by Amy Jarecki
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 Cl
an 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.”
4
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.
Eoin kept his sights on the nearest pair, fighting with swords. “Aye, you’ve amassed yourself a great deal of meat.”
The overstuffed chieftain puffed out his chest. “Brawn, mind you.”
“Brawn?” Eoin raised his eyebrows and then cast his gaze to the clouds. “I’ll give you that, they might even be good at slaying dragons.”
“Watch yourself,” MacIain growled.
Eoin inclined his chin toward the man sparring with Fergus. “Your man there is sizeable, but he wields his sword like he’s chopping wood.”
“Pardon me? Grant is my best warrior. He’d beat your man in a fight any day, hands down.”
He wouldn’t.
Eoin had a mind to place a wager on Aleck’s claim. But he wasn’t there to prove his men superior—the MacGregors already had distinguished themselves to king and country a hundred times over. The king asked Eoin to train and fight alongside the MacIains because of their reputation. He opted for middle ground. “Grant shows promise, but in general, your men lack discipline.”
Aleck faced him. An edgy challenge reflected in his in his steely black eyes. Eoin didn’t budge, in no way intimidated by a glare from an arrogant chieftain. “My men are the best in Ardnamurchan.”
Eoin smirked. “I’d hope so.”
Aleck circled his palm around the pommel of his dirk. “You’re a smug bastard.”
“I disagree.” Eoin watched Aleck’s hand with his side vision. If the cur drew his damned dirk, he’d be on his back before he could blink. “I’m simply better at fighting. So are my men.” Ballocks to the middle ground.
MacIain turned beet red, his eyes bulging. “I’ve had enough of your gloating claim to greatness. You and the Campbells are tarred with the same brush. You all think you’re superior to the rest of the fighting men Scotland.”
An acerbic chuckle escaped Eoin’s lips. He’d endured a fortnight of listening to MacIain’s boasts and his ears could take no more. “Nay, we do not think it, we know it.” Anticipating Aleck’s swing, Eoin ducked and stepped forward while the big man stumbled with his dirk drawn. “I’ve not a mind to fight you this day. Let us agree to a wee demonstration.”
“What do you have in mind?” MacIain growled, shoving his dirk back in its scabbard.
Wise gesture. Eoin’s fingers itched to grab MacIain by the neck and smack his skull into the stone wall behind them. But he splayed his fingers instead. Perhaps he should have put up more of a fight when the king asked him to come to Mingary. Duncan and the others got the better end of the deal for certain.
“Fergus,” Eoin beckoned his henchman. “Show Sir Grant how to take down a larger opponent.”
Fergus grinned. “I thought we were supposed to go easy the first day.”
“No one needs to go easy with my men,” Aleck bellowed.
Eoin waived Fergus on, then leaned into Aleck. “Watch. This will not take long.”
“Wheesht. I said to hold your tongue.” The MacIain Chieftain practically had steam coming out his ears.
Eoin clapped a hand over his mouth and pulled his smile into a frown. It was easy piquing MacIain’s ire and Eoin enjoyed this little rattling too much. They were supposed to be allies. Once he realizes we can help him, the rivalry will settle.
Fergus crouched, sword in one hand, targe in the other. “Come at me just like you’ve been doing.”
Grant looked pretty good—better than the rest of the MacIain men around them. That’s why Eoin knew this demonstration would prove his point.
Grant lunged in, wielding his great sword with both hands in a sideways hack. Sidestepping, Fergus defended with his targe, sending Grant tottering forward. Spinning around, the MacIain man regained his composure. Grant lunged again, this time with more force—but he missed Fergus by a wider margin than his first try. With a roar, Grant swung his sword over his head. It came down with a crashing blow that surely could have cracked Fergus’s head, but the shorter man not only dodged the blade, his sword darted up and stopped short under Grant’s chin, drawing a wee stream of blood.
Grant froze, his stunned gaze shooting to Aleck.
“That’s enough,” Eoin said.
Aleck stepped forward. “Your man was lucky.”
“No.” Eoin pointed. “Fergus used patience and watched Grant’s hips. In an untrained man, the hips give away the angle of the attack every time.”
“Hips?” Aleck batted his hand through the air. “Next you’ll be fetching the piper and teaching my men a jig.”
Eoin grinned. “Actually, that’s not a bad idea. Dancing is exactly what fighting men need to maintain their balance and speed.”
MacIain snorted like a hog. “And you’re full of fairy shite.”
“Well, you’re either blind or the hair growing up your arse has
addled your brain. I’ve had enough talk.” Eoin moved into the center of the courtyard, more to step away from MacIain and his wafting stench than anything. “Gather round, men. Fergus and Grant—we need a demonstration on watching your opponent’s hip movement.”
The MacIain clansmen chuckled ruefully. However, by the end of Eoin’s session they were all believers. All but one.
After the day’s events, Eoin was a bit surprised when Aleck invited him to sit at the high table for the evening meal. Of course had he not been invited, MacIain would have acted against every code of decency in Christendom. Nonetheless, Eoin hadn’t expected even one shred of decorum, given the pummeling the Ardnamurchan men took in the courtyard.
He was further taken aback when directed to sit at Lady Helen’s left, but then, having her placed between Eoin and Aleck was good insurance against a brawl. Eoin was fairly certain he wouldn’t allow MacIain to work him into a rage, but one never knew—especially if whisky was involved.
Wearing a scarlet gown of velvet, Lady Helen suited her role as lady ideally. The gown’s feminine lace collar accentuated her neck, especially with her honeyed tresses drawn up under a conical hennin, with only a few wispy curls showing at her nape. She would have blended in well at the king’s table and presently seemed out of place, considering her uncouth company.
Eoin smoothed his hands down the front of his doeskin doublet. He’d not thought to bring courtly attire on this journey, though he always carried this piece of finery in his traveling kit. One thing Helen’s mother had taught him during his fostering at Kilchurn Castle, was the adage, clothes maketh the man, which was the only reason he carried the damned thing. Aside from its excellent craftsmanship, it was useless as an arming doublet and provided little warmth. He leaned back in his seat and regarded the Chieftain of Ardnamurchan. The lord of the keep looked slothful, wearing only a linen shirt over a pair of leather breeks. Worse, the shirt was unlaced at the collar—very slovenly indeed. Eoin puzzled. Wouldn’t Lady Helen have set him to rights above stairs, if not his valet?
