“Balloch.”
Reading their unease, Balloch addressed both men while bowing.
“Majesty. MacPherson. No need to worry. I spy for no one these days. Your generosity has enabled me to retire from such sins. But it is possible I can be of service once more and win myself the Queen’s ring.”
“Ah, you know of a beauty, do you?”
“Aye, Your Majesty. I cannot say if she is yet unwed, for it was ten years ago when I met her, but she was young, and the way she was…how should I say...secluded, leads me to believe the lass is rarely seen.”
“Is something amiss with her then?”
“Nay, sire. But something is definitely amiss with her aunt. The woman has a great distrust of men, I would guess. In fact, there was even a rumor spread, most likely by the aunt herself, that her niece was so homely she had to be hidden away. But theopposite is true. The girl was beautiful, more likely hidden away to guard her virtue.”
“How intriguing,” admitted the king. He grinned at Tearloch, who dared to glare back. “What is her name?”
“Kenna. Kenna Carlisle, Your Majesty.”
“Kenna Car…” Malcolm’s face blanched, making him look ancient though he was closer to thirty than forty. He clutched the arms of his throne, his knuckles white. His chest rose and froze for a long moment. “Where? Where did you meet this lass?” he managed to ask.
“A Carlisle stronghold. It is the most unusual keep just south of Perth.” Good sense kept Balloch from showing notice of the king’s emotions.
“Her aunt is…Agatha Carlisle? Wife of Angus?”
“She was a widow, Sire. I know not the man’s name.”
Malcolm could no longer speak. Tearloch MacPherson reverted to his role of King’s Champion and stepped forward.
“How old is she?” he demanded.
Balloch looked curiously from MacPherson to the king and back again before he answered. “She was a little more sixteen when we met ten years ago.”
Tearloch cleared his throat and, acting as if the king were not present, ordered more of the Norman wine to be served to the celebratory courtiers. The clinking of cups must have brought the king back to his senses. He shook himself and emptied his studded chalice in one long pull.
“Toss yer list into the fire, John,” Malcolm said. “We have our winner. Sir Balloch, you have your ring. I know of this maid, Kenna Carlisle, but did not think she yet lived. I judge her to be the bonniest lass in Scotland, or second in consideration of my betrothed.”
“If ye did not mean this lady to be yer wife,” shouted the colorful Fitzalan, “will ye tell us, Yer Majesty what ye haveplanned fer this Kenna Carlisle?” The flush on the man’s face nearly dulled his carrot-red hair, and Balloch noticed Tearloch was nearly the same shade.
“You are a nosey man, Fitzalan. ‘Tis why you are so dear to us. Very well. When Tearloch MacPherson and I were a mite younger, we pledged to never wed ‘til the other did so. In order for Scotland to have her heirs, MacPherson must wed as well.”
The reactions around the room spanned the spectrum. Women were immediately disheartened. The men appeared to be the exact opposite. Cups clanked all around the room. The cheers came only from the men.
“From this day forward, Kenna Carlisle,” Malcolm paused, swallowed hard, then took a deep breath, “my own sister, whom I was told was dead, is now betrothed to Tearloch MacPherson. I so declare.”
Balloch stood tensely under the clouts of congratulations hammering his shoulders. Staring down at the priceless ring on his own finger, he couldn’t help but feel cheated. The bigger prize had just been awarded to MacPherson. And if he wanted to remain in the game, he would need to stay close on the heels of the king’s favorite. When MacPherson went to collect his bride, Balloch intended to have reached her first—not to win her heart, but to stop it from beating!
If the girl’s memory was good, he would be hung for trying to rape the king’s own sister ten years past. How stupid of him for even speaking of her to the king. But he had wanted that ring. And more, he’d wanted to curry favor here in the Scottish court. After being banished from England, he was lucky to have been accepted here. Now it seemed that acceptance would also be taken from him…unless Kenna Carlisle could be silenced.
“Howard!” Balloch called his second to him as soon as he was outside the barely constructed inner walls. “We need men. Adozen. Six half-reputable, and six cutthroats. I’ll give you three hours, that’s all. They’ll need their own horses…”
The story told,Balloch returned his attention to Agatha, now seated in the chair opposite him. His arm had tired, the ring lowered, the colorful reflections gone from the walls. It was difficult to sit and smile at this stupid crone after she had moved his prize even further away. He almost hoped MacPherson had gotten the girl away from Gowry so he wouldn’t have to deal with the legendary Norseman himself.
But then he would have to get her from MacPherson. Either way, Agatha Carlisle might know something of value. He couldn’t stomach her for long, but he’d learn everything he could before he wrung that wrinkled neck.
“You raped her? I thought you barely saw her,” Agatha queried.
Balloch chuckled, “Awfully calm aren’t you, for being the loving aunt? But no, I don’t suppose you would have been upset back then. Would you?”
Agatha ignored the comment, as he expected her to do. Then she grimaced. “I’ll have to tell you sometime how my husband ensured I would not harm the girl, even after he died.”
