by L. L. Muir
The vendor’s eyes widened like Sophie was her first customer of the day and she didn’t know what to do? “Yer ladyship!” With a calloused hand that might have been genuinely calloused, she pulled out one of the fancier breads and offered it to her. “A gift. And welcome.”
Though she would have liked to have seen the woman wearing a plastic glove, she figured it wouldn’t be appropriate in Ye Olde Scotland, so she pushed aside her food-handler’s rules and accepted it.
“Thank you. I’m starved.” Her hand automatically searched for a pocket again, for a credit card, but found nothing. “I’m sorry. I don’t have anything on me.”
The woman looked at her clothes, then shook her head, confused.
“I mean I have nothing to pay you with.”
“Nay. Nay! A gift.” The rest of what she said didn’t sound like words at all, probably a sales pitch in a foreign language.
Sophie nodded as a thank you, stuffing little bits of bread into her mouth while she thought. Then she realized she could pay the woman in another way. Since Bram had apparently used his own talents to try to help these people, she figured she should do the same, right? And since baking was her specialty—or at least it had been—she could at least share a little bit of her expertise.
She walked around the end of the little cart and waved the woman close, so she could speak quietly. “You know, I had my own baking company in Oregon. I’ve sold a lot of cupcakes and such, and if you don’t mind a little suggestion, I think you’ll sell a lot more if you create a better display. Find a pretty cloth, set one of each product on it, let the customers...” She indicated the steady stream of people trickling down the road. “Let them know at a glance what you’re selling.” Sophie stepped back and looked at the cart again. “Maybe a little sign. A charming company name or slogan. Nothing fancy. Even if you just write—”
A large hand clamped around her upper arm and startled her, making her forget what she was saying. Thankfully, it was Bram, and even though he was smiling at the bread vendor, she could tell he was angry. He had very nice teeth, but surely she wasn’t the only one who could see his square jaw popping.
“Pardon,” he said to the woman. “I must speak with my lady wife.” With his left hand, he gestured toward the next corner in the road, as if she had a choice to walk in that direction, which she didn’t, thanks to that gentle but firm grip on her arm. He even made it look like he was in no hurry, his very long legs taking one step to every two of hers.
She wasn’t an idiot. She could take a hint, and she managed to stay calm until they were temporarily out of sight. Then she wrenched her arm away and faced him. “Excuse me—”
“I’ll do no such thing,” he hissed.
“I was just trying to—”
“I ken what ye were trying to do, lass, and I’ll thank ye to keep yer capitalism to yerself.”
“Show her... “
Sophie ended her explanation before she even got started and took a couple of seconds to look closely at her temporary husband. She couldn’t have heard him correctly.
“Just a second.” She chewed on the inside of one cheek while she thought about it. “I think something is getting lost in translation. You didn’t just call me a capitalist—like it’s a bad thing.”
“Indeed, I did. And I’ll thank ye to keep from tainting these people with—”
“Tainting?”
“Ideas that have no place in the seventeenth century!”
“The seventeenth…” Her frustration exploded in a sound that was, unfortunately, like a shrill neighing of a horse. Only it seemed to come out of the top of her head. “You people are out of your freaking minds, you know that?” She shoved the last bit of bread between his teeth, then turned her back on him and marched down the street like she couldn’t wait to get back to the castle.
But secretly, what she was afraid of…was that she would make that embarrassing noise again.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
As she neared the castle, Sophie was still so mad she barely noticed the smell of raw sewage until she was back to the spot where she’d gotten off her horse. While they’d been off playing gladiator and lady of the castle, someone had been working overtime. Thank goodness.
Peg was waiting for her at the top of the steps and, after a glance at Sophie’s face, bit her tongue and moved aside.
Sophie marched into the great hall, found a bench against a wall, and claimed it with her butt. Thankfully, her skirts flared out to either side and would keep anyone from sitting too close.
Maybe I’ll sit here for the rest of the weekend.
Bram strolled into the room and casually descended the three large steps like lord of the bloody castle.
Yep. Just another actor. Not a paying guest after all. She couldn’t believe she’d seen him as anything else.
Though he’d never looked her way, he strolled in her direction, paused in front of her, and held out his hand.
She folded her arms and tipped her head to the side.
Childish? You betcha.
Harris and Peg retreated to the other side of the room. A couple of men stood at each end of her bench, evidently waiting for her to get off it so they could move it next to one of the long tables. They glanced at Bram and hurried away.
Any other woman would have taken one look at Laird Ogilvy—with his muscular leg pressed against the side of his kilt and his shirt pulled tight against a Leonidas chest—and would have happily put her hand in his, no matter why he’d offered it. But she was done playing the seventeenth century lady.
“You know where you can put that hand,” she said sweetly.
He laughed in surprise, then cleared his throat. “Aye, I do. As yer laird and master, wife, I can put it anywhere I bloody please. I can apply it to yer backside if the mood takes me. Or I can…” His gaze raked down her gown and back up again.
She jumped to her feet to keep him from completing that sentence. “Just try it, buddy, and you’ll pull back a stump.”
“I’ll do more than try, lass.” He suddenly bent over and came at her with his shoulder. She tried to back away, but the bench stopped her. He scooped her up, tossed her over that shoulder, and carried her across the room with one hand against her butt cheek to hold her steady. She beat her fists against his firm rear end while the wood floor passed above her head. She might have been more successful at stopping him if she pinched or bit him, but she just couldn’t do it.
All those self-defense classes, wasted.
Bram jolted her as he climbed onto the dais. After a few more steps, he bounced her off his shoulder and bent forward, pulling her legs against him as he allowed her to come upright again. And just as she started clutching at him, to catch herself, her butt hit the seat of a chair.
Large chair. Hard landing.
It knocked the air out of her lungs for a second, and by the time she was ready to rip his head off, he was sitting beside her in a high-backed ornate chair on her left. The two men who had been waiting to move her bench quickly carried a table onto the dais and positioned it in front of them.
Someone clanged a bell, and the two long tables that ran down the length of the room filled with people, mostly men, who split their attention between her, Bram, and the doorways to the far left where staff emerged with platters of food. And suddenly, her chance to ream Bram was gone. With so many eyes watching her every move, she wasn’t about to embarrass herself.
She’d play along—but not for long.
Bram caught her attention and gave her a brief nod of approval. She crossed her eyes at him.
A young woman moved between their chairs and laid a strange round loaf of bread on the table, roughly the size and shape of a large pie. She backed away, and another woman stepped forward with a large bowl of water, which she held out between Bram and herself. After only a second’s pause, Bram turned in his seat and rinsed his hands in the water, then dried them on a small towel hanging over the woman’s elbow.
Though Sophie
would have preferred hot water and soap, and her own germ-free bowl, she did what Bram had done, then thanked the woman.
Bram’s head turned sharply, and his eyes narrowed.
She spoke low so only he would hear her. “What? Didn’t people thank each other in the seventeenth century?”
Without a reply, he started digging into the bread. He held a chunk out to her with a warning look that screamed, “This is the way it’s done. Keep your comments to yourself.”
Sophie painted a sickeningly sweet smile on her face and took the offering. Her stomach growled as she raised it to her mouth despite the fact that she’d snarfed down most of the gift from the bread vendor. It could use more leavening, but since her expertise wasn’t welcome, she was determined not to offer it. After all, what did she know about cooking in medieval times?
Besides, she’d be in Paris in a few days where the pastries would more than make up for whatever they chose to serve her in Inverbrae.
Harris appeared at the opposite end of the hall, waited for a nod from Bram, then came down the steps and up the center between the tables. When he reached the dais, he stopped and looked back, waiting.
The room finally noticed him, and everyone’s gaze followed Harris’. Once the room had quieted, a tall blond appeared and paused at the top of the steps. He wore skin-tight pants as if no one had learned to cut cloth in larger sizes. In fact, they looked more like thick pantyhose, but luckily, the scandalous parts of his anatomy, along with the very tops of his thighs, were covered by a long, yellow, sleeveless tunic.
Out the sides of that tunic bulged two impressively sized arms that would have matched any rotisserie chicken—roasted brown and slicked with grease. A shield-shaped emblem sat in the middle of his wide chest that reminded her of Hogwarts houses, and she had to bite her lips together not to laugh.
Bram waved the man forward with a flip of his fingers, then ignored him while a woman piled meat and roasted turnips onto the now hollowed-out platter of bread sitting between them. He gave Sophie a sidelong glance like he was making sure she was still behaving. It made her want to do anything but.
Harris cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Laird Bram Ogilvy, this is—”
“Godfrey Torvaldson,” the blond announced as he stepped up onto the dais, leaving Harris behind. He gave Bram a nod, then turned and smiled generously at her. “Ye may call me God, as the rest do.”
Her stomach muscles clamped down as she fought not to laugh, but a little grunt escaped her. The frown that Bram leveled on her made it clear he mistook the noise to mean she was impressed with their guest, and she couldn’t help goading him, by smiling back at the athlete.
“Pleased to meet you, God.”
The blond winked at her as if acknowledging her appreciation. Then he put his hands on his hips and waited for Bram to explain why he’d been summoned.
Her lord husband pointed to one of the long tables. “Find a seat. Eat while ye might.”
Torvaldson’s eyes narrowed momentarily at the big chair Bram was sitting in, then he grinned and walked away. He disappeared into a doorway for a minute, then returned with another large chair over his back, his beefy bicep and elbow bent next to his head as he carried it with one hand. He had to duck to get back through the opening. From there, he marched back onto the dais and lowered the chair at the end next to Sophie.
He didn’t have to wait long before two women appeared with a bowl of bread, a bowl of water, and a large stein, but they didn’t put the items on the table until Bram had given the okay. And when he did, the entire room seemed to relax. Only when the hum of normal conversation returned did Sophie realize how complete the silence had been.
Harris cleared his throat again. “Laird Ogilvy, yer Captain of the Guard has arrived. Shall I have him wait?”
“No,” Bram said. “I have little time to lose. Bring him.”
Harris signaled a young boy near the entrance, who then disappeared. While Sophie waited to see what the next weight-lifting champion would look like, Bram lifted a piece of meat to her lips, then tucked it inside when she opened her mouth to ask what in the hell he thought he was doing.
Glaring at him was useless since he wasn’t looking at her anymore.
“Needs salt,” she whispered. “Both the meat and the meathead.”
God choked, coughed, and took a long drink before chuckling to himself. Though he’d obviously heard her, he was suddenly avoiding eye contact, and she knew why before she ever turned to see Bram glaring at the man.
What was he doing, marking his territory?
She decided to ask him just that, but again, when she opened her mouth, he tucked a piece of meat inside. She pushed his hand away and considered spitting the stuff out, but just then, two figures appeared at the top of the steps.
The first was an old, fragile man with a bent back. Beside him was a young man maybe a little younger than herself. He was bent over too, but only to support the other guy. He glared around the room, then sent a scathing look toward the dais before urging the old man down the steps.
Sophie turned to Bram and put a hand on his arm. “Why don’t you have two of these guys carry him?”
Her lord husband never looked away from the two newcomers. “Why don’t ye busy that mouth of yers with food?”
She gasped and searched frantically for something she could say in public. He picked up a piece of meat and lifted it toward her, so she clamped her lips together. He ate it instead and licked his fingers. And the thought that those fingers had been feeding her just a second ago made her blush so hotly that she nearly forgot the insult.
Bram’s chin came up a little and she looked to see what had his attention. The two men had reached the bottom of the steps and were now making their way up the hall. The room quieted once again, and many men got to their feet while the newcomers hobbled past.
When the pair reached the dais, the younger man produced a thick cane of sorts, pressed it into the other man’s hand, then stepped back when that one found his balance. The crooked back straightened slightly. A whiskered chin snapped to attention.
Harris stood at attention. “Yer Lairdship. Ian MacKenzie, Iverbrae’s Captain of the Guard.”
Bram got to his feet and the big chair scraped against the floor. “Captain MacKenzie.”
“Aye, milord?”
“How many men-at-arms have we?”
The man looked slightly surprised by the question. And, to be honest, Sophie was a little surprised herself that Bram hadn’t stated the obvious, that the man was far too old and decrepit to be in charge of “the troops,” especially with so many other able-bodied men around, including God, whom she frowned at. But the big man’s attention, along with everyone else’s in the room, was centered on Bram. And like everyone else, he was watching carefully, poised to come to the old man’s defense if necessary. Or so it seemed.
“One hundred thirty-nine including myself.”
Bram nodded, then gestured to the boy. “And who is this?”
“My son,” he answered. “Late of life, aye, but he is mine.”
“And how long have ye watched over the safety of Inverbrae?”
“Forty-two years, laird.” The old man’s voice was suddenly made stronger by pride.
Bram waved the son forward. “Yer name?”
“Phillip,” the kid growled. After a nudge from his father, he added, “yer lairdship.”
“And has yer father taught ye anything of soldiering?”
Phillip opened his mouth to speak, the sneer on his face warned it wouldn’t be anything pleasant, but he suddenly coughed and clamped his lips shut when that cane dug into his stomach.
“Forgive m’ son, laird. He was not happy I was summoned. Seems to think I should sit about all day, aye? He has better manners, I assure ye. They must have fallen out a hole in his pocket along the street.”
Bram nodded. “And what has the lad learned, MacKenzie? Has yer wisdom fallen through the same hole in his pocket? Or in one
ear and out the other?”
The gray head swiveled emphatically. “Nay, sire. I could pass tomorrow and happily, kenning my knowledge will not die with me.”
“Is that so?” Bram shook his head. “But knowledge is one thing, sir. Experience is quite another.”
Murmurs moved up and down the tables. Beside her, God stiffened.
“Phillip MacKenzie.”
“Sir?” The boy could barely speak he was so dreading what Bram might say.
“I hereby proclaim that ye shall be, from this day forward, Captain of Inverbrae’s Guard.”
Sophie inhaled and held her breath. This was it, what everyone had been dreading. This old man, who was clearly revered by most of the men in the room, was being put out to pasture, replaced by a youngster. Even if it was all just an elaborate play, she’d fallen for the whole thing. She’d been sucked up into the scene, dammit. And she pretended she was upset because of that, and not because her heart was breaking for these characters.
“Ian MacKenzie?”
The old man tried to straighten again, but the wind was gone from his sails. He was back to leaning on the cane. His son was too overwhelmed for the moment to realize how quickly he was failing.
Sophie pushed her chair back to stand, but Bram’s hand came down on her shoulder to hold her still.
“Ian MacKenzie, I hereby title thee Lord Commander of the Watch.”
You could have heard a pin drop—for about three seconds—before the hall erupted. The cheers were deafening, and though Sophie winced and put her hands over her ears, she heard Bram’s voice when he leaned down to her.
“Even the Scottish undead are familiar with yer Thrones books, aye?”
She laughed when she realized why the title had sounded so familiar.
Bram looked at the big blond. “The man will need a chair!”
Godfrey moved nimbly for a man so big. Standing at Ian MacKenzie’s side, he wrapped an arm around the old man’s waist and hoisted him off his feet. In no time at all, the new Lord Commander was sitting on God’s seat, happily taking a beating from all the well-wishers who lined up to congratulate him with a slap on the shoulder—men who were all relieved at how the evening had evolved.
