"Nay,” she replied as she followed him in leading their mounts along the narrow, rain-slick path. “Proper English gentlewomen do not think fondly of kicking hulking great Scots off mountains, either."
"Good thing, too. Without this hulking great Scot to lead ye, ‘tis certain ye would get lost."
She really had no argument for that humiliating truth, so she asked, “Did you learn anything about Harold's plans?"
Too much, Sigimor thought. “Enough to ken that he has learned of Scarglas as weel as Dubheidland. We will still rest a wee while at Scarglas. My kinsmen will then have themselves a wee bit of fun turning Harold round in circles whilst we flee to Dubheidland. If Harold is fool enough to face us there, ye will soon get your wish."
"Which one?"
"The chance to spit upon his grave."
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Chapter Eleven
"Jesu! She is English!"
Sensing that his wife was about to kick his uncle, Sigimor wrapped his arm around her shoulders and pinned her against his side. He could understand her annoyance. This response every time she spoke was getting tiresome. It was even more so when they had only just arrived at Scarglas and stood in the great hall in dripping-wet clothes. Sigimor glared at his brother and cousins who sat at the head table in the great hall grinning at him.
"Didnae ye tell them?” he demanded of them, not particular about who answered.
"Actually, nay,” replied Liam. “We have only just sat down. When we arrived, we were hurried off to bathe, put wee Reynard to bed, and all of that. Took a wee rest, too, although David stayed awake to watch for ye."
"Weel, I am glad ye didnae allow your grievous concern o'er our fate to keep ye from having a much needed rest.” The way his kinsmen met his sarcasm with wide grins made Sigimor want to hit them, but he fixed his attention upon his scowling uncle instead. “Aye, my wife is English. She is a wee, black-haired Sassenach. A wet, cold, hungry Sassenach."
"Aye, where has your sense of hospitality fled, Fingal?” scolded a small, fair-haired woman with stunningly beautiful violet eyes as she hurried to Jolene's side and slipped her arm through hers. “Ewan, see to Sigimor ere he starts pounding on someone,” she called to a lean man with black hair who was as tall as Sigimor. “Come, m'lady. We shall tend to a bath for ye and some warm, dry clothes. It shouldnae take long and then we may all return here to have something to eat whilst my husband's father beats ye senseless with questions. I am Lady Fiona MacEnroy MacFingal, or Cameron, if ye prefer. Laird Ewan's wife."
"I am Lady Jolene Gerard of Drumwich, m'lady,” Jolene responded as Fiona led her out of the great hall, then she grimaced and cast a quick, guilty look back toward Sigimor. Fortunately, he was busy arguing with the older MacFingal. “I mean I am Lady Jolene Gerard Cameron."
"Wheesht, dinnae look so fretful. Nay matter how married one feels, it takes a while to recall that one's name has changed."
Jolene quickly felt at ease with Fiona who led her to a room where a bath was already being filled for her. Explaining that she had had everything at the ready for her and Sigimor's arrival, Fiona helped Jolene undress. The moment Jolene sank into the hot water she began to feel better. She washed herself with the lavender-scented soap Fiona gave her as the woman saw to setting out some clean, dry clothes for her to wear. All the while Fiona talked about the strange history between the MacFingals and the Camerons, soon joined in that chore by an older woman named Mab.
"Here, Jolene, drink this,” Fiona said as she handed Jolene a tankard filled with something dark and aromatic.
Cautiously, Jolene accepted the drink and took a very small sip. To her surprise it was very pleasant and she finished it as Fiona and Mab stood by nodding in approval. “Was that some special physic?"
After setting aside the empty tankard Jolene had handed to her, Fiona helped her rinse the soap from her hair. “Aye. Mab and I arenae sure how it helps, but it does seem to keep fevers and coughs away after one has suffered a chill and a wetting.” She held up a drying cloth. “How long have ye been married to Sigimor?"
"One night,” she replied and blushed when both women grinned.
"Weel, we willnae ply ye with questions here. Ye will have enough asked of ye once ye return to the great hall."
Jolene found herself efficiently dried off, dressed, and her still-damp hair neatly braided in a very short time. Mab and Fiona took turns telling her about the many MacFingals as they worked. If their aim was to help her relax concerning the coming meeting, they were only partly successful. She still felt a little nervous as they escorted her back to the great hall.
Sigimor, his hair still damp from his own bath, was waiting for her at the door of the hall. Jolene was not sure how he managed it, but suddenly he was at her side, her hand in his as he led her to the lord's table. She heard Mab and Fiona laugh softly before they hurried away to take their seats.
The moment Jolene and Sigimor sat down the questions started. Once she noticed that Sigimor had the admirable ability of being able to eat and answer questions at the same time without spitting food around, she left him to it and concentrated on eating her own meal. After the time she had spent with the Camerons, she was able to ignore the occasional lapses into arguments between Sigimor and his uncle. Lady Fiona and Mab had also warned her about the old laird's tendency to argue with anyone about anything. Considering Sigimor's apparent love of arguing, Jolene felt she would be able to enjoy a hearty meal before anyone decided to ask her a few questions.
She subtly studied the MacFingals, noticing that many of them studied her as well. Lady Fiona was quite beautiful even with the faint scars upon her cheeks. Her husband Ewan was big, lean like Sigimor, and as dark as Sigimor was fair. In truth, when placed so close to their dark kinsmen, the Camerons looked almost too bright. Lord Ewan was quite handsome in a dark, rather harsh way, with no hint of softness upon his scarred face unless one caught him looking at his wife. A great many of the men in the great hall shared those looks, although some had slightly softer features and some had blue eyes. The old laird had certainly been a very busy fellow, she mused.
It was all a little overwhelming and Jolene feared she would find Dubheidland much the same. The fact that most of the men in the great hall were Sigimor's cousins was a little difficult to grasp. Her family, on both her mother and father's sides, was small and most of her relatives bred very few children and even fewer sons. Many of her countrymen would be green with the sin of envy if they saw how well the Camerons bred sons. Tall, strong sons who, she had little doubt, were probably all skilled warriors.
"And ye havenae yet killed this bastard? What ails ye, lad?"
Jolene was unable to ignore the insult the old laird gave Sigimor and frowned at him. “He was thinking of keeping me and Reynard alive and safe,” she snapped. “Tis what he vowed he would do. One can hardly pause to engage in a battle with a woman and child close at hand."
"I dinnae see why not,” said Fingal.
