“Bi Tren! Bi Treun!”The MacKay cry rose in time with the music as the other pipers joined Angus in his song. Be true, be steadfast: the clan motto, the persona of clan MacKay.
Faolan’s chest tightened, as he forced the sealing kiss to the back of his mind. Teeth gritted; his stomach clenched. He hadn’t felt this unnerved since he’d been a virgin.Damn the woman. Damn his advisors.Once more he offered Ciara his arm and led the way toward their seats at the head table.
With a sideways glare, Faolan watched her as she floated along beside him. Ciara smiled and nodded to all in the room as she settled into her chair. The woman had the audacity to praise the serving lads every time they filled her plate. She was so sure of herself. She was so damned kind. She lauded them for keeping the tables buried with platters of food and tankards of ale and wine in every hand. Faolan steamed. It seemed Lady Ciara had a kind word for all in the room. The woman appeared determined to win everyone over.
Fine.Faolan fumed to himself. Lady Ciara and Sorcha would have plenty in common. They could take care of Castle MacKay together and leave him the hell alone. That would be just perfect. His fists knotted atop the table; Faolan tapped on his untouched ale. He’d finished the cask while dressing in his rooms. If he had much more to drink, his mood would grow even darker, if that was possible.
He glared out across the hall. The torchlight dimmed against the brightness of his kinsmen’s faces. Repeated toasts to the health of the laird and his new wife echoed to the rafters. Even the dogs yipped and howled happily as plentiful scraps flew their way.
His snorting laughter echoing as he pounded the table, Gordon Sinclair staggered up from his seat. He sloshed his ale across the table as he waved his tankard in the air. A watery belch echoed as he flipped a half-gnawed rib bone in time with each of his words. “A toast! To the many sons that will spring from this union! May they all be braw, strapping lads. And for God’s sake may they all be born sound of mind and not vacant-eyed fools like their mother when she was first set into my arms.”
Ciara’s head snapped up at Gordon Sinclair’s words. The massive amount of alcohol he’d consumed had nudged the bastard’s mind loose from her tight memory control.
The hall fell silent at the Sinclair’s drunken toast. Several clansmen crossed themselves against the ill-mannered Sinclair’s words. Serving lads shifted uncomfortably where they stood and looked to the head table at Faolan.
Ciara placed her hands flat upon the table, her eyes narrowing as she started to rise. A movement at her side caught her attention and she turned to see Faolan stand.
Faolan’s hand rested on the hilt of his claymore, one finger tapping as he stared across the room. The familiar touch of the pommel settled him, reassured him the blade stood at the ready in case The Sinclair erred in thinking him a trusting fool. His fingers slid lower and curled around the grip. He envisioned The Sinclair’s throat twisting between his hands. “Sinclair. I don’t know how much ye know of the MacKays, other than enough that ye wish to become our allies. Apparently, ye realize if ye’re no’ our allies ye’ll know the pain of our steel and the strength of our men when we beat ye back across your borders. Above all else, mark these words, Sinclair, and dinna ever forget them. We MacKays consider all children a precious gift, no matter their abilities.”
A loathsome sneer settled upon his face as The Sinclair downed the rest of his ale and threw his tankard and the bone to the floor. “Ye say that now, all filled with your pride and ye think nothing ill can e’er befall the MacKays. But just wait and see how ye feel when they lay an idiot in your arms and tell ye that it’s your child!”
Faolan tensed until his knuckles whitened on the hilt of his sword, fury pulsated through his veins. His rage at his future father-in-law’s insult swelled to fill the room. His fingers itched to rip his dagger from its sheath and bury it between The Sinclair’s drunken eyes. “Since the ale appears to have caused ye to lose what little sense ye ever had, I think ’tis time ye took your leave of my home. For your own safety, do not wait until the light of the morn to go; I want you and your men off my land now.”
With Faolan’s words, the MacKay men mobilized as though not a drop of spirits had touched their lips. Faolan’s men served him well, especially with members of a rival clan in their midst. Swords drawn, they had the Sinclair members ousted from their seats before they realized they were no longer welcome.
Gordon Sinclair couldn’t make such claims about his men. Each of them was well into his cups. They staggered from the benches, their heads bobbling in confusion. They looked around for why they were suddenly no longer welcome.
The Sinclair shook his greasy fist in the air, as he stumbled away from the table. He gasped as he fell back against the wall and shouted to all in the room. “Ye shall mark my words when she births ye an idiot just like her mother did!” He shook an accusing fist at Ciara as two of his men tried to silence him. He sputtered and spit bits of food down his chest as they yanked him from the room. The ale had broken all the memories free, washing Ciara’s carefully constructed dam of subterfuge away. “I don’t know who that woman is by your side but she’s nay the addle-pated idiot I’ve kept hidden for all this many a year!”
The crowd gasped at this latest revelation and all eyes swiveled to the raised dais to watch Faolan’s reaction to the Sinclair’s drunken words.
Steel sang as Faolan unsheathed his sword and raged toward the babbling drunk. He stalked across the room, blood surging with the hunger of a predator about to make the kill. His apprehension about his betrothal was gone, replaced with explosive fury.
“Silence!” he roared as he pressed the tip of his blade into the folds of the Sinclair’s multiple chins. “If ye wish to leave my home alive, ye will speak no more while in my presence.” With complete control, he shoved the blade just a bit farther until a tiny rivulet of blood trickled down The Sinclair’s chin. Faolan wanted his intentions clear. He was not in a generous mood.
The Sinclair gasped. His piglike eyes widened as his pudgy hands flailed about in the air. The blade of the claymore held his tongue as he watched his blood run down its length. He backed away from the point of the sword and crept his way along the wall toward the exit of the hall. As soon as he reached the corner of the archway, he turned and staggered out of the keep.
Faolan growled and bared his teeth as he sheathed his sword with one swift motion. First, he nodded to Maxwell and then to Angus, then glanced after the retreating Sinclairs in an unspoken command.
When he returned to the dais, he risked a glance at Ciara still sitting with her head bowed at the table. If he didn’t know better, he’d swear the woman had a smile tugging at her lips. What game was this? He’d just ousted her family at the point of his blade and she sat smiling at his table? Faolan frowned, puzzling over her composure.
It must be due to the years of cruelty she’d endured at her father’s hands. Faolan’s unease grew as he pondered Ciara as she sat with poise and grace. There wasn’t a meek, subservient bone in that woman’s body. The woman was biding her time. She was up to something. He’d bet his best blade on it.
Unsure what to say, he rested his fingers on her shoulder and bent to speak so only she could hear. “I am verra sorry. I wish I could have somehow avoided such unpleasantness at what was supposed to have been a celebration.”
Ciara pressed her hand atop his and turned to smile up into his eyes. “Don’t apologize for that insignificant man. He and his ilk are of little consequence. I learned long ago to always look to the future and in so doing I am well pleased with my new home and most especially in my new husband.”
Faolan eased his hand off her shoulder and edged a few steps back. “I am glad ye find our union suitable and ye have my word ye will always be safe while under my protection. Please excuse me now, for I must go and ensure ourguestsare well on their way out of the keep.”
Faolan stormed his way out of the room, while Ciara watched him retreat with a quiet laugh. Seduction was going to be trickier than she thought with the way that man shuttered his feelings away.
Rising from her seat, she beckoned with a slight wave of her hand to the woman she remembered being introduced as Sorcha. Sorcha ambled over to Ciara’s side and set an empty platter upon the table. With a stern look, she sent a kitchen boy scurrying and wiped her hands on the apron around her generous waist.
“How can I be of service to ye, m’lady?” she asked with a dip of her head.
With a friendly smile, Ciara tried to put the old housekeeper at ease. Sorcha could prove to be a valuable ally. “I am a bit tired with all the excitement of the evening, Mistress Sorcha. Would you have someone not too busy with the feast who could take the time to show me to my rooms?”
“I would be honored to take ye to your chambers myself. I am sure ye are completely spent. Why ye just arrived and they took ye straight away to the priest! Ye didna even have a chance to visit the garderobe.”
