With the menseated by the fire, speaking low while a woman tended to his wound, Kenna sat on a stool silently suffering the arranging of her hair by a second woman who clearly did not appreciate the fact that Kenna had inflicted that wound. She took every opportunity to tug firmly on smaller strands that had come free of her plaits.
At one point, she pronounced it all unmanageable and started from the beginning, freeing all her hair and brushing it violently before plaiting it back into submission. And all the while, Kenna held her tongue and took her first round of punishment. If tears sprang to her eyes, she blinked them away as quickly as she could.
She was in the midst of doing just that when she realized that, despite Tearloch’s appeal to him, Duncan had yet to forgive her. He’d given no promise that he would not murder her for what she’d done.
Then why bring someone to dress her hair?
She pulled a kerchief from her sleeve and dried her face, then waited for the men to quiet before she asked, “Sir Duncan. Do you still mean to murder me?”
The hands on her head stilled.
The older man strolled over to stand before her. His face revealed nothing while he stared at her. “Yer own intentions will determine my answer, lass.”
“I intend only to see The Macpherson dead. I will do no further harm to Tearloch Chattan. I vow it. Does that satisfy?”
Duncan bent closer and lowered his voice. “Would that ye could promise no harm to the lad’s heart as well.” He straightened. “I will protect ye with my life, Lady Kenna. But alas, I cannae protect the two of ye from each other.”
He offered a quick bow, threw a salute toward the fire, and left the room.
The woman resumed her ministrations on Kenna’s head, though the violence had ceased. When she was finished, she handed Kenna a small mirror to check the result.
The back of her hair had been left to hang straight while half a dozen plaits near her face had been pulled back and combined cleverly behind her head. Green and gold beads, to match her bliaut had been woven here and there, giving an impression of jewels, though they were only hand-worked pottery.
“I have never had my hair done by another,” she admitted. “Not since I was a child.” She returned the mirror and smiled. “It is lovely. You have my thanks, though doubtless you would have rather slit my throat.”
The woman gaped for a moment, then gave up the charade and nodded. “Forgive us, my lady, but we do cherish our laird. He has declared ye’re not to be harmed, so ye may rest easy. Whilst he lives, neither man nor woman, and I daresay not even Duncan Keith, would defy him.” She whispered the last, then took her leave.
Whilst he lives.The message was clear enough.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Tearloch watched Kenna across the room while she surreptitiously spied on him. She couldn’t seem to resist staring at his bare chest while his arm was cleaned and sewn shut again. And each time he sensed her attention leave him, he took the chance to look his fill.
He had never watched someone arrange a lady’s hair before, and he was surprised by how violent the process could be. But his lass never complained, even when tears were brought to her eyes.
His lack of grace when speaking to women was much less a problem since meeting his bride-to-be, touching her, and holding her in his arms. Would that he could have met her sooner and avoided many an awkward moment in Malcolm’s court in the past year. As with many things, it only took practice.
Wouldn’t Malcolm be surprised—if only he would ride through the gates! Where was the man?
Kenna watched with regret when he finally dropped a clean leine over his head and reached for his tunic. But one day soon, her curiosity and his own would be satisfied. In the meantime, he didn’t mind torturing her.
He caught her attention and nodded toward the door. “No need hidin’ in here, my lady. Would ye accompany me to the hall and we shall find something to dine upon?”
Her eyes widened. “The hall?”
“Would somewhere else be more appealing? And pray, do not say MacPherson land.”
She shook her head. “The hall would be welcome. Anywhere is welcome. These walls have had enough of me.”
Even with her hand on Tearloch’s arm, entering the hall as it filled with the people of Lochahearn felt much like walking into the lion’s den. Men bowed and women curtsied as they passed, but the smiles for their laird did not extend to Kenna. Most eyes narrowed at her.
No. Not a lion’s den, but a den of angry cats.
At first, she believed Tearloch was oblivious until she noted the set of his jaw. His smile was as false as her own. He laid a gentle hand atop hers, but the arm beneath it was hard as stone. As they neared the dais, Leland, Kincaid, Jamie and Duncan stood at the high table and applauded. The rest of the hall joined in, albeit reluctantly.
She leaned her head against Tearloch’s upper arm and whispered, “Now I understand why you meant your room was a protection. I wonder if my presence will put everyone off their meal.”
“It would serve them rightly,” he said, not bothering to lower his voice. He seated her to his left, where an honored guest would sit. Perhaps he meant it as a signal. But he couldn’t well place her to his right, where a wife should be.
