by Amy Jarecki
Glenda hurried across the floor. “Honestly? I must see.”
“Have you another smile for me, lass.” Helen cooed and smacked her lips. “Come now, show us your wee grin.”
Maggie didn’t disappoint and squealed with an even larger smile. Glenda clasped her hands together. “Oh, m’lady. Doubtless, she will turn the heads of every laddie in the Highlands.”
Helen cringed. “Let us delight in her infancy for a time. I hope not to see any lusty lads for twenty years or more.”
“If I know Sir Aleck.” Glenda shook her finger. “He’ll marry her off as soon as her menses show.”
For a moment, Helen could scarcely draw in a breath. Not if I have any say in the matter. She looked into her daughter’s innocent eyes. “We shall see. Perhaps my next child will be a lad and Maggie will find favor with Sir Aleck at last.”
A cynical sounding snort rumbled from the chambermaid’s nose. “Do not count on the chieftain having a change of heart.”
“Glenda,” Helen chided.
The outspoken servant dipped her head in a bow. “Apologies, m’lady. I’ve never known anyone as hopeful as you. I’d wager most noblewomen would have given up by now and returned to their kin.”
Helen wouldn’t admit that she’d considered it. She’d even gone so far as to wonder if her brother, John, now Bishop of the Isles, would help her approach the Pope to enquire about an annulment. But such action would bring disgrace to the Campbells of Glenorchy. She had put the ghastly notion out of her mind and had tried not to think on it again.
The ram’s horn sounded with three consecutive blasts. Glenda hastened to the window as voices rose from the courtyard. Helen stood and carried Maggie to the embrasure and squeezed in beside the chambermaid.
Fortunately, the nursery was on the fourth floor—an advantageous position from which to view the wall-walk surrounding the keep. Built of stone, Mingary was a sturdy fortress, sitting proudly atop a rocky promontory. The castle presided over the region of Ardnamurchan, flanked by steep cliffs on three sides.
Helen peered down into the courtyard and then out over the sea. Her smile faded. Alas, her time of peace had come to an end.
“It looks as if the chieftain has returned,” said Glenda. “And there’s an additional galley in his wake.”
“Look at that.” Helen leaned further toward the window. “King’s men?”
“You’d ken better than I, m’lady.”
Though Helen couldn’t make out the design on the pennant flapping in the wind, it was white and blue with no likeness to the king’s yellow and orange colors. “Whoever they are, I suspect they’ll be hungry.” Peeking through the heavy clouds, the sun indicated the hour was late morning. She must make haste.
Glenda reached for Maggie. “I’ll stay with the bairn until Sarah returns. Go meet the ships, m’lady.”
Helen smiled. “Thank you.” She quickly pattered through the stone passageway and down the stairwell. The great hall was empty, all except for Robert, the cruel guard who always seemed to be sharpening his weapons. With a scrape against the whetstone, he looked up and offered a yellow-toothed sneer. “M’lady,” he said without the least bit of reverence in his voice.
Helen tried not to shudder, nodded, and hastened straight for the kitchens. Stepping inside the enormous chamber, the smell of onions and turnips filled the air. “Peter! Sir Aleck has returned with an additional galley in his wake and they’ve arrived just in time for their nooning.”
The cook turned, four plucked chickens suspended from his fingers. “I heard the ram’s horn.”
She hastened across the flagstone floor. “What can we feed them?”
He tossed the fowl on the butchers block and snatched a cleaver. “I’ll add these to the pottage I’ve set over the fire.”
Helen regarded the raw meat—hardly enough for an army. But at least the enormous cast iron pot suspended above the hearth was boiling. “We’ll need more than a few hens.”
Peter attacked the chickens with violent hacks of the blade. “The maids are plucking a half-dozen more. I’ve bread and oatcakes aplenty, and cheese.”
She chewed her bottom lip. “Sir Aleck won’t like being met with such simple fare, but it will have to do at short notice.” Helen pointed toward the cellar. “Set the lads to turning the venison on the spit.”
The cook didn’t look up from his work. “There’s hardly enough time for that, m’lady.”
Helen affected one of her pointed stares. “If they start now, the beast will be roasted through by the evening meal, and your chieftain will be happy.”
Peter stopped chopping. “Right. I hadn’t thought past the midday meal. I’ll fetch the young fellas as soon as I’ve added these to the pottage.”
“Very well.” Helen smoothed her hand over her veil to ensure no tresses were loose. Then she pinched her cheeks and straightened her skirts and apron. Her appearance would have to do—not that Aleck ever noticed when she made an effort to look her best.
The incident in the great hall with Mary had her hackles up for the past month. Helen never considered herself unattractive, but it surely seemed as if she’d contracted a case of leprosy where Aleck was concerned. He made no secret of the fact he preferred larger women and Mary certainly fit that bill. The widow had enormous bosoms and a full body to support them. Forever seeing the logical side of things, Helen supposed Aleck’s attraction to Mary made sense. After all, he was a large man.
Hastening ahead, she berated herself for always rationalizing everything. Blessed be the saints, Helen was Aleck MacIain’s wife, and now that he had returned, she would do everything in her power to win his favor. She would never give up. He would visit her bed, and by God’s grace, she would conceive immediately and bear a son. Then everything at Mingary would be pleasant.
Perhaps for the first time since she’d married him, Aleck would shed his gruff demeanor and be agreeable as well. There’s always hope.
As she made her way to the sea gate, men and women followed, an excited hum rising from the crowd. Aleck’s galley had sailed ashore and the guards were heaving her onto the beach. The boat behind was following suit, the crewmen hopping into the shallows, tugging the ship’s ropes. None of the visiting Highlanders sported a royal surcoat, but they all wore hauberks and bits of armor. By the swords strapped to their backs, Helen had no doubt they were fighting men.
Wringing her hands, she watched Aleck jump over his galley’s bow onto dry land—he’d stood at the stern of the boat while his men heaved it ashore.
With squeals grating in Helen’s ears, Mary dashed up to him and threw her arms around his neck. Aleck kissed the widow on the mouth. It wasn’t a peck. It was a vulgar clamping of the lips, their bodies crushed together in an obscene embrace.
Mortified, Helen covered her eyes, fearing they’d never pull away.
Her cheeks burned. Her throat ached like someone had taken a rasp to it. There go my hopes of winning his favor. I wish I never had to speak to him again.
Aleck slung his arm around Mary’s waist and led her forward—straight toward Helen. She blinked. If only she could dash around the corner of the keep and hide. Helen glanced over her shoulder and considered a swift getaway. Blast, she would look the fool if she ran. Standing tall, she faced Aleck, unable to affect her usual serene smile.
But her husband grinned broadly. “You’ve forty hungry men to feed, wife,” he bellowed. “You’d best go see to the preparations.”
Mary leaned into him, grinning as if she were drunk. Helen had heard about whores in alehouses—Mary would blend right in to such a disreputable establishment.
Swallowing her urge to issue a dour retort, Helen refused to allow Aleck’s behavior to degrade her in front of the clansmen. She regarded her husband with feigned indifference. “Who are your guests, m’laird?”
“The Chieftain of Clan Gregor and his band of upstarts. They’ll be with us for a time.” Aleck threw his thumb over his shoulder with a smirk. “King’s business.”
/> “The MacGregors? They are close allies with the Campbells of Glenorchy. It will be a pleasure to see to their comfort.” Helen bowed her head. “Peter’s making preparations for your nooning. I’ll greet our guests and then oversee the kitchens.”
Aleck didn’t appear to have heard a word she’d said. He proceeded into the courtyard with that disgraceful widow still on his arm.
Helen cleared her throat and looked to the shore. She would act the proper lady. Never in her life would she demean herself by showing her revulsion at Aleck’s behavior or letting on that it bothered her. Many great men took lemans. She would find a way to accept it.
With her resolution, she clasped her hands and focused on a sturdy man approaching from the stony shore. Water dripped from the quilted arming doublet beneath his hauberk and streamed down his well-muscled calves.
Recognition sparked deep in her stomach. Then her heart nearly thumped out of her chest.
To stifle her gasp, Helen clapped a hand over her mouth. When Aleck had referred to the Chieftain of Clan Gregor, she fully expected to see Sir Ewen MacGregor, but it wasn’t the old grey-haired man who approached. The tall, rugged warrior was Sir Eoin—Ewen’s son.
She took in yet another sharp inhale.
The tallest man in his retinue, Eoin hadn’t changed in the past five years. If anything, his shoulders had grown broader. Flanked by his men, his muscular legs flexed with each step.
But to gaze upon a dear old friend was almost like traveling back in time—before she’d ever seen Mingary Castle or knew that Aleck MacIain existed.
Eoin wore his chestnut hair cropped short, a new and attractive fashion for him. His bold eyebrows hadn’t changed. They formed two separate but angular lines over vivid sky-blue eyes. A straight nose, full lips—but the bottom lip was fuller. He even still had the wee scar on his chin.
A hundred childhood memories came flooding back when he grinned. Oh, how she’d enjoyed Eoin when they were children. What a carefree time of life that had been.
“M’lady.” He stepped up and grasped her hand.
She hadn’t remembered that he was so imposing or that he smelled like a vat of simmering cloves. “Sir Eoin.” She maintained a properly serene smile. “What a pleasure to see you.”
He bowed and pressed his lips to the back of her hand, then straightened and offered a controlled grin with a brotherly glint in his eye. “The pleasure is mine.”
She clapped her fingers to her chest to quell her hammering heart. “When Sir Aleck mentioned the Chieftain of Clan Gregor was here, I expected to see your father.” Goodness, it had been a long time since she’d seen anyone from her past.
He knit his brows. “Da’s been gone three years now. I’m surprised word hasn’t reached you.”
Helen rubbed the back of her hand, wiping away the tingling sensation that remained from Eoin’s brief peck. “Forgive me. Tucked away on this peninsula, I rarely ever receive news.”
Eoin proceeded forward. “Not to worry, m’lady.”
Helen followed, moving her feet quickly to keep up with his broad stride. “Aleck mentioned you would be staying for a time.”
He glanced sideways at her, a dark eyebrow arching. “Aye, to keep an eye on the MacDonald uprising to the north.”
“Oh no, how grave.” She hadn’t heard about the uprising either. “I hope ’tis nothing too serious.”
“Me as well, m’lady, I’d hate to pose a burden to you and Sir Aleck and be forced to remain past my welcome.”
“You could never be a burden.” She raised her voice to be heard as they passed the blacksmith’s shack. “It will be a pleasant change to have the MacGregors at Mingary. Besides, you must fill me in on all that’s happened in the past five years.”
His gaze trailed up the stone walls to the wall-walk—as if he had a great many things on his mind. “I’m afraid there’s not much to tell.”
She chuckled. “I doubt that.”
Stopping beside the entrance to the kitchens, Helen beckoned a guard. “Mr. Keith, please show Sir Eoin to the guest chamber.” She turned to the MacGregor Chieftain. “Your men are welcome to the hay loft. Nearly all the winter stores are gone. There’s plenty of space for them to bed down.”
“My thanks.” He gave her a wink. “You needn’t worry about us. My men can bed down anywhere they find a bit of straw.”
“Very well, it has been a delight to see you again.” She pointed to the kitchen door. “I’d best see to the midday meal. Your arrival was a surprise to the cook.”
He bowed. “I do appreciate your gracious hospitality.”
She stopped, not wanting to draw away so soon. “I shall see you in the great hall, then?”
“Aye, m’lady. My men and I will stow our gear and will be there anon.”
Helen offered a smile and hastened toward the kitchen. What else had changed in the past five years? If Aleck had received word of the former MacGregor Chieftain’s death, he certainly hadn’t shared it with her. Had he sent condolences? What other news had her husband not shared? Scotland could have declared war and she would be none the wiser.
She pushed inside and suddenly felt lightheaded. Goodness, she’d nearly swooned when she watched the MacGregor Chieftain’s bold stride as he made his way from the beach. Such an errant lack of propriety—even if only on the inside—mustn’t ever happen again.
Patting her cheeks, she started for the hearth. As lady of the keep, Helen would be busy indeed, overseeing the meals and ensuring their guests were welcome. That, combined with caring for Maggie, would keep her occupied for certain.
***
After he watched Lady Helen disappear into the keep, Eoin dropped his things in the guest chamber, then headed to the stables to join his men. Satan’s bones, he shouldn’t have kissed her hand. He’d been in relative control of his faculties until then. Damnation, Helen hadn’t lost an iota of her radiance. In fact, she was more beautiful than he’d remembered. With her hair hidden under a blue veil, she’d appeared matronly—but by no means plain. Her face was as pure as a painter’s canvas—her expressive eyes the color of bluebells, her cheeks aglow like they’d been blessed by pink roses. As soon as he’d taken her palm in his, the silken softness of her skin ignited a flame deep in his belly. And when he bent to kiss it, he imagined himself in a garden filled with lilies.
He inhaled deeply.
Lilies.
Eoin couldn’t remember the last time a woman’s scent had practically brought him to his knees. And his lips still thrummed with a rhythmic pulse.
Damnation.
He swiped his arm across his mouth. Dragon’s breath, he would not allow old emotions to boil to the surface. He was in Ardnamurchan for one purpose and that was to quash the MacDonald uprising. In no way would he lose sight of his mission. Eoin was one of the best fighting men in Scotland and Clan Gregor was renowned for their unsurpassed tactics. He and his men had kept the English out of Scotland when the truce with James III fell apart. And by God they would now ensure the MacDonalds crawled back to their stony keeps and kept their greedy fingers out of the king’s coffers.
But this assignment to Mingary had to be the most miserable post of his life. Aside from being in the secluded region of Ardnamurchan, he rued being forced to be the guest of Aleck MacIain. The man hadn’t impressed him in Stirling and traveling with the bastard for the past two weeks hadn’t improved Eoin’s opinion.
And why the hell wasn’t Sir Aleck standing beside Helen when I approached?
That the man lacked manners was an understatement—and definitely none of Eoin’s concern. He was there to focus on training and fighting, and that’s exactly what he’d do. They’d be patrolling the northern waters as well. In fact, Eoin planned to spend more time sailing his galley than in the miserable guest chamber.
After climbing up the ladder to the stable loft, his feet crunched atop the straw strewn over the timber boards. The smell of musty hay filled his nostrils as he regarded his men. “Do not grow too
comfortable. We’ll be sailing north a few days hence.”
Fergus, Eoin’s second in command, stepped beside him. “Running sorties, will we?”
“Aye. We’ll make a point of sailing past MacDonald lands flying the king’s pennant. Let them know we’ve come to stay for a bit.”
“And how long do you think that might be?”
“Who knows?” Eoin looped his thumbs into his belt. “With luck, the MacDonalds will realize they should be happy King James didn’t rob them of all their lands.”
Fergus smirked. “’Twill be a cold day in hell when that happens.”
Eoin shrugged. “One day the MacDonalds will give up their feud and realize they cannot win a war against Scotland.”
“Only after half of them are dead,” said Willy, a skilled man with a mace and targe.
“Bloody oath,” Fergus cursed. “They’d best not be taking us to Hades with them.”
“Wheesht. ’Tis why we’re the best fighting men in Scotland. We’ll not be escorting the MacDonalds to hell. They can find the way on their own.” Eoin drew his dirk and held it high. “But we’ll be glad to show them the path.”
“Och aye,” the men bellowed, pumping their fists in the air.
“Let us see to our nooning, then we’ll meet the bedraggled MacIain guard in the courtyard and determine if they ken how to handle their weapons.”
Chapter Four
With his arms crossed, Eoin stood beside the MacIain Chieftain in the courtyard, surrounded by thirty-foot curtain walls. During the midday meal, he’d opted to stop by the kitchens for a bit of bread and a hunk of cheese. He couldn’t bring himself to step into the great hall and watch Aleck MacIain preside over the throng. Nor did he care to put himself in the middle of banter between young bucks flexing their muscles.
He turned his attention to the sparring warriors. As he’d thought, the MacIain men lacked in skill, though most were solid lads. If Eoin had a year, he just might be able to turn them into soldiers.
“Every one of my men is near fourteen stone,” Aleck gloated.
