Читать книгу Lion's Lady - Suzanne Barclay - Страница 11

Chapter Three

Though she rode with one eye on poor Harry, Rowena’s thoughts were on the man who led them through the misty forest.

She’d never expected to see him again. In the early days following her marriage, consumed by pain and bitterness, she’d wished for Lion to die of some withering disease. Surely her life must be cursed, for not only was he hale, hearty and twice as handsome now, she was also in his debt. Oh, how that galled.

“Lawd, that must be Blantyre Castle,” Clem Gunn said from the pack of clansmen who rode behind her. “Is it not the grandest place ye’ve ever seen?”

Rowena looked ahead, her eyes widening. Blantyre rose out of the fog, spires pricking the sullen sky from behind tall, stout walls. The lights shining from the square towers beckoned, offering warmth and comport Like a stalwart gray sentinel, the edifice seemed to offer sanctuary. Or was it only her need for a haven that made her fancy she’d find one here?

The gatehouse bristled with armed men, but Lion was instantly recognized and the drawbridge lowered. Over the narrow causeway they rode, and into the spacious outer bailey. The grassy field was crammed with tents of all description, from fine canvas ones to drab bits of oiled cloth. ’Twas like a miniature city, really, with stables, a blacksmith and even an ale tent set up by an enterprising merchant.

“Who are these men?” Clem asked.

“Likely the men come to help the earl subdue the outlaws,” Eneas replied. “Large as it is, there would not be room for so many inside Blantyre. The most important of the clan leaders would have chambers inside the castle. And those of lesser rank might steep six and eight to a room in pallets on the floor.”

“Where will we sleep?” Rowena asked faintly.

“I’d wager that Lord Lion will find a cozy spot for you...in his room,” Eneas said nastily.

He would not dare. Would he? “I will seek out the steward and ask if I may have a pallet in the serving maids’ garret,” she said firmly. Yet her trepidation grew as they rode under the sharp teeth of the portcullis into the inner bailey.

The cobbled courtyard was bounded on all four sides by stark gray walls, the great tower of the castle rising five stories above them like a stone giant. The area teemed with activity like a disorderly hive. Some men practiced with dirk and sword, their curses and grunts ringing off the stone walls, their flailing weapons imperiling those who chanced to walk too close. Other men sat about drinking or dicing.

“See what Lion’s brought us,” shouted a coarse voice. “A fresh, winsome lassie.”

All activity stopped. Men lowered their swords and stared. Others left off their gaming and watched goggle-eyed as Lion led his band to the foot of the main stairway. Then they surged forward, an unkempt tide of shouting males.

Rowena gasped and recoiled in the saddle.

“Back!” Lion roared. “All of you.” His command was reinforced by a solid wall of Sutherland targes and swords. “These people are my guests.” Lion’s hard, censorious gaze wandered over the crowd. One after another, the men shrugged and turned back to what they’d been doing.

Lion appeared beside her. “Rowena, I apologize for these men. They are not under my command and—”

“They seemed to obey you.” Evading the hands he extended to lift her down, she slid to the ground on her own.

“Listen to me.” He placed his hands on the saddle, caging her between the horse and himself. “Blantyre is not a safe place. Be on your guard,” he added, thrusting his face close to hers, “lest you find yourself cornered by one of these lechers.”

“You are the only lecher who impugns me.” She drew in a sharp breath and with it the scent that was uniquely Lion’s. It taunted her, brought her senses vividly alive. The small space between them seemed charged with a life of its own. He felt it, too, his long-lashed eyes going wide, his nostrils flaring. Nay. She did not want this. What had been between them was dead, killed by his desertion. “Let me pass,” she said, wishing she sounded firmer, less desperate.

“Lion! Lord Lion!” shouted a high, panicked voice.

Lion turned his head. “Here is Donald Shaw, the steward. Blantyre is crowded, but I will see if I can get him to—”

“We will make our own arrangements,” Rowena said regally, ducking under Lion’s arm.

“There’s no room,” Donald exclaimed as he waddled down the main stairway. His round belly heaved before him like a bag full of fighting cats. “No room at all. Neither in the castle nor the outer bailey.” He stopped beside Eneas Gunn, apparently having picked him out as the leader of these newcomers. “Ye’ll have to pitch a tent outside the walls.”

“The hell you say.” Eneas leaped from the saddle and glowered down at Donald from his considerable height advantage. “I’m Eneas Gunn, and I’ve important business with the earl.”

Donald crossed his arms over his fine woolen tunic. “Lady Glenda, chatelaine of Blantyre, has graciously allowed the earl to use the castle as his headquarters, but my lady has the running of the castle.” He glared up at Eneas. “I say it would not matter if ye were the king’s own brother. There are no beds to be had. Not even a pallet on the—”

Eneas grabbed hold of Donald’s tunic and shook him so the poor man’s chins quivered. “Now listen here, you little—”

“Release him,” Lion said, seizing Eneas’s upper arm.

Swearing loudly, Eneas let go of Donald and tried to shake off the offending hand. “How dare you presume to touch—”

“Be glad I don’t break your arm for leaving your brother’s wife to the MacPhersons.” Lion’s voice was low, yet dangerously tight, his eyes nearly black with anger. “Or beat you bloody for abusing Donald, who is only doing his duty.”

Rowena, who had witnessed a few of Lion’s more passionate outbursts of temper years ago, marveled at this newfound control. Combined with his size and strength, it would make him a formidable opponent.

Eneas, however, was either too blind or too enraged to sense the danger. Curling his lip, he jerked free to address the nearest man. “Where is the earl?”

“Out riding.”

“We will wait, then, to pay our respects and hear what the earl has to say about our accommodations.” Eneas whirled on his own men. “Dismount and stay here.” With a last malevolent glance at Lion, he stomped up the stairs and into the castle.

The name Donald called Eneas under his breath made Lion chuckle. “I know you’re a mite pressed for space, but we’ve an injured man.” He gestured toward the litter his men had set on the ground.

“I’d gladly give up my tiny chamber to show my thanks,” Donald said heartily. “But Felis, the herb woman, has a small chamber where she treats the sick.”

Lion nodded and gave the order to bring Harry. He frowned when Rowena stepped along beside the litter. “There’s no need for you to go. Felis is very skilled.”

Rowena froze him with a glare. “Harry is one of mine. Even had he not been wounded protecting me, I’d still see to him.” Head high, she marched behind in the wake of the litter. Donald led them through a maze of well-lit corridors to a narrow wall chamber.

The herb woman answered the door and ordered the bearers to place Harry on a pallet by the small fire. “’Tis a mortal wound he’s taken, my lady,” she said ominously.

Rowena looked at the blood-soaked pad and grimaced. “Aye, it is severe, but mayhap if it’s stitched shut and a tight compress applied, the bleeding will stop.”

The old woman nodded. “I think ’tis a waste of time, but feel free to use whatever you need.” She gestured to the chest of medicines in the corner. “I’ve been summoned to the village to help with a birthing. The mother lost her last one, poor thing, so I cannot tarry.”

“That is all right. I’ve some skill in such things. Thank you again for the use of this room and your supplies.”

“Aye.” Felis drew on her cloak. “Any friend of Lion’s is deserving of my help,” she said before she left.

Rowena scowled at him.

“Is there anything I can do?” Lion asked hopefully.

“Nay. I need nothing from you.”

“I’ve a bit of experience with wounds, and I know the sight of blood always made you queasy. I could—”

“I have overcome my aversion to blood,” she said flatly.

.Lion’s mouth thinned. “I will stay nonetheless.”

“I would prefer you did not, but doubt that will sway you.”

“Nay, it will not. For as long as you are in Blantyre, you must be under my protection.”

“I do not believe I am in any danger. I think you just want an excuse to—to annoy me,” she finished, unwilling to give voice to the tension that simmered between them.

“Many of the men who’ve answered the earl’s summons are of the worst sort, the dregs of the Highlands. They are without honor or conscience. Pray forgive me for not wanting you to fall into the clutches of others like the MacPhersons.”

Rowena stifled a shudder at the reminder of what he’d saved her from. But forgiveness didn’t come easy. “I’ve not the time to argue.” She turned her attention back to Harry. “He has lost a great deal of blood, so I must act quickly.” She peered into the pot beside the fire and found it empty.

“I sent my squire for hot water and whiskey,” Lion said.

Rowena gritted her teeth. “I must cut his tunic away from his body.”

Kneeling, Lion proffered his own dirk to her. “’Tis sharp, so mind what you’re doing, lass.”

“Around you, always.”

A fair-haired lad stuck his head into the room. “I’ve got the things you asked for, milord.”

“Bring them in, Sim. Set the pot on the coals to keep warm and put the whiskey there, beside Lady Rowena.”

Sim did as he was bid, paling a bit when he glanced at the injured man. “I’ll wait outside in case you need anything else.”

When she’d sliced away Harry’s shirt, Rowena lifted the bandage she’d put over his wound, and her heart quailed. The slash was a long one, extending from under Harry’s left arm across his chest to his waist, laying bare two rib bones. It would be a miracle if he lived.

“Let me keep pressure on this while you ready the needle and thread,” Lion offered.

“All right.” Opening the medicine chest, she rummaged through it, bringing out a needle, stout silk thread and several packets of herbs. She dipped both thread and needle into the whiskey Sim had brought. Her hand trembled slightly as she prepared to dig into Harry’s ruined flesh.

At the touch of her needle, Harry roused. “My lady!” he cried, sitting up with no warning.

“Harry! Lie still!” Rowena reached for him, but he pushed her aside with surprising strength.

“Have to save her,” he cried, his eyes wild and unfocused.

“Easy, lad.” Lion grabbed hold of Harry’s shoulders and forced the boy to look at him. “She’s safe, do you hear? We got to her in time. She came to no harm.”

“Praise God.” Harry sagged in Lion’s gnp, shivering as he was laid back down on the pallet. “So afraid for her.”

“As was I.” Lion lifted a cup of whiskey to Harry’s lips. “Drink deep, lad. You’ve a bit of a cut on your side that wants stitching. It’ll go a mite easier with this in your belly.”

Harry drained the cup, then sighed. His eyes closed; his breathing eased.

“Best begin,” Lion said softly. “I’ll just steady him for you, least he rouse and cause more damage.”

She looked up at him, too weary in body and soul to fight against his help. “Thank you,” she murmured. Curiously, the words did not stick in her throat. With steely determination, she began to ply her needle.

It was nearly nightfall by the time Rowena left Harry’s bedside. She was stiff from crouching over her patient, and so tired she could have curled up on the bare floor and slept. Felis had returned from a successful birthing, however, and insisted she would sit with Harry a spell.

As Rowena stepped from the sickroom, Lion came away from the wall he’d been leaning against. “Harry?” he asked.

Rowena tensed. “He yet lives. Why are you here?”

“I told you I’d be nearby.”

“And I told you to leave hours ago.”

“I quit the room, for my presence made you nervous. But I am not about to leave you undefended.” Before she could stop him, he seized a stray curl and tucked it behind her ear.

Rowena jumped back, uncomfortable with the thought that he’d been near all this time. “I do not require a guard.”

His grin was mocking. “You say that only because you do not know the men gathered at Blantyre as well as I do. Some of them have the manners and morals of pigs.”

He was protecting her. The notion was both comforting and frightening. “I can look after myself.” She started down the corridor away from him.

“Really? What business have you in the guards’ quarters?”

She stopped and turned. “What?”

“That is where you are headed.”

“I see.” She changed direction, brushing past him without touching him, yet the heat from his body singed her. Down the hall she went, conscious that he kept pace behind her though she could not hear his footsteps. At an intersection, she paused.

“The great hall is to the left.”

Rowena sniffed and turned toward the hall in search of Eneas. Loath as she was to see that turn-tail lout, she had to learn what plans he’d made for their accommodations. With any luck, he’d already spoken with the earl and arranged for the swearing to take place on the morrow. Pray God they could leave soon, for being in Lion’s presence was painful beyond bearing.

“Why have you come to Blantyre?” he asked.

“I have business with the earl.” Rowena quickened her pace. As she turned the next corner, she was assaulted by such noise: shouts and bellows, laughter and...was that the crack of breaking wood? It came from behind a double set of metal-banded doors at the far end of the corridor. “The great hall?” she asked weakly.

“The very same.” Lion moved up beside her, his grin flashing in the torchlight. “We could sup in my chamber instead.”

“Certainly not. I’ve no wish to be private with you. I must see my kinsman.” Ugh. To call Eneas that grated. “And pay my respects to the earl.”

“Mayhap you’d like to wait till you’ve bathed and changed.”

Rowena stopped and looked down at her gown. To say that it was the worse for wear after five days in the saddle and another spent crouched on the floor was an understatement. “Somewhere I have a pack with a clean gown.”

“Why not wait till the morrow? Alexander is likely deep in his cups by now and—”

“Nay. I would conclude my business quickly. I do not want to spend a minute more at Blantyre than I have to.”

“A wise decision. The men here are barbarous.”

Steeling herself, she met Lion’s amber gaze squarely. “You keep saying that Have you become a barbarian?”

“I hope not.” His smile was as compelling as ever.

“Why are you at Blantyre?”

“Like you, I have business here.”

She sensed evasion. He’d always been clever with words, able to wriggle out of a question quicker than the river salmon they’d fished for that long-ago summer could escape from a net “I see. Well, I hope to conclude mine the quicker, for then I can be the one to ride away from you.” When pain darkened his beautiful eyes, the heart she’d thought fortified against him tripped. Why? Why did you leave me without a word? Nay, she did not want to know, could not afford to care why. She lifted her chin. “Do we enter the hall or stand here trading barbs?”

“The slings and arrows of outrage are all yours, lass,” he said quietly. “I would have peace between us.”

“That can never be.” Rowena moved past him and flung open the right-hand door. The wash of light and noise stopped her in her tracks. Blinking, she surveyed the great hall.

It was several times the size of Hillbrae’s. Into it were crammed more people than she’d seen in one place before-beautiful women and burly knights. They laughed and shouted, sang and danced, cavorting about to the riotous wail of a pair of pipers. Torchlight played on formfitting silken gowns in a dozen brilliant colors. Gemstones glittered at the women’s necks and on their fingers. Like fairy princesses they were, bonny and ever so polished.

Rowena hung back, hands clenching in her rumpled skirts. “I must look a sight,” she murmured.

“The offer of my chamber is still open.”

“I am still not interested. Ever,” Rowena said, turning on him.

“Ah, well, can’t blame a man for trying.” He grinned and waggled his eyebrows. “At least let’s clean you up a bit before you must face the harpies.” He seized her chin before she could move away, whisked a square of linen from inside his tunic, moistened it with his tongue and dabbed at her cheek. “Hold still,” he admonished when she squirmed. “Well, you still look like a wee lassie who’s been playing in the mud, but you’ll have to do,” he said cheerfully after a moment.

“Thank you so much.” Rowena flung his hand aside, turned and plunged into the hall, too angry with him to mind the surprised looks cast her way. Belatedly, she realized he’d probably meant to make her angry so she’d forget about being ashamed or intimidated. Why couldn’t he just leave her alone?

Two men suddenly leaped in front of her, their hands around each other’s necks. “Take that back,” one screamed, shaking the other so his teeth clicked.

“Will not.” His opponent sent a fist flying. It glanced off the first man’s jaw and headed for Rowena.

She gasped and braced for a collision.

Lion whirled her clear of the two combatants. “Mind where you go.” He swept her over to a table near the hearth. Pulling out a bench, he gallantly seated her, then himself.

“I suppose I should thank you.”

“Only if the gratitude is sincere. If it’s not, it’ll be sure to curdle your belly. Hungry?” he asked. Chin propped in his hand, he regarded her with a friendly smile.

Rowena shrugged and looked out at the revelers, seeing a sinister side to the merriment. The two men who’d nearly felled her were themselves rolling on the floor. She caught the glint of a dirk in one man’s hand, but none of those nearby made any attempt to intervene. Mayhap because many of them were drunk, too. A few had passed out on the tables. One man lay retching beneath a bench. No one paid any attention.

She looked away, just in time to see a large man grab one of the serving maids, sling her over his shoulder and stride from the hall. “Why does someone not stop him?”

“’Twould be one against a hundred, and most of them so drunk they’d not listen to reason.”

“Where are your men?”

“Out and about. We none of us care for the entertainments to be had at Blantyre these days.”

“But...” Rowena began, then she sighed and looked down at her hands. She’d fought this same battle when she’d first come to Hillbrae, for the Gunns were a wild and unruly bunch. Padruig alone could control them, except when they were gone with drink. Rowena had learned to lock the maids in her solar when the men were in a festive mood. These men were meaner than the Gunns, she decided. Her gaze strayed to the pair of fighters. One of them lay bleeding on the floor. Seeing the other calmly going through his victim’s money pouch, she shivered.

“This is no place for you, lass. Let me provide an escort to see you home on the morrow.”

Much as she wanted to go, Rowena shook her head. “I cannot leave till my purpose is accomplished.”

“Milord.” A plump, homely maid approached the table and set down a cloth-covered tray. “Here’s the food ye asked cook to keep by for ye and the lady.”

“My thanks, Mairi, and to cook, also.” His smile would have charmed the birds from the trees.

“Always a pleasure to serve ye.” Mairi cast an envious glance at Rowena, then hurried away, evading a dozen groping hands with skillful swats.

“You have many friends among the serving staff.”

“The best kind...if a man plans to eat well.” He whisked the cover off the tray and sniffed. “Cook makes the best meat pies.” He lifted one and juggled it, wincing. “Hot, too. Better let me hold it, or you’ll burn your fingers.

Dazzled by the smell, Rowena did as he bid, leaning forward and taking a big bite. It was delicious, the crust flaky, the meat juicy. It wasn’t till she’d taken her third bite that she realized Lion had her eating out of his hand. Sitting back, she scowled at him. “You think you are clever, don’t you?”

“Time will tell if I’m clever enough,” he said lightly.

To do what? Seduce her? Likely he’d try, and yet... Rowena frowned, struck by the hidden meaning in his words. She’d known him as a canny lad of eight and ten, yet sensed that the time away had broadened his intelligence. What had he done in France?

“Lion!” A voice boomed out over the din in the hall, silencing the laughter and even the wail of the pipes.

Everyone, Rowena included, looked to the doorway. There stood a tall, dark-haired man, his muscular body draped in velvet and gold chains. The princely tilt of his head as he arrogantly surveyed the hall confirmed his identity.

“The earl,” Rowena breathed.

“True, unfortunately,” Lion said just as softly.

Alexander Stewart’s piercing gaze pounced on their quarry. “Lion! I have need of you.”

Lion sighed and stood. “I regret that I must leave you.” He took her hand, his lips lingering a moment in a gentle kiss, his eyes locked on hers. “I will have one of my men stay with you.”

“C-could you not introduce me to the earl?” she asked.

“Lion!”

“In his present mood, ’twould do more harm than good.” Lion bowed formally, then strode over to meet the royal prince, who whisked him from the hall.

Of all the times for Alexander to choose for a meeting, Lion thought as he grimly followed the earl across the courtyard and into the ancient tower, built by the Shaws a century ago. Up the winding stairs they went, to the old hall where once the Shaw chiefs had ruled. Here Alexander’s inner circle of followers met to drink and talk strategy.

A fire struggled in the central hearth, but a dozen or so torches burned brightly in sconces set the length of the long, narrow room. Alexander did not like dark corners where assassins might lie in wait. Ten Stewart clansmen, the earl’s personal bodyguards, sat gaming and drinking at one of the trestle tables. The other tables were occupied by leaders of the clans who’d thus far come to serve Alexander: the Keiths, Chisholms, Mackintoshes, Cummings and, of course, the MacPhersons.

As Lion entered beside the earl, Georas MacPherson jumped up, toppling the bench on which he’d been sitting. “Glenshee!” His hand fell to his sword hilt. “I demand satisfaction.”

“Name the time and place,” Lion said coolly.

“What is the meaning of this?” Alexander exclaimed.

Georas snarled, “He attacked me on the trail.”

“Not without provocation.”

“The hell you say. I’d done naught to you,” Georas roared.

“To me, nay, but to the lady—”

“I saw the wench first. You had no right to interfere.”

“What is this? Two of my best men fighting over a wench?” the earl grumbled.

“Not a wench, a lady,” Lion said grimly. “And you are wrong, Georas. I had every right to stop you. The lady Rowena grew up five leagues from my home at Kinduin. I have known her for years. I’d not stand aside and see any lady mistreated, much less one I—”

“Mistreated!” Georas MacPherson’s face turned scarlet “She wanted me. I could tell. She just needed a bit of persuading, same as most females do.”

“Persuading, is it?” Lion asked with a softness his men would have recognized as more dangerous than another’s shouts.

“Aye, and I demand a piece of yer hide to replace the one ye ripped from my hand.”

“Easy, Georas. You’ve forgotten our Lion is more chivalrous than most,” the earl said, clearly hoping to ease things.

Lion knew that Alexander would not discipline Georas, who commanded one hundred of the most ruthless fighters in the Highlands. While others might quibble over being asked to commit murder and wreak havoc, the MacPhersons thrived on it. Likely Georas himself had killed Padruig. Nay, the earl could not afford to alienate the MacPherson chief. But neither would he want to lose the Sutherlands, Lion mused.

His clan was large and prosperous with strategically located land. Alexander had tried without success to woo Lucais, Lion’s father, to his cause. He’d been delighted when the heir to Kinduin had showed up in his camp, never guessing he was welcoming a spy.

“A pox on his damned chivalry,” Georas muttered.

“Nay, nay, Georas, we could learn much from our old friends in France. ’Tis pleased I am we’ve someone who’s spent time in the French court.” The earl winked at Lion.

Coarse himself, Alexander made much of Lion’s courtier ways and was anxious to acquire some himself. Thus Lion spent an hour each day in the hopeless task of trying to coax lyrical French phrases from the earl’s wide Scots mouth. He’d had better luck teaching Alexander and his men to wield the lighter-weight Spanish swords and fight in the manner popular on the Continent.

Georas uttered a crude oath regarding Lion’s parentage and the origins of the French king.

Lion’s face heated. The urge to teach Georas a much-needed lesson, burned hot in his veins. It was his Carmichael blood, the cursed temper inherited from the grandsire for whom he’d been named. Lion cooled it with Sutherland logic. A brawl would ruin his plans. “Name the time,” he repeated calmly.

“We’ll have none of that,” the earl snapped. “I’ve not enough men that I can afford to lose two of the best. Georas, you’ll respect Lion’s right to defend his friends. Lion, you’ll overlook Georas’s rashness. ’Tis just high spirits,” he added, signaling his squire to pour ale for all. “Nigh five hundred fighting men have answered my summons, and here they sit, with naught to do till we’re strong enough to begin.”

On that, Lion could not disagree. Battle-trained men with too much time on their hands were always a liability. He’d seen the same in France. There the leaders had kept their men busy with constant patrols and with jousts. Unfortunately, the patrols here led to just the sort of thing that had happened to Rowena. Innocent farmers and merchants were often attacked by bored warriors out for sport and plunder.

What of jousts? The idea of two bands of Highlanders conducting themselves as did tourney knights was laughable. There were no lances, no trained mounts, but...

“Football,” Lion said.

“Football?” the earl repeated, frowning.

“Aye, well, it does not have to be that Any sport will do, so long as it’ll let the lads test their strength against one another and, mayhap, win a prize or two.”

Alexander’s dark eyes sparkled with understanding. “Aye, that is a grand notion. And it’ll make a suitable display when the MacNabs come calling.” He added, “Aedh MacNab is sending his heir, Robert, to talk about joining us.”

Lion smiled, but his mind was racing. He knew Aedh and Robbie. Neither were the sort to fall in with the earl’s schemes. He had to meet with Robbie before he reached Blantyre, and try to convince him to see this Lion’s way.

Dickie MacPherson ambled into the room, cast a malicious glance in Lion’s direction, then went to whisper in Georas’s ear. Their furtiveness made Lion apprehensive.

Georas grinned, clapped Dickie on the shoulder and approached Alexander. The smugness of his expression made the hair on Lion’s nape prickle.

“Gunn!” the earl roared. “She’s Padruig Gunn’s widow?”

“Aye.” Georas’s smile turned feral. “That she is.”

“Why is she here?” Alexander demanded, spearing first Lion, then Georas with an enraged gaze.

“I do not know,” Lion was forced to admit.

“Yer childhood friend has not confided in ye?” Georas taunted. He must not know why, either.

“There was no time,” Lion said stiffly, alarmed by Alexander’s anger. The earl had an unpredictable temperament, being generous and friendly one moment, petty and vicious the next. Too often of late he would fly into a rage over a small thing. “But rest assured, Your Grace, I will know by morn.”

Alexander muttered a curse and drained his cup.

“It is possible they have come to join you,” Lion added.

“A woman?” Alexander’s black brows rose. “Much as I need men, I’d not take any who’d follow a woman,” he scoffed. His gaze went to Lady Glenda, a woman of great wealth. Kindly but homely, with a long, horsy face and mud-brown hair, she sat at a distant table playing at draughts with Selena MacPherson.

Lady Glenda looked up, caught the earl’s glance and immediately abandoned her game to join him. “You wanted me, my lord?” she said in her soft, lisping voice.

“Nay,” Alexander said absently, oblivious to the lady’s hurt expression. He’d seduced her, played court to her in order to gain the use of her castle. His interest in her was obviously waning, for he treated her with less respect every day.

“What of you, Lord Lion?” Selena inquired archly. “Is there aught you desire?” The seductive gleam in her pale blue eyes left him in no doubt she’d satisfy any craving he might have. She was breathtaking, her red hair a perfect foil for her porcelain-pale skin. Selena was newly arrived at Blantyre, but rumor had it she was a talented and inventive bedmate. Had she approached him the day before, Lion would have been tempted. As it was, he felt scant interest in the lush curves she pressed close to him or in the sensual promises glittering in her eyes.

Lion smiled coolly. “Alas, my lady, I must be about the earl’s business this evening.” With that, he bowed to Selena and took the unhappy Lady Glenda aside. “If your sister’s chamber is yet unoccupied, could my lady Rowena use it while she is here?”

“Well...I do not mean to seem miserly, ’tis just that Annie values her things greatly and—”

“You’d just as soon not see them misused by some careless trollop.” He looked pointedly at Lady Selena, who leaned close to the earl as she refilled his ale cup. “Rowena is my lady, and has no designs whatsoever on any other man.”

“I would be pleased to have her use the room, then.”

“She is in the great hall, if I could send word—”

“I’ll go myself.” Lady Glenda glanced at Alexander, her expression filled with pitiful longing, then left the room.

Lion bowed to the earl. “Until the morrow, Your Grace,” he said before exiting the room. Every step of the way, he was aware of Georas’s hate-filled gaze.

As he stepped into the gloomy corridor, Lion nearly fell over Bryce.

“What has he done to upset Lady Glenda?” Bryce said, staring after the lady’s retreating back.

“He ignores her now that he has what he wanted—the run of Blantyre and her Shaws to ride under his banner.”

“Yet she pines for him, dotes on his every word and whim. Can she not see what worthless slime he is?” Bryce snarled.

“Easy, my friend, I know you sympathize with her.” More than that, he feared Bryce was smitten with the earl’s lady. “But we’ve more pressing problems just now.” As they walked down the stairs of the old tower, Lion told his cousin about the imminent arrival of the MacNabs and the threat to Rowena. “I’ve asked Lady Glenda to give her Lady Annie’s chamber. ’Tis all I can do for tonight—that and post two men outside her door. Tomorrow I must persuade her to leave.”

“And the MacNabs?”

“That is the rest of tonight’s problem.”