He blew out an angry breath and shoved a hand through his hair. That such a day should taunt him with its beauty only tossed fat onto the fire. The afternoon ought to be hung with shadows, a chill wind gusting round the curve of the tower, rattling shutters and bringing the stinging bite of rain. Or, better yet, the relentless pelting of icy-needled sleet.
Och, aye, such weather would suit him better.
Instead, the sun shone with a brightness that rivaled the finest summer day and fired his frustration to a nigh unbearable pitch. Wheeling around, he ignored the rolled parchment lying so brazenly on a magnificently carved oaken table, the missive’s broken wax seals as damning as the words inked within, and fixed his wrath on the one person who should have warned him.
“You!” he fumed, his tone peremptory despite his great respect for his lovely lady wife, a woman as desirable now as she had been the day he first glimpsed her, but also the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter and, as such, blessed — or cursed — with the second sight.
She should have seen this coming.
“Why did you say nothing of this?” he demanded, striding across the chamber and snatching up the dread parchment. He waved the thing at her, his displeasure rolling off him to fill the tapestry-lined solar. “I willna believe you didna know. Not something of this import.”
To his wife’s credit, she didn’t retreat in the face of his anger. As always, his beloved Linnet simply remained where she stood, her hands clasped before her, her gaze steady and unwavering, her chin lifted with just the wee shiver of stubbornness he secretly admired.
“You of all souls ought know that I cannot control what mytaibhsearachdwishes me to see,” she said, stepping forward to take the parchment from his hand and return it to the table. “Had I known, I would have told you. As is” — she paused to push her heavy, flame-colored braid over her shoulder — “I cannot understand the force of your reaction. There have been many other offers, and you’ve ne’er been pleased, but you’ve always brushed them aside. Ne’er have I seen you take to your solar in such a ferment.”
“Aferment?” Turning to the table, Duncan poured himself a hefty portion of good and stronguisge beatha, tossing down the fiery Highland spirits in one throat-burning swig. “Fermenting doesn’t begin to describe it,” he avowed, slamming down the cup, then dragging his sleeve across his mouth. “Not in a thousand lifetimes.”
To his horror, his wife’s eyes filled with pity. Clearly misunderstanding the reason for his ire, she quickly took on herSaint Linnetdemeanor, clucking and cooing as she reached to adjust his plaid and smooth his shoulder- length, wind-tangled hair.
Sleek, gleaming black hair shot through with only a few streaks of silver, a matter of great satisfaction to him. Not that he’d e’er admit his pleasure in retaining his youthful good looks. Or his tall, well-muscled form, his undisputed prowess and continued ability to best any and all comers, regardless of age, boasts, or strength. His pride in still turning female heads, at times even earning a few oohs and ahhs at his feats in the lists.
Och, nae, he wouldn’t admit that such things pleased him.
Far from it, he set his jaw and folded his arms against his wife’s coddling.
“If you find the thought of Gelis’s marrying so unpalatable, why not offer Arabella?” Linnet smiled encouragingly. “She is the eldest, after all.”
Duncan snorted. “You read the missive. ’Tis Gelis they want, and no other. Word of her high-spiritedness clearly reached them and” — he closed his eyes for a moment — “they’ll know, too, of Arabella’s calm. Seemly or no, it must be Gelis. Her fiery blood has blazed like a beacon and caught the devil’s own eye!”
Drawing a tight breath, he glared at her. “And now I am to lose one daughter and offend the other!”
“Arabella will understand. And you must stop tying yourself in knots.” She fussed at his plaid again, the damnable sympathy in her eyes worsening the twitch in his.
“For the love of Saint Columba, let it be,” he growled. “I willna have your pity.”
“You have my love,” she returned, deftly unfolding his arms and entwining her fingers in his. “And my constant adoration. Though we have two daughters grown and well of an age to marry, my desire for you has ne’er lessened and shall ne’er lessen.” She leaned close and kissed his cheek, the heathery scent of her hair swirling around him, almost letting him forget his turmoil. Then she stepped back and angled her head, the measuring look in her eyes breaking the spell. “Your age will not increase simply because Gelis becomes some man’s wife. She will still be your daughter and you shall e’er be —”
“Think you I am so riled because ofage?” His brows shooting upward, Duncan stared at her, uncomfortably aware of the heat flashing up the back of his neck. “My age, and even Gelis’s own, has little to do with it!”
“Indeed?” drawled a deep Sassunach voice from the shadows. “Then why do you feel a need to remind us? The saints know you’ve made such a claim every time a new suitor has come to call.”
His day now wholly ruined, Duncan clamped his mouth shut and spun around to face the speaker. He was a tall, scar-faced knight who leaned against the far wall, arms and legs casually crossed, sword at his hip, and such an air of imperturbability about him that Duncan was certain that the heat flaming the back of his neck would soon shoot out his ears as steam.
“Thisis a different suitor.” Duncan’s head began to throb.
An annoyance that worsened when the other man pushed away from the wall and appropriated a chair, lowering himself into it with a studied grace that was particularly annoying.
Especially since the chair was Duncan’s own.
Crossing the room in three angry strides, Duncan jammed his hands on his hips and stared down at his long-time friend. The only soul who could dare show such insolence and live to tell the tale.
“What are you doing here?” Duncan took a step closer. “Have the southern boundaries of my territories gone so quiet that you can leave Balkenzie for the sole pleasure of coming here to plague me?”
Sir Marmaduke Strongbow leaned back in the chair, steepled fingers slowly tapping his chin. A champion knight and staunch supporter of the House MacKenzie, he affected as offended a look as his battle-scarred face allowed.
“You wound me,” he said, stretching his long legs toward the fire. “Balkenzie is ever held safe for you. And when I have business elsewhere, my sweet lady wife is better at keepering than most men. As well you know.”
The Black Stag hurrumphed.
