by Amanda Scott
Smiling appreciatively, the King offered first his hand to assist her to rise and then his arm, but to her disappointment, he relinquished her soon afterward to one of his nobles. That gentleman squired her to table, where she did her best to look as if she were pleased with the arrangement. She even managed to deal patiently with the inane comments of a particularly annoying, elaborately coiffed and garbed woman who presented herself and her two homely daughters to Nell in an unbecomingly forward way. Nell did not bother to remember their names.
The hall was crowded, and people lingered into the late afternoon. The King lingered with them, although his advisors frequently sought him out, since rumors were flying about trouble in the western Highlands, where Donald Grumach apparently was stirring clans to support his bid to reclaim the Lordship of the Isles.
Nell listened carefully to all she could overhear, dismayed to learn that they already suspected so much about Donald’s activities but hoping to turn any new knowledge to good account. Whatever Angus or Henry might think, she had been right to come to Stirling before blundering alone into the treacherous Highlands.
She had nearly given up hope of speaking to James again before supper, if then, when suddenly he appeared before her and gallantly offered his arm.
As she smiled and placed a hand upon it, he bent to murmur in her ear, “I trust you will not mind if we seek privacy, madam. We have much to discuss.”
“Your wish, sire, as ever, is my command,” she replied demurely.
James chuckled. “I shall test that, I promise you.” Guiding her to a private chamber, he had bolted the door and, turning, had said only, “We understand each other, I hope.”
“Aye, your grace. I am yours to command.”
Without further ado, he bared her breasts and ordered her to help him undress. Entirely willing, Nell obeyed that command and others, and now as they lay together in bed, James continued to savor her breasts for some minutes before moving atop her and taking her with gusto. When he was spent, he lay still for so long that she began to fear that he had fallen asleep.
His weight was uncomfortable, but when she tried to shift him, he murmured, “Don’t wriggle, lass. Tell me instead how it is that I do not recall having granted you permission to return to Scotland.”
“I did not know that I required permission, sire,” Nell murmured, hoping that he could not hear her heart thudding. “I was but coming home, after all.”
“Then why come here to Stirling?”
“To beg your forgiveness if I require it and to beg a boon if I do not,” she replied, struggling to sound calm, and to keep her increasing tension at bay.
James lifted his head to look at her.
“A boon, madam?” Mockingly, he quirked an eyebrow, adding, “I trust you do not ask this boon on your irksome brother’s behalf.”
“He would not thank me if I did,” Nell answered honestly. “Nor do I think you such a fool, sire, as to bid Angus back to Scotland, if that is the boon you fear he would seek. In truth, I have no more reason to trust him than you do. He has used me abominably.” And that, she thought, certainly was the truth.
James slid off her, lying on his side next to her, his intense gaze searching hers. “What would you have of me then?”
The moment had come. Her lips were dry, but she dared not wet them lest he deduce the extent of her nervousness and draw unwelcome albeit possibly accurate conclusions. Thinking swiftly, she said, “I hope to be of some use to you, sire, and perchance to serve my own end as well.”
“How might you be of use to me,” he asked, “other than as we’ve just seen?”
“Donald the Grim,” Nell blurted. “I… I am told that you fear he may be causing strife, may even be seeking to reclaim a certain Highland title.”
“True.” He frowned. “I hoped to keep him friendly. Instead, the traitor has turned against me. Do you fancy yourself a spy in his household, madam?”
“Mayhap you forget, sire, but Donald holds my daughter in ward.”
James was silent for a long moment, and then he said quietly, “Have you no other children, madam?”
Bitterly, Nell said, “I bore Gordon two daughters, sire, but the younger died soon after Angus took them from me. I had no children with Percy, for he was elderly when we married. Molly is all I have left.” Having no wish to speak more of her past, she added earnestly, “I am told, sire, that she is yet unmarried. It is my fondest hope that Donald might grant me permission to visit her.”
“Do you know what became of her fortune, Nell?”
“Nay, sire,” she replied evenly, careful to look him directly in the eye. “I never knew where Gordon kept his wealth. After his death, I discovered that he had hidden the jewels I wore. Other things disappeared, even the castle’s furnishings.”
James looked long at her before he said, “I find it hard to trust the word of any Douglas. Is it not likely Angus took it all himself?”
“I certainly never saw any sign of that,” she said, glad she could speak honestly. “Pray, sire, grant me leave to seek my daughter.”
“I suspect more in your yearning than simple mother’s love,” James said shrewdly. “I will grant this much, madam, that I shall think on the matter. However, I should first mention one wee problem with your plan.”
She did not speak, refusing to let him make her beg for the information. Not only did she possess the Douglas blood but also her share of the Douglas pride.
A glint in his eyes told her that he understood, and gentleness touched his voice when he said, “Your daughter is no longer ward to Donald of Sleat.”
“Where is she, then?”
“In good time, madam, in good time.”
Nell forced a smile. If she let him know how important his decision was to her, he would only tantalize her more. As it was, she hoped that she could continue to interest him long enough to get what she wanted. She had more freedom as Percy’s widow than she had ever known before, and she did not intend to lose a jot of it. But continued freedom required continued independence, and independence was no easily won commodity for any woman.
Chapter 7
Before daylight, Fin and his men arose, broke their fast, and then went down to load Mistress Gordon’s remaining baggage into the boats. The sky was black and starless, and the air was damp with a heavy mist that swirled eerily around the torches they carried down to the shore to light their work.
Most of her things were already stowed in two of the galleys that Mackinnon was lending them—Highland galleys, nothing like their great Venetian namesakes but more like Viking longboats of old. Narrow of beam and high of prow, they could be rowed or sailed, which made them useful for inter-island travel.
He had not slept well, and as a result his temper was short. Not only had the Maid retired early, leaving him to Mackinnon’s mercies at the chessboard, but the older man had taken it upon himself to offer advice.
“She’s a good, kindhearted lass,” he said.
“Perhaps,” Fin replied, seeing nothing to gain by arguing.
“If she doesna seem easy wi’ ye, ’tis doubtless because she fears leaving wi’ ye. She doesna ken ye, lad. Ye’d do well t’ treat her gently for a time.”
“I am scarcely an ogre, sir, but women have a duty to obey those who wield authority over them,” Fin said bluntly. “For her own safety she must learn, and she will learn more easily if she does not continue to defy me.”
Thinking of that exchange now as he watched the men preparing the boats, he believed he was right to remain firm. His mother had died when he was small, but experience with other women had shown him that they would take as much liberty as a man allowed them and more, and if a man could not control his household, he could not expect to control much beyond it.
With responsibilities and duties as vast as his were over the lands of Kintail, he could not risk rebellion from one small, clearly overindulged female. Still, it had not been thoughts of her overindulged childhood that had rendered his night
a sleepless one. Thoughts of her slender, curvaceous body had done that, images of how she might look naked and what it would feel like to wrap his hands in her silky-looking hair or to stroke her smooth skin. Despite his determination to keep his mind on other things, no matter what else he forced himself to think about, only moments had passed before his imagination turned again to her.
He sighed, again having to force his thoughts back to the moment at hand.
Mackinnon oarsmen and a third Mackinnon boat carrying armed men would accompany Fin’s party to Eilean Donan as protection in case Donald the Grim should already have learned that his guardianship of the Maid had ended. No one doubted that in such an event he would take speedy action. Fin’s hope was that he would see his charge safely inside the walls of Eilean Donan before that happened—if she had not already taken flight.
That fear had alternated with the other thoughts of her that had teased him through the long night and since rising. Her anger the previous night had been plain to see, and he doubted that it had eased in the meantime. She had made it clear that she would not submit easily to his authority—or, indeed, to any man’s.
It occurred to him again then, uncomfortably, that his duties as her new guardian included finding her a suitable husband, preferably one whose connection would prove advantageous to himself. Before he could think of arranging such a match, however, he had to teach her to mind him and thus to mind the husband who would wield authority over her. Anyone could see that she was not prepared for marriage. Since she had not learned to submit to any man, she would doubtless lift that stubborn little chin of hers to Jamie himself, should his grace ever venture past the gateway to the Highlands and demand that the Maid of Dunsithe kneel to him.
That mental vision tickled Fin’s sense of humor, but he quickly reminded himself that the reality was no laughing matter. The plainest fact of life was that women, by far the weaker sex, were dependent upon men to protect them. In return, they owed their protectors quick and absolute obedience.
Simple duty demanded that he teach the lass her proper place. Mackinnon certainly had not done so. He had spoiled her, in fact, and had done the Maid no favor thereby. Jamie’s reaction to her sauciness, should he ever experience it, would not be pleasant. Indeed, the King was not the only one who should concern Mistress Gordon, since he was not the only man who could do what he pleased to punish insolence. Any laird who possessed a barony held the power of the pit and the gallows, as Fin did himself, and could speedily put an end to insolence—to life, for that matter. The thought of her incredible beauty wasted in such a harsh manner banished the last lingering gleam of humor from his mind. The image that he had stirred to life made him feel sick, and he resolved that before he had finished with the lass, she would be as meek as a nun’s hen.
He was a man born to duty, after all. He had not shirked the responsibilities thrust upon him when his father died, nor would he shirk his responsibility toward the Maid of Dunsithe, no matter what effect she had on his libido.
The sky had lightened considerably by the time he and Patrick returned to Dunakin, leaving the others to guard the boats and cargo. Members of Mackinnon’s household were still seated at the long tables, eating, and Fin’s gaze swept the huge chamber, seeking the shapely form of Mistress Gordon.
When he did not see her, his jaw tightened, and his fears increased, for if Mackinnon had helped the minx run away, he could do little to retaliate. In the present political climate, with a soon-to-be-outraged Donald the Grim on the loose with armies and fleet, to attack anyone on Skye would be sheer folly.
He saw her then, standing beside Mackinnon, one dainty hand resting on his forearm while she chatted with some of their people. Fin relaxed, the strong relief he felt warning him that he had been more worried than he had realized.
Beside him, Patrick murmured with a chuckle, “I’ll wager you’re damned relieved to see that lass. As besotted over her as Mackinnon is, I feared he might find a way to winkle her into hiding.”
“ ’Tis as well that he did nothing of the sort,” Fin retorted. “Aye, it is,” Patrick agreed, still with a touch of that annoying humor. “We’d never have found her, you know, for the mountains here are devilish treacherous and keep their secrets well.”
Fin shrugged. With Mistress Gordon standing before them, he had no need to waste any thoughts on Skye’s mountains.
She turned then and looked at them, and when he saw her chin tilt up defiantly, he fought a sudden, unexpected urge to smile.
Molly had noted the entrance of Kintail and his deputy at once. But she had taken care not to react visibly. Obliquely, through narrowed eyes, she had watched their approach, and as others made way for them, she realized that both mainlanders were much larger than most men. Seen singly or even as a pair, the difference in the two was not particularly noteworthy. But surrounded by so many others, the contrast became remarkable. Most Highlanders were taller than she was, and most men seemed to tower over her. Kintail certainly did, but she had credited his intimidating manner as much as his size for creating that sensation.
Perhaps, she thought idly, his horse had thrown him simply because he was too heavy for the poor beast to carry. Then she remembered Maggie Malloch and sighed, uncertain whether to hope that the woman was only a figment of her overactive imagination or to hope instead that somehow Maggie wielded sufficient power to help defend her against Kintail.
Upon waking and before Doreen had come to help her dress, she had tried to invoke Maggie Malloch’s presence, hoping to persuade her to work whatever magic she could to put off the journey to Eilean Donan, but her attempts had failed. If Maggie had heard, she had not deigned to respond.
Molly had eaten only a few morsels of bread to break her fast, and when Mackinnon had urged her to eat more, she told him she was not hungry. Her insides were muddled enough, without taxing them to digest food.
When she saw Kintail’s dark gaze sweep the chamber, she knew he was looking for her, and although she quickly returned her attention to the tenants who had approached to bid her farewell, and had done her best to listen to them, her skin prickled at the thought that he might be watching her. Curiosity soon overcame resolution, and she turned, unable to avoid looking to see if he had found her yet.
Her gaze collided with his, firing unfamiliar sensations through her body. Reacting automatically, she straightened her shoulders and raised her chin.
His dark eyes narrowed, although she saw his lips twitch and then press together tightly. But he continued to look at her, his dark gaze like a gimlet, until she wished he would look away. She could not seem to do so, and he was making her blush. Not only did her face feel hot but also her entire body. It was as if the very temperature in the hall had risen to an unnatural degree.
Mackinnon’s touch on her arm made her jump.
When she turned, wide-eyed, to face him, he said gently, “It appears, lassie, that Kintail be ready for ye.”
“I… I wish that you and her ladyship were coming with us,” Molly said impulsively. The unexpected wish spilled out without thought.
Mackinnon looked both rueful and uncomfortable. “I, too,” he said, “but Kintail ha’ deemed it otherwise. He thinks it be better an ye go alone.”
“Well, at least I shall not be completely alone,” she said, forcing a smile. “Doreen will go with me.”
The smile vanished with his next words.
“Doreen canna go either, lass,” he said, avoiding her gaze. “Kintail said Eilean Donan isna large enough to accommodate more servants, but he ha’ promised ye’ll no be lonely.”
“He will not try to marry me off to someone straightaway, will he?” That possibility distressed her more than she had thought it might, for she had long known the time would come when her guardian would arrange a marriage for her, one likely to be advantageous to himself if not to her. The thought that Kintail, rather than Donald the Grim, was the guardian who would make that choice was somehow even more upsetting.
&nbs
p; “He’ll no fling ye into marriage,” Mackinnon said, clearly more comfortable with this topic. “He isna interested in marrying yet himself, and he said he’d think a bit on his choices, but in the meantime he says ye’ll ha’ companions aplenty.”
“He said ‘companions’?”
“Aye.”
For a moment she wondered if Kintail meant to make a servant of her to remedy the lack of space to house more of them. The thought almost stirred a smile, for she knew that she lacked the household skills necessary for such a position.
He was upon them before she could consider the matter longer. His manner was easy, though, revealing none of the tension that she had discerned in him when he entered the hall.
He said quietly, “Art ready to leave, mistress?”
“Aye, if I must,” she replied. “Is it true that you refuse to allow my personal maidservant to accompany me?”
“I was told that she intends to wed in a month’s time,” he said, his manner still calm, even reasonable. “Taking her with us if she will only have to return soon and is likely to pine for her man in the meantime seemed pointless.”
“She is loyal to me,” Molly said stubbornly.
“Aye, that would be the real reason that I will not take her,” he said with a teasing smile.
She gasped, as much at her body’s reaction to that smile as to the idea that he could be taunting her about such a thing. To cover her confusion, she said more sharply than she had intended, “You dare to admit that?”
His smile disappeared, but he said only, “If you want her to accompany you, mistress, I will not forbid it, but she will have to share your bedchamber, and it is quite small. I doubt she will make good company for you if she is unhappy, but if her unhappiness does not trouble you…”
When he paused, letting her fill in the rest of the sentence for herself, she wanted to slap him for making her seem uncaring. That Doreen might not want to accompany her to Eilean Donan had not occurred to her, but memories washed over her again of her departure from Dunsithe—the terror and misery she had felt at being ripped by veritable strangers from the only home she had ever known. She remembered now that she had scarcely spoken a word for weeks after that terrible night. Neither pride nor compassion would let her subject Doreen to such an ordeal.
