Swallowing down the bile of fear that rose from her gut, Joan looked up. Fragments of moonlight illuminated the face of her rescuer, and her heart skipped a beat when she recognized him.
Malcolm McKenna. Bloody hell, of all the men in Christendom, why did he have to be the one to save me?
“Are ye hurt?” Malcolm asked in a gentle voice.
Joan’s breath caught as his eyes slowly traveled over her body. He wasn’t leering, yet the scrutiny agitated her.
“I’m fine,” she growled, distressed to hear her voice sound so harsh. The last thing she wanted was for him—or any man—to realize how affected she was by his presence. “I must hurry.”
She turned without another word and scuttled away, wanting to be long gone before the other Fraser soldiers appeared to investigate why Iain was howling like a dying wolf.
Malcolm fell in step beside her. The gesture initially annoyed her, but she quickly realized it was a comfort to have him—and his sword—by her side.
“Is it really so difficult fer ye to be gracious and provide me with a genuine word of thanks?” he asked.
Joan’s cheeks grew warm as shame filled her. Her rudeness truly was uncalled for, given his noble actions this night. He had stepped in to aid her without knowing her identity, yet when he realized it, he had not hesitated. She had enough experience to know that there were few men who would have come so unquestionably to her aid, and fewer still who would have helped once they realized who she was.
She straightened. “Forgive me. I dinnae wish to be beholden to any man, though I do thank ye fer yer help.”
“Yet ye would have preferred that I not interfere?”
“Did I say that?”
“Nay, but that furrow in yer brow speaks far louder than words.”
Och, now he was goading her. She had offered her thanks—what more did the man want?
Joan exhaled impatiently. “Did ye not know? ’Tis against my nature to be deferential.”
“Aye.”
Joan shrugged. “Truth be told, I find it exhausting hiding the less than appealing aspects of my essence. Therefore, I no longer try.”
“An enlightened, though perhaps dangerous view,” he replied. “Ye’ll never find another husband unless ye gentle yer ways.”
Joan couldn’t resist a small laugh. “Rest assured, the lack of a husband is not something that keeps me awake at night.”
Malcolm frowned. “If ye were the wife of a strong warrior, ye would not have needed my help tonight.”
She rested her palm on her stomach. “And who was there when I needed protection from my warrior husband when he acted like a beast anxious to devour his prey? Not my kin. Not any of the noble knights in his service. Not anyone at all. Nay, I’ll take my chances on my own, though I shall heed yer warning and promise to be more careful in the future.”
They had reached the threshold of the great hall. Back to where I started. The realization that she was no closer to being united with her son rankled, but Joan refused to accept defeat. She would try again the moment Malcolm departed.
She turned to him expectantly, hoping the unwelcoming scowl on her brow would send him on his way. But undeterred, he placed his sword hand on his hip and gazed down at her.
“Shall I escort ye to yer chamber?” he asked.
Joan’s stomach churned with indecision. It would certainly be the quickest way to get rid of him, but precious time would be wasted.
“I’m fine on my own,” she replied. “I’ve no wish to keep ye any longer. I bid ye good night, Malcolm.”
Joan dismissed him with a flick of her wrist. He appeared startled by the gesture and for a moment remained exactly where he stood. “Good night, Joan.”
Taken aback by the familiar use of her name, she barely took notice of his exaggerated bow. It was only as she watched his retreating form that she realized he had answered her in kind—in her haste to have him take his leave, she had dropped the formality of his title.
She and Malcolm were somewhat distantly related, as her first cousin was married to his brother, so it was not entirely inappropriate. Still, it was an intimacy that she preferred to avoid. Joan felt her cheeks heat with embarrassment. This night was naught but a series of mishaps.
Yet this incident with Malcolm was hardly the worst of it. She leaned against the hard, cold wall, unable to free her mind of the ugly confrontation with Iain. The memory brought on a surge of panic and she surrendered to it, her body shaking and shivering. Once it passed, she let out a long breath and willed her heart to return to its normal cadence.
She glanced briefly toward the staircase, then turned away. She knew the sensible course would be to return to her chamber and hope for a chance to slip away on the morrow to see her son.
But that was impossible. She would be unable to sleep if she did not see Callum and assess with her own eyes that her child was safe and being well cared for by Mistress Claire. Though it was still dangerous, the unpleasant incident in the bailey had yielded important information; she now knew where the men were gathered and thus should be able to avoid them.
Ever practical, Joan reached into the pocket of her gown and pulled out a dirk. ’Twas a thin, almost dainty knife, but lethal nonetheless, with a long, sharp blade. Gripping it tightly in her fist, she hid the weapon in the folds of her cloak and once again stepped into the dark night.
She had promised Malcolm that she would be more careful, and that was a vow she was more than prepared to keep. For her sake, as well as her child’s.
* * *
Malcolm watched Joan stumble through the door of the great hall, emerging into the darkness not ten minutes after he had left her. She appeared calm, in control, but instinct warned him that all was not as it appeared.
Was the woman daft? ’Twas madness to be out alone at this hour, as her very recent encounter with that brutish Fraser soldier had proved. What was so important that she would risk her person again?
An assignation with a lover? The idea seemed ludicrous but it was hardly impossible. Joan was a stunningly beautiful woman. Many a man would happily look beyond her prickly nature to claim her.
Curious, Malcolm followed. He kept to the shadows, moving stealthily through the darkness, his mind puzzling over where she was going. He noted that she was very deliberate in her movements, turning her head frequently in all directions, obviously searching for potential danger. Fortunately, she found none—those gathered in the bailey barely gave her a second look.
Amazed, Malcolm watched her scuttle through the castle gate unchallenged. The guards had clearly been enjoying more than a healthy portion of ale, as they barely glanced in Joan’s direction. He made a mental note to warn his father, brother, and their men to be on guard. For it was clear they could not count upon the Armstrong soldiers to keep the castle safe from intruders.
He followed her down the dirt path that led to the village. Here all was quiet—and very dark. No torches were lit and the moon was hidden by a thin layer of clouds. Malcolm concluded that she must know this route well; her feet never stumbled and she moved with increasing speed.
Suddenly she stopped and looked behind her. Assuming she must have sensed his presence, Malcolm quickly moved into the shadows. Cocking his head, he listened, trying to decide what he would say to her if he was discovered.
For a long moment all he heard was the deep sound of her breathing, then she once again began to walk—away from him. She turned down a small alley, stopping at a thatched-roof cottage set off from the others. She knocked once and the door opened.
Pressing himself against the outside wall of the structure, Malcolm looked between the gap allowed by the leather covering placed over a window and peered into the dwelling. The mystery deepened when he saw Joan speaking with a short, dark-haired woman. But his attention was soon drawn by the sound of running feet. A wee lad with blond hair entered the room. The moment he spied Joan, he ran toward her, joy and love lighting up his sweet face.
Malcolm watched in astonishment as Joan opened her arms and enfolded the child in a big hug. Lovingly, she ran her cheek back and forth across the top of his head, then pressed several kisses on his brow. Several other children of various ages spilled into the room, their voices raised with excitement.
The lad took her hand and pulled her toward the fire, obviously wanting to show her something. Laughing, she followed, taking a seat on the low stool. The child immediately climbed into her lap. He gestured toward the others, his mouth constantly moving as he babbled. Malcolm could hear the high pitch of his voice—along with the delight in his tone—but was unable to distinguish any of the words.
One of the older lasses handed the lad a crudely carved wooden horse. He lifted it eagerly to show Joan. She nodded and smiled, obviously admiring the toy, then tightened her grip on his shoulders. Though happy, she seemed unable to cease holding the child close to her. ’Twas almost as if she feared he would vanish if she wasn’t touching him.
The dark-haired woman shooed the other children away, leaving Joan and the lad alone. The child snuggled closer and Joan cradled him in her arms. He was a sturdy, well-built lad, but she held him securely, with an ease that bespoke of practice.
The light of the fire illuminated her face, giving her refined features an ethereal glow. Malcolm watched, transfixed, as she began rocking the child back and forth. Never in his wildest imaginings had he believed he would see such a tender, vulnerable expression on Joan Armstrong’s face.
The love in her eyes was unmistakable. This had to be her child—hers and Archibald Fraser’s. But why was he hidden away?
A twinge of longing pierced Malcolm’s heart. He had been away from Lileas for over a week and hadn’t realized how fiercely he missed his mischievous daughter until this moment.
Joan began to sing. ’Twas a song he immediately recognized as the same lullaby his mother had sung to her children. The simple tune reverberated through the room, surrounding everything with a calm peace.
Joan smiled down at the child as she sang, pausing now and again to rub her cheek against his. Slowly, the lad’s eyes began to close, his body visibly relaxed. The wooden horse slipped from his fingers, but was nimbly caught by hers before it clattered to the floor.
She finished her song, but continued humming and rocking the child. After a time, the dark-haired woman reappeared. The two spoke briefly and then the dark-haired female extended her arms.
Joan’s reluctance was obvious. She bowed her head and held the sleeping child close to her breast for a long moment, then grudgingly allowed the other woman to take him.
Malcolm drew his brows together as he watched Joan rise to her feet. She rubbed the back of her hands across her eyes, wiping away the tears. He moved closer, hoping to hear the final exchange between the two women, but Joan left before the dark-haired woman returned.
He stayed in the shadows, trailing Joan back to the castle, making certain she arrived unharmed. This time she nearly ran, slipping inside the great hall without incident. After Malcolm saw Joan close the door securely behind her, he released a deep breath, uncertain why her safety mattered so much to him.
He only knew that it did.
* * *
The next morning Malcolm sat with his father and brother in the great hall as the trio broke their fast. The brown oat bread was warm, the cheese sharp, the ale cold, yet Malcolm could barely taste any of it. The long awaited meeting with the MacPhearsons was scheduled to take place within the hour and his nerves were on edge.
“I’ve agreed to allow some of the Frasers and Kennedys to attend this meeting,” the McKenna announced, signaling one of the pages to refill his tankard.
James ripped off a hunk of bread with his front teeth, chewed it heartily, then swallowed. “Are ye sure that’s wise? MacPhearson will claim that Malcolm fathered his daughter’s bairn, Malcolm will swear it isn’t true, the MacPhearson lass will be shamed, and her father humiliated. The fewer who are privy to it, the better.”
“We have come here seeking justice and truth,” the McKenna insisted, his voice raised to a level that made it clear he didn’t care who was listening. “’Tis not our intention to pass judgment on the character of others. We are all proud men of Scotland, loyal to the land and our true king. This is a serious matter, but it can be settled in a civil manner. Fighting among ourselves benefits no one—except the English.”
A mutter of accord rippled through several of the men seated at the other tables. The McKenna nodded, clearly pleased his message had been heard.
However, disagreement flickered in James’s eyes. “I still think it would have been prudent to make this a private matter.”
“Nay.” The McKenna reached for his tankard. He took a long sip, then lowered his voice as he spoke. “’Tis important that we have witnesses from more than one clan. This way, if the MacPhearsons are unhappy with the verdict and decide to attack us, they’ll be in the wrong.
“I’ll do all that I can to avoid a fight, but if it comes, we’ll have the right to retaliate and our allies will have to support us.”
“Ye seem overconfident at the outcome,” Malcolm replied, stabbing his eating knife into a wedge of cheese.
“I am,” the McKenna replied cheerfully. “Ye said ye’d know the truth once ye see the lass. If ye are the father of this babe, then ye’ll do right by the mother and make her yer wife. And if ye’re not, Laird MacPhearson will have no cause to demand yer head.
“He’ll be forced to remove the bounty and declare he has no feud with ye or our clan. He’ll have to keep to his word, too, since many other honorable men will have heard him speak. This way, ye won’t have every fool in the land trying to hunt ye down in hopes of earning some ill-gotten coin.”
A glint of doubt lingered in James’s eyes. “I still think it’s better not to air our dirty laundry in front of others.”
“Fie, the truth cannae be any worse than the gossip that’s being spread,” Malcolm said glumly, shoving away his food.
“But what is the truth, Malcolm?” James asked. “Ye have no recollection of the event.”
“As Father said, I’m hoping that once I see the lass, speak with her, I’ll know,” he replied, ashamed that his irresponsible actions had brought this upon them. No matter what the outcome, Malcolm was hard-pressed to believe it would not have far-reaching consequences.
He was grateful for his father’s and brother’s support, yet felt a fool for putting them all in this ridiculous situation in the first place. If only he had pushed away the wine at the fete, instead of calling for more, none of this would have occurred.
A few of the others began to stir and Malcolm realized the time of judgment had arrived. Walking tall beside his father and brother, he entered the solar that Laird Armstrong had chosen for this important meeting. They were the first to arrive, but the chamber soon filled.
Malcolm looked up as the murmurings of those huddled in the solar suddenly died. Surrounded by a ring of tall, burly warriors, Laird MacPhearson strode into the chamber. His hands were curled into fists as he scanned the features of the men.
When his eyes lit on Malcolm, his face broke into a thunderous expression. He lunged forward, reaching for the sword that wasn’t at his side.
Though feeling naked without his own weapon, Malcolm was glad his father had demanded that no weapons be allowed for this meeting. If not, blood most likely would have been shed before the first words were spoken.
“Ye’re a brazen one, Malcolm McKenna, to be staring at me so boldly after what ye’ve done,” Laird MacPhearson shouted.
Malcolm stood tall in the face of Laird MacPhearson’s blustering wrath. “It has yet to be established exactly what I have done.”
Laird Armstrong held up a hand for silence. Laird MacPhearson continued muttering under his breath, then finally heeded the command.
Ignoring the tension that was knotting his neck, Malcolm didn’t flinch at the hard glares aimed at him from all the MacPhearson men. His
steady demeanor earned him a slight grunt of respect from Laird Kennedy and a stoic look from the others.
“Where is the Lady Brienne?” Laird Armstrong asked. “She must give her account of what has occurred.”
Laird MacPhearson shook his head adamantly. “Nay. I’ll speak fer her. I refuse to have my daughter humiliated in such a fashion.”
“’Twas ye who made this such a public matter when ye placed a price on Malcolm’s head,” the McKenna cried indignantly.
“I’ve every right to defend the honor of my daughter and my clan,” MacPhearson answered hotly.
“And I’ve the same right.” The McKenna turned away in disgust. “I wouldn’t be here unless I hoped fer a fair and peaceful solution. Dinnae allow pride to guide ye, MacPhearson. Use yer common sense and summon the lass.”
Laird MacPhearson’s upper lip twitched. “Dinnae tell me what to do!”
“Fine! We’ll let Armstrong decide,” the McKenna replied.
All eyes turned to Laird Armstrong. He wiped the sweat from his brow and surveyed the crowded chamber, then cleared his throat. “The McKenna makes a fair point. Bring the lass.”
Malcolm tapped his foot impatiently as they waited. After several long minutes there was a flurry of commotion at the doorway. His chest grew tight and every nerve in his body rose in alert. Would he recognize her when he saw her?
Five women entered the solar, their demeanor somber. Two of them hovered protectively over a third—Malcolm decided they had to be the MacPhearson lasses. Following close behind them were Lady Agnes and Joan. They stood a respectful distance behind the trio.
Malcolm’s gaze focused intently on the woman in the center of the group. She was small and slender, with dainty, attractive features. Her hair was dark, her eyes the color of midnight. She held her sister’s hand tightly and looked at no one in the chamber save her father.
A peaceful sense of relief fluttered through Malcolm’s gut as he observed her. There was not a flicker of memory in his mind or his body. She was a comely lass, but far too young for him. No matter how drunk, he would not have flirted with, much less bedded her.
No Other Highlander Page 7
