by Lily Baldwin
“Do ye approve?”
Rory’s gaze shifted from the high dais where mounted on the wall was the MacKenzie coat of arms, to find Alex looking at him expectantly. Her keen eyes met his with uncharacteristic boldness for a woman—not the haughty entitlement of a noblewoman or that of wanton desire or even defiance. She seemed to move through life with a quiet confidence that so often escaped the fairer sex. To her, she was his equal, the same. He imagined she spoke to all men and women without deference for gender or title, her behavior unaltered whether they appreciated her candor or not.
“I do approve, although I do not believe my approval matters to ye, nor anyone’s for that matter.”
Her head slanted just slightly to the side as she considered him. “Do ye fashion yer actions or ideals with someone else’s approval in mind?”
He smiled, then slowly shook his head. “Nay,” he said simply
“Well, neither do I,” she replied and continued to hold his gaze, both at ease just looking at the other.
At length, she cleared her throat. Then her eyes darted toward Michael and the other men who were not three strides away. “Allow me to show ye our tapestries,” she said loudly, leading him away from the group. Pointing to a large woven scene with knights on horseback charging at an unseen enemy, she began in a louder voice, “This one is over three hundred years old…” Her voice trailed off as they finished crossing the hall.
“I never thought I would see ye again. Least of all here,” she said, still gesturing at the wall as if pointing out the intricacies of the design.
“Trust me,” Rory said his voice hushed. “When we first met, this is not where I thought ye’d come from.” He motioned toward the full trestle tables and high dais.
Alex shrugged. “’Tis a fair assumption on yer part. Women are scarce in our movement—ladies, well, we are non-existent. I believe I am the only one. But now I’m making assumptions of my own. ‘Tis entirely possible that the good abbot has legions of ladies secretly at work.”
Rory smiled. “And all wearing tunics lined with silver marks and kissing fellow Scottish rebels in the woods.”
Her lips curved in the slightest of smiles. “Mayhap.”
“I have not forgotten that kiss.”
“Nor have I.”
It felt like a continuous bolt of lightning shot off her and straight into his core, igniting currents of need without end. His breathing sped up, becoming shallower, and the sound of her rapid breaths met his ears, further fueling his own desire.
“Enough,” she snapped, he knew as much to herself as to him.
He stepped to the side to try to sever the intensity of their attraction. Clearing his throat, he sought to change the subject and made a sweeping motion with his hand meant to encompass the whole of the great hall. “In truth, I’m in awe. Unlike the men in my company, I am but the humble son of a shipyard laborer. I have never set foot in so grand a home.”
She laughed. “I’ve never heard Luthmore Castle referred to as a home, but it certainly is that to me.” She also took a step to the side, distancing herself even more. Then she cleared her own throat. “So what is yer home like?”
“These days I find my rest in a wooded glen or a room at an inn in the latest village to which the Abbot has sent me. But I grew up in Berwick when it was still a Scottish city. My parents, four brothers, and two sisters shared a room not much larger than three of yer trestle tables pushed together.”
A shadow of concern reshaped her countenance, drawing her lovely brows together and sharpening her violet eyes. “Ye were in Berwick when it was attacked?”
“Aye.” Images of narrow cobbled streets piled high with rotting corpses of men, women, and children flooded his mind, despite his wish not to see them again. He shook his head, chasing away the images.
She drew closer. “Forgive me. I see it pains ye to speak of it.”
“It does,” he said softly. He closed his eyes and drew a steady breath before once more meeting her eyes. “Most days it is impossible to understand or even believe it happened. I was not there, in the city, when King Edward and his tens of thousands attacked. I had accompanied my sister into the wood that morning to forage for herbs. I am not tortured by the screams of the dying like my brother, Alec, who was in the city that day—one of the few within the city limits to escape the sword and the torch. But I saw its aftermath. I saw the thousands and thousands who were slain. I saw the bodies of my parents and our youngest sister, Rosalyn.”
Her hand darted to her face, swiping at her eyes.
“Nay, Alex. Do not cry. So many tears have already been shed. I ken yer own heart suffers the loss of yer father. I did not mean to pile my own grief onto yer already heavy heart.”
“Those must have been dark days indeed.”
He nodded. “They were. We were exiled of course, my brothers and sister and me. But then we met the abbot, and he brought us into the cause, giving me a direction for my fury and grief. Early on I craved vengeance.”
“And now?” she asked.
“Only justice.”
She grew quiet and stared at the tapestry, although Rory could tell it was not the colors and pattern she observed but some distant heartache. “Grief and fury also led me to the cause.”
He was about to ask her more, but she turned then, her shoulders straight and her face stern with resolve. “Which brings us to the matter at hand. We have a mission.”
He would not press her to speak of her pain. Instead, he nodded. “Indeed, we do.”
“Meet me in my solar following the evening meal. The guards will grant ye entry. Now, we should return to our company, or tongues will start to wag.”
He followed her away from the periphery of the great hall into the joyous fray, passing tables of clan folk who called out in greeting to their lady, but they never used her rightful title. She was not Lady Alexandria to her people; she was just Alex. Rory drank in the noble sight of her. Never had he observed a woman more deserving of the title, Lady, even though her hair was still tangled, her dress soiled, her filthy toes peeking out from beneath the hem of her dress. Her nobility was in her bearing. It was in the warmth that radiated from her eyes as she smiled and greeted her people. It was in the humble way she received their good wishes and praise. She was the lady of legends.
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 on
e 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 att
ention 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.
