“Goodness, where are my manners?” the red-haired woman tittered. “Ye must be tired from yer long journey. The steward will show ye to yer chambers.”
The McKenna turned his critical eye upon the female who had spoken, his assessing gaze wandering over her lush form. “Who are ye?” the McKenna asked bluntly.
So much for manners. As he tried to hold back his own gaffe, Malcolm heard James snicker beneath his breath.
The woman cringed at the McKenna’s booming tone, yet still managed a weak smile. “I am Lady Agnes Stewart. A distant cousin.”
“A cousin?” The McKenna stepped forward. His assessing gaze raked the woman from head to toe a second time. “Truly?”
Though the smile remained on her face, Lady Agnes moved back a few steps. Laird Armstrong frowned. “A cousin, though someday she might be more to me. Agnes has been a tremendous help preparing fer this meeting. The castle benefits greatly from a woman’s touch.”
“Aye, Lady Agnes has made her presence known in nearly every chamber,” a female voice intoned. “Especially those above stairs.”
Malcolm turned his head, recognizing the voice. Lady Joan. She sauntered into the great hall like a queen, head high, nose in the air. “Forgive my tardiness, Laird McKenna,” Joan continued, walking boldly forward until she stood toe to toe with the warrior. “I was attending to my son.”
She dipped a graceful curtsy, then rose. Malcolm resisted the urge to reach out and clamp his father’s jaw shut. Their mother was a lovely woman, but few on earth could compete with the physical perfection of Lady Joan.
Though it seemed impossible, Malcolm conceded that Joan grew more beautiful every time he set eyes upon her.
“Davina sends her regards,” James said, filling in the silence.
“I trust my cousin is in good health,” Joan replied.
“Aye,” James answered.
“Please let her know that I was asking fer her.” Joan added with the barest of smiles, “Good day to ye, Sir Malcolm.”
“Lady Joan.”
As he bowed in greeting, Malcolm was struck anew at her effortless beauty. Her shining golden hair hung in a thick braid down the center of her back. Pulled away from her face, it showcased her perfectly formed, delicate features and emphasized the deep blue of her eyes.
Perched atop her head was an elegant gold circlet that held a short, gauzy, silk veil in place. It floated around her like a cloud, adding to the ethereal aura of her beauty.
Her skin was the color of fresh cream, smooth and radiant. Though he assumed that she was near to his own age of twenty-eight, Malcolm decided that she looked as young, fresh, and pure as a maiden.
If only her heart were as unblemished as her face.
As was the fashion, she wore a velvet gown of deep blue that molded her body snugly, accentuating an impressive bosom, small waist, and lush hips. Around her waist was a thick gold chain, studded with small red gems and a ring of keys, signaling that she was the chatelaine.
That, too, caught Malcolm’s interest. Lady Agnes had clearly set her sights on taking on that role, yet apparently in the battle of female supremacy, Joan still held sway over the pretty, plump Agnes. He wondered idly if Joan would be able to retain control if her father married Agnes.
“Now that ye are finally here, Joan, ye may escort Laird McKenna and his sons to their chambers,” Agnes commanded.
Malcolm quirked his brow at the order and the smug voice with which it was given, interested to see how Joan would react at being ordered to perform a task usually assigned to a servant.
“I would be honored,” Joan answered smoothly, a slight edge of sarcasm in her tone. “However, while I’m doing that, ye’ll need to attend to matters in the kitchen, Agnes. Cook has many questions about this evening’s meal ye’ll need to answer.”
Lady Agnes blanched. She looked helplessly toward Laird Armstrong, but he ignored her. For whatever reason, Lady Agnes was fearful of performing this particular task.
And Joan’s smug expression made it clear that she was well aware of it. Malcolm chuckled beneath his breath, admitting that he had been foolish to even consider that Joan would be defeated. Ah, now that’s the Joan I remember. Though she was a prickly and often disagreeable female, he had long admired her courage and tenacity.
Malcolm watched Joan intently as she led them up the narrow, winding stairs, his eyes taking pleasure in the tantalizing sight of her lovely, rounded backside. With a small grin, he noticed his father and brother doing the same.
“Here is the chamber fer ye and yer sons,” Joan announced when they reached the top landing, stepping aside to allow the men to enter.
The McKenna walked in first. The room they entered was large, boasting a wide bed. To avoid the drafts, it was set on a raised platform and tucked neatly away in an alcove. An intricate tapestry hung on the stone wall behind it, keeping out the chill. A fire burned in the large hearth, yet the room still felt damp.
Wavy panes of glass covered the two windows. There was an arched doorway leading to a second chamber that was nearly as large as the first. Pallets and blankets were neatly set atop a carved chest that was pushed against the wall. Instead of rushes, there was a finely woven rug on the floor.
“Are these the laird’s chambers?” the McKenna asked.
Joan paled. “Nay, milord. These were my mother’s rooms.”
Malcolm exchanged a glance with first James and then his father, not certain if being placed in these chambers was an insult or an honor. They were obviously the best rooms in the castle, after the laird’s. But the deceased Lady Isobel had been revealed to be a madwoman.
So which was it—an honor or an insult?
Did the essence of her madness still remain within these walls? James’s wry expression told Malcolm that his brother shared a similar thought.
“There’s plenty of room fer all of us,” Malcolm ventured, deciding he was not going to be offended.
“And the chamber is appointed with every comfort,” James added, but they both knew it would be their father’s decision if they stayed or asked for different accommodations.
The McKenna’s lips twisted as he once again looked around the chamber. “We’ll sleep well here,” he declared. “Though if my sons’ snoring keeps me awake, ye’ll have to find somewhere else to put them.”
Malcolm could see the tension in Joan’s shoulders ease. He smiled. His father possessed an amazing ability to intimidate anyone at any time over anything. Well, except for his wife. In matters involving Lady Aileen, the McKenna wisely consulted, listened, and if necessary, capitulated. ’Twas the only way to keep peace in their household.
“Will ye take some refreshments in the great hall or would ye like me to have them brought to ye here?” Joan asked.
“We’ll avail ourselves of the Armstrongs’ hospitality in the great hall,” the McKenna declared, fixing her with a cold stare. “I am anxious to speak with Laird Armstrong alone. Be sure to inform him.”
Joan slowly lifted her brows, her displeasure at the order obvious. Yet she did not protest, instead dipping a low, graceful curtsy. “I will relay the message,” she said, rising once again to her full height.
Her exit was efficient, unhurried. Malcolm was surprised to see that once in the hall, she leaned against the wall and took several long, deep breaths. Curiously he noted that the arrogant Joan was apparently not as tenacious as she wanted everyone to believe.
Chapter Four
Joan peered cautiously into the great hall, needing to make certain that none of the Fraser clan—specifically Archibald—were present. It took longer than she’d anticipated to steal a glimpse of every face, as the hall was alive with activity; it seemed as though every servant in the castle was helping to set up for the evening meal.
A meal Joan dreaded attending.
Her father and Lady Agnes were nowhere to be seen, which suited Joan. The McKenna would no doubt be annoyed with her for not delivering his message personally, but she could now truthfully repo
rt there had been no opportunity. Instead, she would assign one of the pages to relay the request and then retreat to her bedchamber.
Joan kept her expression calm as she crossed through the chamber toward the staircase on the opposite side that led to her private quarters. Yet her heart sank when she caught several wary glances from the servants directed her way. Word must have spread that Archibald Fraser and his men were within the castle walls and all were curious to witness her reaction.
Fortunately, she had learned well how to hide her emotions. There was no trace of the turmoil she felt on her face; nay, to one and all she appeared serene and distant. Yet her thoughts were consumed by an almost crippling fear for her son.
Dear God, I pray that Gertrude has hidden Callum somewhere safe.
Prayerful thoughts of her maid seemed to conjure the woman to life; suddenly Joan spied Gertrude at the far end of the hall. Wasting no time, she hurried to her side. As she drew closer, Joan felt a sudden draft of cold wind and noticed Gertrude shivering.
The older woman was bone thin and frail, yet beneath her fragile exterior was a Highland spirit as strong as it was proud. The maid had risked much to help Joan escape from her marriage. If not for Gertrude, Joan knew she would still be an abused, neglected wife.
Joan grabbed the wool blanket that hung near the hearth, then drew it carefully around Gertrude’s shoulders.
“Ye shouldn’t be serving me, milady,” Gertrude whispered, but she pulled the blanket tighter across her chest. “The others will see yer kind heart as a weakness.”
Joan could barely contain her laughter. “I highly doubt anyone will call me kind. Ever. Besides, I dinnae care what they think,” she added truthfully.
“Ye should,” Gertrude insisted. “Ye must. Who knows what notions Laird Fraser will get into his head once he sees ye? Ye might need a champion to defend ye.”
Joan shook her head sadly. “There’s none here that would interfere. I must rely on my wits and sharp tongue to keep us safe.”
“Thank the Lord that ye’re clever,” Gertrude said. “But he is dangerous.”
Joan flinched. “I remember all too well.”
The maid patted her hand soothingly. “At least Callum is far from his reach. That should put yer mind at ease.”
Joan’s heart instantly lifted at the mention of her son. “Where is he?”
“Mistress Claire has agreed to keep him.”
The answer surprised Joan. “But she has six bairns of her own. How will she manage with another?” Joan asked, visions of an unattended Callum wandering off and injuring himself dancing through her mind.
“Her eldest lass is twelve now,” Gertrude said. “She keeps a sharp eye on the wee ones.”
“Was there no one else?” Joan inquired, still feeling uneasy at the notion. Callum was an active, curious lad; he would need constant supervision to keep him out of mischief. “I would have preferred to shelter him with a childless woman, one who could give him her complete attention.”
“That was my first thought, too. But then I saw all the bairns playing in Mistress Claire’s front yard and I knew it was the answer to our prayers.” Gertrude sniffed and tugged the blanket closer to her chin. “’Tis better to hide him in plain sight. I daresay, few will notice or recognize the lad when he’s part of Mistress Claire’s parcel of brats.”
Though still uncomfortable with the choice, Joan could see the logic of the argument. Yet her heart ached at being separated from her child. “Let’s hope it willnae be fer too long. Have ye heard any gossip about the reason fer this meeting of the clans?”
“Aye. They say one of the McKennas fathered a bastard child on MacPhearson’s daughter and Laird MacPhearson seeks retribution fer the insult to his honor.”
Joan’s brow rose in shock. “Which McKenna?”
“The eldest. Sir Malcolm.”
“Well, at least it wasn’t James. I would not have wanted my cousin Davina to have to endure the humiliation of a faithless husband,” Joan replied, realizing she meant every word.
Raised together since they were young lasses, Joan and Davina had never been close. Yet Davina had sheltered Joan when she first escaped from Archibald, and that act of compassion was one Joan would never forget.
“Do ye know why the Frasers have come, too?” Joan asked. “This has naught to do with them.”
“I’ve heard no specific reason, though I see Lady Agnes’s manipulating hand in it,” Gertrude replied. “’Tis no secret that she takes great joy in angering ye.”
Joan nodded. “She has proven herself to be far more of a nuisance than I anticipated.”
Gertrude’s lips curled in concern. “I recognize that look in yer eyes, milady. Ye aren’t going to do anything rash, are ye? This is not the time to be tangling with Lady Agnes.”
“Nay, that fight will have to wait fer another day,” Joan agreed. “Though I confess, I dinnae know what I shall do if my father actually marries her.”
“One battle at a time,” Gertrude clucked. “Come, ye must rest and regain yer strength before the evening meal.”
Rest? With her mind and heart in such turmoil? ’Twould be nigh impossible, yet the privacy of her chambers was a lure Joan couldn’t resist. “There’s still a great deal to be done to make certain all will be ready fer tonight.”
“Aye,” Gertrude agreed, rising to her feet. “Best to let Lady Agnes worry about it.”
Joan smiled. The thought of Agnes scurrying about the castle in a panic was a decidedly cheerful notion. “An excellent idea. I’m quite sure she’ll make a muddle of things.”
Gertrude nodded. “She seems to have a talent fer it.”
Joan followed her maid through the great hall and up the winding stone staircase in a considerably better state of mind. However, her attempts at a short nap failed, for each time she closed her eyes, her mind was filled with the image of her former husband.
She tried to bolster her courage as she prepared for the evening meal, knowing she would have to face Archibald, but by the time she was properly dressed, her nerves were getting the better of her.
“There, all done,” Gertrude announced as she adjusted Joan’s gauzy white veil. “Ye look like a queen.”
Joan turned to the looking glass. She had donned her best gown, of deep red velvet, adding a thick gold circlet on her head and a matching brooch, hoping the finery would give her courage. But the woman who stared back from the wavy glass looked anxious and trembling. “The Frasers?”
Gertrude nodded grimly. “Archibald is seated at the high table with the rest of the lairds.”
Joan felt a tight squeeze around her chest as the exhaustion and strain of the last few hours suddenly washed over her. Her breathing grew more rapid; the pounding of her heart increased.
“I’m not certain that I can face him,” she whispered, allowing her trusted maid a rare glimpse of her vulnerability.
“Ye must,” Gertrude replied, squeezing her comfortingly on the shoulder. “If ye hide from him, then he’ll believe that ye still fear him, and that will please him to no end.”
“But I do fear him,” Joan admitted brokenly, trying—and failing—to compose herself.
“He willnae dare to lay a finger on ye with so many people around,” Gertrude insisted, meeting Joan’s eyes with a reassuring look. “Besides, he no longer has the right. He’s not yer husband anymore.”
As if that mattered! “Tormenting me is Archibald’s favorite sport,” Joan said quietly, the words quivering in her throat. Her hand shook as she tugged on the sleeves of her gown, remembering how often it had been necessary to cover her arms to hide the bruises. “He will no doubt be delighted at the prospect of indulging in it once again.”
Gertrude’s eyes filled with sympathy. “Then ye must take care not to give him the chance.”
Joan turned, pacing the chamber restlessly. “We both know the only way to prevent that from happening is to avoid him.”
“Aye. And we both also know that isn’t
possible.” Gertrude stepped in front of Joan and grasped her hands tightly. “Ye must stay calm.”
Joan bit into her lower lip, fighting for control. It came slowly as she repeated over and over in her head that Gertrude was right. She had faced far more difficult obstacles and overcome them. That knowledge steadied Joan’s nerves and strengthened her determination.
Gradually her breathing calmed and her heart returned to its normal rhythm. Then knowing that she had little choice, Joan pushed back at the memories of her past, lifted her heavy skirt, and left the chamber. When she reached the great hall, she stood in the shadows for a moment, her gaze darting nervously around the room.
The meal had already begun; the noise in the great hall rose to a level that nearly assaulted the ears, but few seated at the tables seemed to mind. All were too engrossed in their drink and conversations, though Joan noted that clan lines were distinctly drawn—none of the men sat beside any one other than members of their own clan.
She smiled grimly. Her father’s great sense of importance in his role as the chosen negotiator had certainly fallen flat. Heavens, he couldn’t even get the clans to sit together and break bread. How did he expect to resolve this important issue?
Oh, well. ’Twas hardly something to concern her.
Nay, this lack of unity would aid her in keeping away from Archibald. There was only enough room to seat the lairds at the table on the dais, though somehow Agnes had managed to make certain that she occupied the chair at Laird Armstrong’s left. The chair that rightfully belonged to Joan.
Not that she cared. Tonight, and every night until the clans left, Agnes could play lady of the manor to her heart’s content so long as it would save Joan from having to take a seat near Archibald.
But she had to sit somewhere in the hall and there was no room at any of the Armstrong tables. She knew none of the MacPhearsons or Kennedys in attendance and would not be so foolish as to go near the Frasers.
That left the McKennas. Since they were related through her cousin Davina’s marriage to James, it was an acceptable choice that should raise few eyebrows.
No Other Highlander Page 5
