“How long has it been since Lizzie and her father returned from Edinburgh with parts for the new forge?” She playfully pushed him away, as if telling him to behave in front of their guests.
He gave her a teasing wink and pulled her close again. “I dinna ken how long it has been. Why?”
She tapped the tip of his nose, shook a finger, and acted as if trying to pull away again. “She and Master Cranson seem awfully close for two who have just met.”
“I shall warn Calder to watch her, but I am sure it is nothing.” He spun her about, stole another kiss, then offered his arm. “The woman thinks marriage to a leatherworker is beneath her. Ever since Duff offered for her hand, she’s been frantic to find a man of higher social standing before her father forces her to marry Duff.”
Even though she wished to stress the point, she didn’t. It was clear Teague thought the woman nothing more than a harmless nuisance. The only way Mila had kept Grissa from naming Lizzie as the sender of the ill wishes was by telling her that neither of them had proof.
She decided to change the subject. “Do we gather for this meeting before Laird Devon drinks himself stupid or wait till after supper and have our discussion without him?”
He patted her hand where it rested in the crook of his arm. “Is my precious dove’s thirst for blood that strong?”
“No,” she replied through a forced smile as Laird Bellingham approached them. “Yer lioness hungers to protect her mate.”
“The others I mentioned should arrive any time, commander.” The large-nosed man ran the tip of his tongue across his pale, plump lips that reminded Mila of overstuffed sausages. He gave a simpering bow while surreptitiously ogling her cleavage. “We didna expect such delightful company when the invitation came, m’lady.” He rattled with a wheezing chortle at his poor attempt at humor.
Mila tried not to gag. “Nor did I expect such interesting guests.” She dropped all pretenses and allowed a bit of protective sternness to creep into her tone. “Who is yet to arrive, m’lord? None of us are getting any younger.”
The man’s watery blue eyes widened, making the paunchy bags beneath them bulge. “Pray tell, have we put ye out by inviting extra supporters, dear lady?”
“I was not aware so many shared my husband’s zeal to put the Campbells in their place.” She held her breath, eager to see the fool’s reaction to her bait.
“Campbells?” A frown puckered his sweaty brow as his befuddled gaze slid to Teague. Then a knowing smile curled his plump mouth. “Ahh yes. TheCampbells. Many support the commander in his endeavors. Many indeed. But we shall try not to keep him from ye overlong. Our meeting is only needed to refine a few minor points.”
“Minor points, ye say? Yet all of ye refused to postpone this meeting, considering the current witch hunt scouring the Highlands.” Teague spoke quietly, but a coldness as hard as steel had crept into his tone.
Laird Bellingham nervously smacked his mouth open and closed like a fish out of water. “The Cause demanded it, sir,” he hissed. “And besides, ye were the one who insisted—”
“I did not, m’lord. I no longer support the Cause.” Teague didn’t bother to lower his voice this time. “And neither does my clan. ’Tis an ill-fated venture that will do nothing but bring harm to my people.” He cast a sly scan around the hall. “We may not be overly fond of King George, but we are loyal to him.”
Mila squeezed his arm and proudly lifted her chin. “Long live King George.”
“Long live King George, indeed,” a snide voice echoed from just inside the entry hall. “A sentiment rarely heard in the Highlands.”
A fearful coldness swept across her, making it difficult to speak. Knowing she needed to recover quickly to protect Teague, she swept toward the newcomer with her hand extended. This man was the most dangerous guest of all. She recognized him from his portraits in her history books.
“Ye grace us with yer presence, sir. Welcome to Éirich Castle.”
One of Britain’s first ministers, Sir Robert Walpole himself, eyed her as he took her hand and bent over it. “And how is it you know of me, m’lady? I would most certainly remember if we had met.”
Mila managed a coy smile even though the off-putting smell of the man’s powdered wig was about to make her gag. It reeked of lavender, sweat, and rancid oils. “I admired ye from afar during a visit to London. Please allow me to introduce ye to my husband.”
“Husband,” he repeated with a haughty sniff. “However so disappointing.”
“Teague.” She silently willed him to work harder at hiding his disgust. “Allow me to introduce ye to Sir Robert Walpole.”
“Walpole.” Teague curled his lip as though struggling not to bare his teeth and offered only an insulting tip of his head.
Walpole’s smirk showed he reciprocated Teague’s feelings. “Quite the fortress ye have here, MacDonald. Difficult to find, I might add.”
“And yet ye found it.”
Mila stayed close, determined to control the outcome of this unexpected confrontation. She adopted a sultry demeanor and arched her back to better display her cleavage. Or, at least, she tried. She was not an expert at these games. “I hope ye paid yer informant well, sir, because now we have to kill them.”
The man rewarded her with a snorting laugh and a genuine smile. “Pray do not be so hard on them, m’lady. A castle this fine could not remain hidden forever.”
“It is not a matter of whether it could or could not remain hidden,” Teague said. “It is a matter of trust and loyalty—or the lack thereof.” He waved down a servant and motioned for the lad to offer Walpole a glass from the tray. “An important thing, loyalty is. Do ye not agree?”
