Devil in a Kilt by Sue-Ellen Welfonder

Chapter 7

“Have you seen her hair?” Duncan leaned back in his canopied seat at the high table and aimed a pointed glare at Sir Marmaduke.

To his irritation, the Sassunach either ignored, or didn’t hear, his question. Instead, his most stalwart knight appeared completely engrossed in watching Eilean Creag’s craggy old seneschal, Fergus, order about his troupe of servants as they filed through the great hall.

Each one shouldered a great platter of some kind of elaborately dressed game bird or a sizable haunch of roasted meat, all prepared with special care for the wedding feast.

Perturbed, Duncan reached across the conspicuously empty seat to his left and gave his friend a jab in the ribs. Raising his voice above the ruckus, he tried again, “I said, have you seen her hair?”

“Hare?” Marmaduke fixed him with the most innocent look possible considering his scarred face. “Fergus will certainly have ordered a goodly number. If we’re lucky, he’s prepared them with his special onion-and-saffron gravy.”

“I mean her hair, you conniving fox,” Duncan roared, not caring if all at the high table and beyond heard him. “I’ll have an explanation, Strongbow. Now before her ladyship sees fit to join us.”

“Explanation?” The brow above Marmaduke’s good eye rose a notch.

“Dinnae repeat my words like a blithering fool or I’ll have you replace the jester Fergus hired to entertain us this afternoon.”

Marmaduke lowered his brow at once. “What troubles you, my friend?”

“‘’Tis plain she is, as unappealing a sow’s behind,’” Duncan quoted, his wrath at being misled testing his temper. “Would you deny those words?”

“No,” Marmaduke stated with great calm, giving his chalice to a young squire who promptly refilled it with spiced wine. “And it was true enough of her appearance the day I called at Dundonnell. She’d been in the bailey, teaching a small lad how to brandish his wooden sword when I arrived. Rain had turned the ground to a sea of mud. I had the impression the boy’s squeals of laughter mattered more to her than a bit of mud on her gown.”

“I see.”

“Then all is well.” Marmaduke lifted his chalice, took a sip.

Nae, all is a disaster. Duncan swallowed the angry words he wanted to fling at his friend. The even-tempered Englishman was the only soul who managed to make him feel guilty, even when he was in the right.

Like now.

He was the one who’d been tricked, made the fool.

Hewhose world had tilted at the sight of her unbound hair this morn.

A wife with such glorious tresses spelled trouble, despite Marmaduke’s chivalrous attempts to paint her as a half saint, fawning over children and ignorant of the effect her hair would have on any mortal man beneath the age of eighty and perhaps a few beyond.

But rather than embarrass himself further by commenting on Marmaduke’s pretty speech, surely designed to emphasize his new bride’s goodness of character, he clamped his lips together in a scowl. He’d content himself with giving the Sassunach knight another cold, hard glare.

“If I recall, you questioned me about how she’d appeared that day, and I told you true,” Marmaduke continued, obviously taking great delight in Duncan’s displeasure. “Had you asked if I thought she’d wash up well, my answer would’ve been much different.”

That did it.

Duncan curled his fingers tightly around the armrests of his chair. If anyone else had dared taunt him so, he’d have grasped the sharp blade resting on the table before him and cut out the offender’s tongue.

Better yet, he’d use a dull blade.

“Whose side are you on, English?” he finally asked, his hands still gripping the chair as if he sought to snap the sturdy oaken armrests in two.

“Why, yours, my lord,” Marmaduke gallantly replied, lifting his chalice in a silent toast. “As ever, your well-being is my most steadfast desire.”

“Indeed.” Duncan snatched his own drinking vessel, an intricate silver chalice fashioned like a sea dragon and encrusted with precious gemstones, and took a long drink of hippocras, a heady mixture of red wine and spices Cook had concocted especially for the wedding feast.

After a goodly amount flowed past his lips, he slammed down the goblet. The specially prepared treat tasted as sour as his mood, its delicate combination of flavors lost on him.

Fouled by his dark mood.

“Is aught amiss?” Marmaduke asked, his good brow arching upward.

“Nae,” Duncan snapped, unwilling to voice all that was amiss, yet unable to put his finger on exactly what bothered him the most.

Everything bothered him.

“You look pained,” Marmaduke observed. “Here, have more hippocras.”

“I need more than spiced wine to cure what ails me,” Duncan groused.

Even so, he held out his chalice while Marmaduke, ever the gallant, refilled it to the brim. But Duncan cared nothing for drinking and even less for celebrating.

He wanted only to escape the confines of the festively decorated hall and retire to a quiet corner of the castle.

Alone.

Without his bride, and without his cares. For sure, without his pack of dunderheaded clansmen and their silly chatter.

A quick glance around the high table told him no one else shared his displeasure. Everyone present, from his most trusted friends and kinsmen to his servants, all grinned like witless loons.

Buffoons every last one of them.

Senseless fools jesting among themselves about the about the bride’s lengthening absence. The bolder ones, those already deep in their cups, loudly proclaimed she’d no doubt heard tales of the MacKenzie’s legendary prowess in bed and had bolted herself in her chamber, cowering in fear, yet secretly waiting to be ravished.

As if he desired the wench! He wanted nothing to do with her.

Tresses of silken flame or nae.

And not that he cared, but where was she anyway?

By the hounds, it was time she took her place beside him. But, nae, she dallied again, leaving him to look the fool even as she had this morn while he’d stood waiting on the chapel steps.

His annoyance mounting, he scanned the smoke-hazed hall. Straining his eyes, he sought to catch a glimpse of her coppery hair, hoping to see her hurrying toward the high table, looking suitably contrite for her tardiness.

But she was nowhere to be seen.

And where was his first squire?

Off making moon eyes at the new lady of the castle, no doubt. Duncan frowned. If it weren’t for his pride, he’d be tempted to go fetch them himself.

He wouldn’t demean himself by doing so, though. A laird had a certain dignity to uphold.

Nae, he’d deal with his bride in good time, and in private. As for Lachlan, the squire was too softhearted for his own good. If he’d allowed himself to be cajoled into helping his wife escape to Dundonnell, he’d have the lad scour the cesspit till it shined like a bairn’s arse.

And perhaps he’d have his new wife help him.

For the first time all day, Duncan smiled.

If he really wanted to improve his mood, he’d order Marmaduke to assist them. It would serve the lout right for playing him the fool.

Aye, he’d have words with them all – later. For now, he had little choice but to suffer through the day’s festivities so he could retire to the sanctuary of his chamber.

And woe be to any hapless dolt who might try to stop him.

“You wear an expression darker than the black mail you favor. It’s no wonder the lady has chosen to linger far from your side.” Marmaduke gave him a thwack on his shoulder. “Come, let us drink to a happy future for you and your bride.”

“A happy future?” Duncan narrowed his eyes at his friend. The severe head blows Marmaduke had once received must’ve addled his wits. “You know better than most why I took her to wed, so cease your dunderheaded banter. I care naught about a shared future with her, content or otherwise.”

Duncan paused to draw a breath, and the moment he opened his mouth to further grouse at his friend for such ridiculous notions, all present let out a collective gasp.

Then the hall went still.

Except for one foolhardy soul who cried out, “Och, mercy me!”

‘Twas her.

It had to be her.

Even though the haze from the fires made it difficult to see the far end of the hall, he knew.

And judging from the slackjawed clansmen he could see, she’d done something most displeasing.

Or bold.

But what?

Had she fetched muck from the foreshore, soiling the fine gown he’d provided for her? Or had she hacked off her glorious tresses, thinking to spite and embarrass him by coming to the wedding feast bald as an old hairless man?

If so, she’d be surprised, for he’d be pleased. She would have saved him the trouble of shaving her head himself. The saints knew he was tempted to do so.

“It’s him! She’s brought the lad with her.”

Clear, sharp, and going straight to his heart like a well-aimed arrow, the quickly whispered words cut through the fog of his frustrations.

Duncan froze.

It didn’t matter who’d uttered the words. He’d never know and didn’t care.

It was the meaning behind them that stopped him cold.

He didn’t realize he’d loosened his grip on his chalice until it hit the top of the table with a dull thud, its contents staining the tablecloth the deep red of spilled blood.

Dropping his wine seemed to break the spell of unnatural silence, too, for the moment he looked up from the ruined tablecloth, the entire hall erupted into pandemonium.

A swell of voices.

Sheer chaos.

And through it all Duncan heard but one word: Robbie.

The lass had done what not a single of his warriors would have dared.

She’d brought the lad before him, into his hall, and chosen a time when he could do nothing about it. Not with the priest sitting to his right and his men watching his every move.

It was no secret what they thought of his behavior toward the child, scarce little they cared his heart had been wrenched from his chest and trod upon, ground into the dirt.

Duncan’s blood ran hot and cold as he searched the shadows, trying to catch a glimpse of his bride and the lad he’d once thought his son.

Dread filled him as he awaited the moment his gaze would fall upon them. Yet deep inside, anticipation made his heart pump ever faster while anger at his own weakness pulled his brows together in a fierce scowl.

His new wife best be thankful for her sex. Were she a man, she’d regret such disregard of his orders. Not a soul under his roof would’ve attempted suchlike.

He felt Marmaduke grip his arm and heard him speaking to him, but he couldn’t make sense of the words. His head pounded, and the blood rushing through his veins turned all sound into an unintelligible buzz.

All except the one word that caused him so much pain and cut straight through his defenses as if they were butter.

Robbie, Robbie, Robbie…The name echoed around the cavernous hall, bouncing off the stone walls, ringing in his ears until he feared his head would burst.

If only he could see better, but the haze from the hearth fires and the lit-extra-for-tonight torches filled the air, blurring his vision, and making it hard to spot them.

Not that he wanted to.

Even so, he cast his gaze about, searching. It’d been nearly two years since he’d closely looked upon the boy, truly seen him.

Breaking away from Marmaduke’s iron grasp, he pushed back from the table and stood. He leaned forward, planting his hands on the table to keep from sinking back into his chair. A humbling possibility considering the way his knees threatened to buckle on him.

With the last of his willpower, he forced his legs to stop trembling while he continued to scan the crowded hall.

Then, of a sudden, the murky air seemed to clear, and he saw his bride almost immediately. Her unbound hair, shining brighter than the most brilliant flame, gave her away. His first squire stood next to her, and he, too, resembled a flame, but it was his face that glowed, not his hair.

Aye, Lachlan knew well his master would be mightily displeased.

And his ill ease was justified. But Lachlan’s punishment would be dealt later. At the moment, he cared naught about his squire and less about his new lady wife.

His entire attention focused on the small boy she held by the hand.

Taller and sturdier than the chubby bairn Duncan used to bounce on his knee, Robbie’d grown into a handsome lad. Someone had draped a child-sized plaid in the green-and-blue MacKenzie colors over his left shoulder, tucking it in place under a finely tooled and obviously new leather belt.

A belt he should have fashioned.

Duncan blinked back the stinging sensation in his eyes as he stared at the beautifully crafted belt. The last thing he’d made for Robbie was a toy sword he’d carved from wood for the lad’s fourth birthday.

He could still recall the look of wonder on Robbie’s face when he’d given it to him.

It seemed like a hundred years had passed since then.

Without warning, a red-hot throbbing started in the back of Duncan’s neck then spread lower to grip his chest in a stranglehold that fair squeezed the breath out of his lungs.

The longer he stared at the boy, the more painful the tightness became, but he couldn’t tear his gaze away.

At six, Robbie looked every bit a miniature version of a fine MacKenzie warrior. There was no denying the clan’s blood ran thick and proud through his veins. Even from across the hall, it was plain to see the lad bore a sharp likeness to Duncan.

Nae, he looked exactly like Duncan.

And how proud he’d once been of the undeniable resemblance.

The pain in Duncan’s gut worsened, hurting as fiercely as if someone had thrust a knife into his belly and now twisted the blade, cruelly upping the torture, taking advantage of a besieged man already on his knees.

A deep groan welled in his throat, and he disguised it as a cough. All would have been so simple if Kenneth MacKenzie, his hated half brother and his first wife’s lover, couldn’t pass for his twin.

Fate had shown no mercy in stealing all he’d ever loved. Indeed, should he and his foe stand with the child between them before the wisest of men, there wouldn’t be one among them who could say whether the seed that begot Robbie had sprung from his or Kenneth’s loins.

And the doubt was killing him.

Hadkilled him, for surely his life hadn’t been worth living since the day he’d learned of Cassandra’s treachery.

But perhaps an end to his suffering was near. High were his hopes Linnet MacDonnell – nae, MacKenzie – would soon put an end to his days, and nights, of despair.

As he stared at the boy, a great weariness bore down on him. A heavy, crushing weight, pushing aside all else, leaving only a desperate need to lower himself into his chair.

By the hounds, he couldn’t bear to stand and watch their approach.

It was too much.

So he sank back down, heaving a great sigh the moment he settled back into his canopied laird’s chair.

Ever chivalrous, Marmaduke poured him a liberal dose of wine. He gladly accepted, gratefully curling his fingers around the heavy silver chalice.

Clutching the drinking vessel provided a good way to hide the trembling of his hands while he waited. He only hoped, once his bride wove her way through the hall and took her place at his side, she’d finally grant him the answer only she could give.

And by all the powers, he prayed he’d like what she’d have to tell him.