by Mary McCall
Leonce placed a hand on her shoulder. “Come, love. The men cannot rise until you do."
"Then we have a cursed problem,” she whispered. “My muscles are bloody well stuck this way."
Leonce clenched his jaw. He absolutely wouldn't laugh...or roll his eyes. The world would laugh when he developed locked jaw and twirling eyes. Placing his hands on her waist, he lifted her and anchored her against his side with a one-armed embrace. Hope groaned under her breath.
"By Saint Ninian!” one warrior cried. “Our Lady MacPherson is a weak woman!"
Hope stiffened.
"Weak, my arse!” Aonghus called. “Had you been with us, you'd have bloody well seen that lass leap through the air and bring down a wolf with one slice of her whinger!"
Leonce led Hope into the keep, shaking his head. He would have to get used to hearing a lot of “bloody wells” around Clan MacPherson.
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Chapter Twenty-Eight
* * * *
Leonce marveled at the changes in Hope as she lost her fear and relaxed her guard. She appreciated being around people whom she could trust. Clan MacPherson soon loved their lady. She made the rounds of every cottage, telling the MacPhersons they were hers now, and she'd take care of them. Hope tended every ailment she heard about and held every baby. Leonce thought she probably petted every damned sheep too.
Their first evening back, she rose from her chair by the hearth in the hall where they gathered after the evening meal and told Bertie ‘twas bedtime. The boy squawked at the limitation on his heretofore unrestricted lifestyle. Leonce expected a major family war to wage. He had to clench his jaw to keep it from dropping, so stunned was he at what happened.
Hope placed her hands on her hips and smiled. “Bertie, if a mother tells her son to go to bed and he disobeys, then she'll bloody well not tell him any more stories."
She turned and headed for the stairs. Bertie's eyes grew frenzied. The lad fairly flew across the room, following her.
His warriors joining them amazed Leonce. Word of what she had done to Darach had spread. Everyone wanted to know what tale she'd tell next. By the third night, so many gathered that his clansmen relocated Hope to a chair by the hearth in the hall. Everywhere, people were repeating “Our Lady's” stories.
Four days later Hope became aggressive during their morning cuddle and informed him that she didn't feel tender anymore. He told her that they would stick to the week allowed—more to prove to himself that he could make it than any noble regard for her. Within the hour he regretted not accepting her invitation, but pride wouldn't permit him to change his mind.
He was in the hall a few mornings later, discussing construction of the battlements with Aonghus, when Darach and Bowyn entered. Darach was repeating Hope's latest story for Bowyn, who had missed it, about how the cursed Norman King William had forced the proud Matilda to wed him. Matilda fled and was caught over and over until she decided to put up with the bloody old goat. Half of what Hope said was embellished by her vivid imagination, but Leonce's warriors believed her. They hated to think of any woman happily married to the Bastard Usurper, even if she did become queen.
Darach was telling everyone's favorite part of the story: “One day everyone was in the chapel, waiting for Mass to begin. Then in walks Satan, who tells them he's there to snatch their souls to Hades. The Normans cowered, except the proud queen, who continued her silent prayers. Satan became enraged and asked how she could remain so calm and not fear him. According to our Lady MacPherson, the queen smiled up at the devil and said, ‘Why should I fear family, Lucifer? I've been married to your cursed brother for thirteen years.’”
Even those who had heard the tale joined in the jocularity. Bowyn dried the mirth from his eyes and addressed Leonce. “The Canmore approaches."
Leonce nodded once, and his humor fled. He turned toward Freya, who was wiping down the tables. “Freya, where is my lady?"
She paused in her task and grinned. “The last I heard, Chief, she was going above stairs to put in order the chamber of a surly lion who bloody well needs practice with his cursed cuddling."
Leonce stifled a grunt. Hope certainly had no problem announcing her opinions to one and all. “Try to keep her there until I send for her."
"Are we expecting trouble from our king, Chief?” Bowyn asked.
"Malcolm will stand by me,” Leonce said. “But since he's not due until next month, I expect to learn Baron Nevilles made a move in the game."
"What game is that, lad?” Aonghus asked.
"Baron-bait."
Freya didn't reach the stairs before The Canmore—Malcolm III—entered the hall. Leonce went forward and greeted his king at the threshold, placing a fist over his chest. “Liege, welcome to Clan MacPherson."
"'Tis glad I am to set sights on you, lad.” Malcolm slapped Leonce's shoulder. “Though I'm wondering if you know why I've come."
Leonce clasped both hands behind his back and arched a brow.
Malcolm passed him, walking farther into the hall. “One Baron Nevilles has petitioned William for the return of property you stole in a raid and a meeting with you on a field of honor.” Malcolm stopped near the stairs and stared up at Justice. “I take it this is one of the items you took?"
"And did my liege hear how many items I took?"
"Two.” The king faced Leonce with twinkling eyes, though his amusement didn't reach his naturally gruff voice. “Is she here?"
"Aye.” Leonce's lips quirked. Malcolm knew no Highlander would raid a holding as far away as England and make off with so little. “Her name is MacPherson."
"'Tis as I suspected.” Malcolm nodded. “Well, MacPherson, I've been commanded,” he said as the twinkle flickered brighter, “to return the property and turn you over to William, so he can make an example of you by hanging your mutilated carcass from a post."
A resounding crack reverberated through the hall, followed by a long leather braid wrapping inextricably around Malcolm's throat. “You'll bloody well have to go through me, you half-witted Highland hulk! And do not move, or I'll break your cursed neck!"
Every person froze, and no one made a sound. Nor did a single soul doubt the lady's threat. Hope looked like an avenging angel, poised upon the bottom step. Her wild golden mane shimmered about her shoulders down to her ankles. Sparks leapt from sapphire eyes. Light reflected from the dirk gripped in her left fist, while her right hand clutched the handle of her whip. Fury created an aura about her, becoming a tangible presence in the hall.
Leonce realized this wasn't the anger of a mere woman. This was the savage rage of a she-beast who sensed danger to her mate. He worried whether Hope could control her wrath and listen to him, or if anger so completely consumed her that she'd go for the kill.
He took a cautious step around Malcolm. “Hope."
"I'll handle this, Lion.” Her eyes remained on her quarry.
Leonce took another step.
She stalked in the opposite direction, furthering the coil until she stood before her prey. “You're looking at your worst nightmare, you despicable, big-headed boar. I'm a lioness, and I just heard you threaten my lion."
"'Tis not what you think, Hope."
"Stay out of this, MacPherson.” She tugged on the lash. “You slimy serpent, I'll carve out your liver and feed it to Harry afore I let you lay a hand on my lion. After I'm through with you, I'll bloody well march to London and send the bleeding gullet of that usurpin’ bastard back to Normandy where it belongs. Then I'll come home and rip out the heart of every rotten MacPherson in this hall who failed his chieftain."
"Hope, listen—"
"You'll bloody well eat your threats and take your cursed rump off MacPherson land.” Hope jerked on the coil, digging into the captured giant's flesh. “And don't come back, because I'm going to bloody well feud with you."
A collective gasp filled the hall. Leonce deemed a different approach imperative. “Liege, my lady—"
"What did
you just call him?” Hope cast appalled eyes toward him.
Leonce turned a sardonic gaze upon her. “Liege."
"You are a chieftain. That would mean...” Horror rushed over her face as she looked at her victim. “What is your name?"
"Malcolm.” The reply sounded hoarse.
Hope dropped the whip and dirk as if they had burst into flames. Then she hurried to uncoil the leather from her ex-victim's neck.
"Zounds, MacPherson! Why did you not stop me? Do you not know ‘tis not proper for me to say ‘bloody well’ in front of our king? Even I know that! And call him a pig? I'm sure that kings torture people for that!” She grabbed Malcolm's shoulders and inspected his lash-burned flesh. “Well, cursed bloody rot! I had my whip around his throat and started a feud with him. I'm sure kings bloody well sentence people to death for that, and I was liking it here!"
Malcolm glowered at her. “I thought you weren't supposed to say ‘bloody well’ in front of me?"
Hope snorted. “It bloody well doesn't matter now, does it—since you're having me executed?"
Grabbing his arm, she pulled the astonished ruler toward the high table. “Freya, bring our king some ale, and then get my medicinal case."
Hope stopped abruptly and pulled the huge man around to face her. Dropping to her knees, she placed a hand over her heart and bowed her head. Then she rose and tugged on Malcolm, continuing across the hall.
Malcolm's brows drew together. “What was that for?"
"I was paying you tribute. You haven't killed me yet, so you're still my king. Sit here.” She pushed him toward a chair.
The Canmore complied so quickly that Leonce wondered if his liege might be a wee bit afraid of his wife. He joined the pair by the high table and favored Hope with an exasperated frown. “Hope, calm down."
"Zounds, Lion! How can I bloody well calm down when our king is having me executed tomorrow?"
"I didn't hear him set the date.” Leonce crossed his arms, watching her from across the table.
"I didn't know I set the sentence,” Malcolm added in a bewildered tone.
"Of course you're having me executed. Here, drink your ale.” Hope shoved a goblet of brew into Malcolm's hand, and he quickly raised it to his lips. “You cannot have people going around Scotland wrapping whips around your neck. What would all the other kings say? I bloody well have to be your cursed example, but I'll not let you do it until tomorrow."
Hope was unsettled. Leonce decided to goad her out of it. “You think to make our king wait?"
She placed her hands on her hips and glared. “He will wait. I get a last request. While I might be better off asking for a priest, I'll not. ‘Tis the end of my week, and I'll bloody well kill him if he tries to kill me afore I have you flat on your back in our bed."
Ale spewed from Malcolm's nose and mouth, and tears filmed his eyes. Hope pounded on his back. “Do not drink your brew so fast. ‘Twill choke you."
Leonce sighed. “Hope, stop beating our king."
"'Twas his fault for choking,” she answered, though she ceased the pummeling and accepted her medicinal case from Freya. “My thanks. I'll need a goblet of water, two of whisky and a hot, wet cloth."
As Freya hurried off, Hope took a salve from her case, applied some to her hands, and massaged it into Malcolm's sore neck. “You might as well know; my first allegiance is not to my king or my chieftain. ‘Tis to my husband. If you try to take him afore you kill me, you'll bloody well find my lash around your neck again. And The MacPherson didn't raid Baron Nevilles's holding, or that cursed pig would have lost more than the sword. I bloody well took it when I escaped with MacPherson's son. Justice didn't belong to the buggerin’ boar anyway."
Freya returned, placed the requested items on the table, and then scurried away. Hope continued working the salve into Malcolm's neck. “Have a seat and drink your whisky, Lion. You bloody well have me frettin', having been so many cursed colors since I entered the hall."
Leonce had never heard so many “bloody wells” fall from Hope's lips, and her eyes appeared as wild as a cornered fox. He needed to rebuke her yet feared she might snap at any instant. Glancing at his king to see how his liege received all the commands tossed about by his wife, he received a wink. Leonce shrugged and sat down across from Hope.
"I probably couldn't have killed you, Sire, though it shames me. If I could kill a man, Baron Nevilles would have died by my hands long ago.” She wiped her hands on the warm cloth and wrapped it around the king's neck. Then she mixed a powder from her case into the goblet of water and handed the potion to him. “Drink this. ‘Twill ease the burning in your throat and bring back your voice."
"Saint Ninian, your eyes!” The king gaped at Hope.
"I know.” She gazed at him sadly. “They are the cursed bloody blue eyes of a Highland heathen. Drink your potion."
As Malcolm complied, Hope turned toward Leonce. Good God! The woman was as pale as the snow-capped Grampians!
"'Tis the truth, MacPherson, the Highlands have softened me. I'm so cursed terrified of dying tomorrow that I think I'm going to faint."
Leonce bound over the table and caught her before she hit the floor. She moaned, and her eyelids fluttered. He lowered her onto the chair relinquished by Malcolm. Grabbing one of the goblets, he placed the rim between her lips and poured in a liberal dose of whisky. She coughed and sputtered.
After one last croaking noise, she looked up. “I'm sorry I disappointed you, Leonce. I wasn't raised to be a noble chieftain's wife."
She bowed her head, and her arms rested limply on her lap. She was so distraught that she wasn't even attempting her serene mask. Hope might need discipline, but he didn't want her spirit broken. Squatting in front of her, Leonce nudged up her chin.
"Hope, for me, you are the perfect wife. Think you there is another chief's wife who would fight for her husband as you? And you would have killed had he made a move toward me. I know, for I know your rage. ‘Tis a match for mine."
Hope exhibited no reaction.
Malcolm cleared his throat and grimaced. He pulled the cloth from his neck and flung it on the table. “Lady MacPherson, ‘tis not my intention to see you dead. ‘Twould be an injustice to punish your loyalty to your husband."
"My whip was around your throat,” she replied flatly.
"'Twas to protect your chieftain."
"I started a feud with you."
He waved a hand in a dismissive gesture. “Only a chieftain can make that decision, so I'll not be taking offense."
"I called you a boar, a serpent and a half-witted Highland hulk."
"A boar is a fierce fighter. A serpent has cunning. If you'll agree to remove the half-witted, I'm sure there is a great compliment in ‘Highland hulk.’”
Hope just sat there with her chin resting on Leonce's fingers.
"By damn, I'll make it law that the Lady MacPherson will never be in conversation with her king without saying ‘bloody well’ at least five times!” Malcolm slammed a fist on the table, reinforcing his new order.
Hope's lips quirked. She looked up and received the tender caress from her husband's gaze. “I like our king. He's a very sweet man."
Leonce grinned and waited for the inevitable response.
"Now that is an insult, Lady MacPherson. If I hear it bruited about this island, I'll bloody well come back here and see to your execution."
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Chapter Twenty-Nine
* * * *
Stepping from the frigid pool beneath the falls, Hope smiled and drank in the sun. She rubbed her skin dry with brisk strokes and donned a clean gown. Then she sat on her plaid and combed her hair. No doubt existed in her heart that Leonce would ever beat her now.
After her spectacle, Malcolm had assured her all of Scotland would go to war and lose to England before he would consider turning The MacPherson over. Since a Norman victory was impossible, he wouldn't have to consider it. Nor would he acknowledge William's demands, because the mes
senger had somehow run into Malcolm's sword.
Then he told Leonce to give his account. Malcolm intended to cancel his visit to Clan MacPherson scheduled for the next month. Before her husband could respond, Hope asked which her king preferred for dinner: fish or mutton? Malcolm said he wouldn't be there that long. Looking him right in the eyes, she told the king of Scotland if he didn't let her make up to him for her insults, then she would start that feud whether The MacPherson agreed or not. Malcolm hastened to assure her that he would have mutton and stay two nights.
Realizing what she had done, Hope fled from the men. As she slipped out of the keep on her way to the falls, Leonce found her. Without a word, he slipped her dirk into its sheath and secured her coiled whip at her side. Cupping her face with two giant hands, he caressed her cheeks with his thumbs. “You are my Lady MacPherson."
He brushed a tender kiss over her lips, bringing tears to her eyes as she felt his love seeping into her, making her heart his own. At that moment she realized her heart also beat in his. The last nagging fear that he would ever hurt her vanished.
He knew the instant she made the discovery too, for the intensity left his gaze to be replaced by tenderness and...joy.
Diable nudged Hope's shoulder, interrupting her musings. She laughed up at him. “You're right, my beauty. I would love a good gallop to dry my hair."
After securing her girdle around her waist, she tossed her plaid across Diable's back, eliciting a snort. Hope put her hands on her hips and thrust her chin forward. “'Tis too many cursed layers to wear at one time. I'll not put it on until I'm ready to return."
Diable snorted and tossed his head.
Accepting the patronizing invitation, Hope leapt astride. They raced down the path and entered the lavender-carpeted meadow. She closed her eyes and let the wind whip through her tresses. She exhilarated at the feel of the powerful beast surging beneath her at lightning speed. Reaching the far end of the meadow, Diable slowed his pace and whinnied.
