as though the storm had raged only in their imaginations. And mayhap it had?
He reached the stables and his horse greeted him with the same snorts and stamping he’d just offered to Symon, telling Duncan that they both needed a good run to burn off some of the tension that built within them. Readying the horse himself, it was only a short time before they both raced toward the keep’s gate and out through the village. Crossing the bridge, Duncan let the horse have his head for a short time. Using muscles that had been too long unused, Duncan brought the mount under control and laughed as the exertion revived his body and his spirits. A short time and distance later, he turned around and headed back to the keep.
As he rode, he tumbled this morn’s work over and over in his head, searching for the problem. There had been significant progress and then he felt as though they hit a stone wall. Each word, each provision was contested. Reviewing it brought him no clarity and he continued to assess the strengths and weaknesses in his offer. When next he looked up, he was sitting on the path that led to the woman’s cottage without any knowledge of how he’d gotten there.
He knew he should leave and return to his duties and to the keep where others waited on his return.
He knew he should avoid her for she was like every other distraction that pulled him from his task.
He knew there was nothing remarkable about her, yet something drew him to her and something enticed him to discover more about her.
&n
bsp; Duncan shook his head at such nonsensical thoughts. He must be more tired than he thought if he lost his concentration so easily now. Mayhap if he learned her name, her appeal would lessen? ’Twas a chance that it was the mystery of her that made her attractive to him? He’d nearly talked himself out of staying to speak with her when the door to the cottage opened and the woman came out.
Once more struck by the way she looked from a distance and how differently she appeared up close, he watched as her daughter followed a few moments later and skipped along in her mother’s shadow, through a gate and into a garden next to the croft. Their soft and completely feminine laughter floated to him where he sat, still on his horse, in the shadows of the tree-lined path.
He’d watched and listened to Connor’s wife, Jocelyn, as she played and frolicked with her son and, more recently, her daughter and his heart did the same thing now as then. He felt as though a fist wrapped around it and tightened. With each soft peal of laughter or each word spoken in love and encouragement, the grasp grew tighter and tighter in his chest. A longing so strong he could not breathe filled his heart and soul.
His horse must have sensed the tension, for it began to shift and become skittish beneath him. When he gathered the reins to try to calm it, he dropped one and cursed at his stupidity. Sliding from his seat, he collected the reins and prepared to mount again when he noticed the silence around him. Glancing toward the garden, he did not hear the two any longer. Had they seen him and gone inside?
’Twould be untoward for him to deliberately approach the woman, so he decided it was time to leave. Duncan chose to walk the horse back to the keep and he was just about to when he saw the blond little head peek over the stone wall that surrounded the garden. He could not help the smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth. Some whispering followed and then he spied her pale hair again. Finally he settled on a new approach, damn it all.
“Good day,” he called out, as he hobbled the horse near the path.
Silence followed his call. Tempted to give up but not willing to, he tried once more. “Good day.”
“Good day, my lord,” the woman said as she rose from her hunched-over position and stood at the gate.
“I am not your lord,” he said, shaking his head. “My name is Duncan.”
Marian knew both of those things, but fought not to reply with the sarcasm she felt. If the truth be told, she was higher in precedence than he and could rightly be called “my lady.” But that life was so far away that she dared not even think of it. “The Peacemaker,” she said instead.
“Just Duncan,” he answered as he walked toward the gate. “And you are called…?” he asked her.
She hesitated for a moment, dreading and anticipating the sound of her name on his lips, but she answered in spite of her fears. “I am called Mara.”
The gate opened and Ciara ran out. She stopped a few steps from Marian and her eyes widened as she caught sight of his horse. Her mouth dropped open in awe and although she tried to say something, no words could be heard. Then only one.
“Pretty,” she whispered on a sigh.
“Ciara,” Marian called. “Come away now with mama.”
Ignored because of the animal, Marian grew nervous and held out her hand to her daughter. “Ciara, my sweet, come to mama now.” She took a step, but Ciara was faster and bolted in the direction of the horse. Marian froze in fear.
Luckily the man called the Peacemaker did not. With little effort, he leaned down and intercepted her daughter before she could pass. And, in an effort that was made apurpose, he lifted her up and swung her around to make it seem a game. By the time he’d circled her around once, Marian reached his side.
“My thanks, sir,” she said, reaching out to take her from him. Instead he gathered Ciara in his arms and took a step toward his horse. “Sir, please!”
“Fear not, Mara. I would but show her the horse. If you would permit it?” he asked before taking another step.
Marian watched as Ciara settled into his arms, leaning against his chest and examining everything in her world from this new height. Pointing to the horse, she uttered that word again. “Pretty.”
Then, the daughter who never talked to strangers and never strayed more than a step from her side abandoned her completely.
“What is his name?” she asked the man, even as she leaned toward the horse, forcing Duncan to move or risk dropping her on the ground. With a quick nod of consent Marian freed him and then followed right behind as they approached the horse.
“He has no name. I call him ‘horse’,” he answered.
Ciara laughed then and for a moment Marian could not decipher the expression in his eyes when he watched her daughter laugh aloud. The same ones she thought were so hard and ungiving melted, and yet now she witnessed a longing there so strong it made her knees almost buckle beneath her. And then it was gone as quickly as it happened. He carried her closer, but stopped a few paces away.
“We must let him learn us or he will try to run,” he explained in a calm voice. “Let him learn your smell.”
Ciara giggled then as though that was the funniest thing she’d ever heard. The horse’s ears pricked up and he snorted once and then again, watching them get closer now.
“’Tis true, lass. We all smell funny to horses and you have to let them learn what you smell like before you get close.”
She watched as he took her daughter’s hand and held it out to the horse. Whether it was her daughter’s scent or its master’s that it recognized, the horse calmed and gently nudged both of them. Ciara turned back to her with the greatest smile on her face.
“He would become your friend if you gave him something to eat,” Duncan said seriously. “Horses like food.”
“I have none to give him,” Ciara said.
Shaking her head, she looked around as though she would find something on the ground. Before she could answer, Duncan reached beneath his cloak and took out the stub of a carrot.
“Ah,” he said, “here’s just the thing.”
Under his guidance, Ciara took hold of it and held it out to the horse, who first sniffed it and then pulled it into its mouth. Ciara laughed again, claiming it tickled.
In that moment, Marian’s world tilted before her.
No man had ever held her daughter so. No man had made her laugh this way. No man.
Now, there she sat in the arms of a stranger, feeding his horse and giggling over the way its wet tongue felt against her palm. Marian stumbled then, just a step or two, but enough that he noticed it and he reached his free hand out to steady her.
“Are you ill, mistress?”
“Nay, sir. Not ill, just a bit dizzy,” she said. Marian reached up to take Ciara from him, but he shook his head and stepped back.
“You cannot carry her if you are unbalanced.” He noticed Ciara staring at her, the enthusiasm of the horse now waning as she must have picked up on Marian’s concern. “Your mama is worried about us being so close to such a big horse. Come, let’s look at him from a bit further away then.”
He walked toward the cottage and crouched down to lower Ciara to her feet. Instead of letting her go, he spoke softly to her, telling her about how old the horse was, and how many teeth it had and its favorite foods. Marian felt as though she’d regained her balance by the time he stood and smiled at her.
“I am sorry if it made you worry. I meant no harm,” he said.
Looking at Ciara’s face and the pure joy that shone there, she knew he had not. “My thanks for such kindness to my daughter.”
“’Twas nothing, Mara.” His voice poured through her and he turned his attention to her as he had to her daughter just minutes ago. “’Tis not often I find a woman, although she is a wee bit younger than most I speak with, who likes my brute of a horse as much as I do.”
She laughed, for she doubted he ever had trouble finding women to talk to…or flirt with…or do the other things men and women do together. Marian met his gaze and wondered how she ever th
ought him stern or forbidding.
His eyes flashed with amusement as he watched Ciara talking to herself merrily about the horse. Marian was close enough to notice the small flashes of gold in their centers. And she noticed that his hair, worn loose around his shoulders, that had seemed all one color, now caught the sun as it shone through the trees above and gleamed with all the shades of brown.
When the direction of her thoughts struck her, Marian began to tremble. She purposely did not allow herself to notice such things and went out of her way to disguise any such attractive traits in herself so they would not be noticed by others. Being noticed meant trouble. And it was trouble she neither welcomed nor could afford.
“My thanks again for this small treat for my daughter, sir. We must not keep you from your duties any longer.” Marian reached out for Ciara’s hand and grabbed it when she did not move quickly enough.
“Ciara, thank Sir Duncan for letting you feed his horse.”
“Duncan is fine, Mara. She can call me Duncan.”
Ciara mumbled her thanks, still in awe of the horse and its owner and, with a nod, Marian led her to the cottage door.
“Mayhap Ciara can suggest a name when next I visit?” he asked.
She hurried inside, hoping her daughter had not heard his words. Closing it behind them, she resisted the urge to drop the bar and secure it. Such an action could be construed as an insult, since he’d offered nothing but pleasant company to her and her daughter. Even as Ciara went searching through her small box of toys for the horse made of sticks, Marian walked to the small window that faced the front of the cottage and peeked carefully through the covering to watch him leave.
He untangled the reins from the horse’s legs and pulled himself onto its back. The strength in his arms and legs was obvious as he brought the strong horse under control and turned it toward the village. If she’d thought him only a man of meetings and discussion, she’d been so very wrong. Duncan the Peacemaker was first a warrior and then a negotiator.
Possessed by the Highlander Page 3