“He was only a wee bit eager, lass,” growled the Laird of Craigandubh. “There was no need to nearly hack his arm off.”
“Ye exaggerate. ‘Tis but a flesh wound, even though he bellows like a gelded bull. And if he meant no harm, he should have brought a light with him. Aye, and spoken out, instead of creeping about like a thief.”
Ailis was disgusted when the men tried to dispute the truth of her words. By the time all the shouting was over and she was again alone in her chambers, she was exhausted. She replaced her knife beneath her pillow, relieved that her infuriated uncle had carelessly forgotten to confiscate it. The dagger could still prove necessary to discourage Donald’s unwanted attentions. With a sigh and a curse for Donald MacCordy, she snuggled beneath her covers, refusing to let her troubles and worries rob her of sleep.
“Ye great fool,” snapped Duncan MacCordy, the bulky Laird of Craigandubh as, once in his chambers, he began to bandage his heir’s wound. “The lass could have killed ye. She was right to attack any man who crept up on her in the dark with nary a word. Do ye mean to spoil all our plans with your lust for the wench?”
“How was I to ken that the bitch slept with a dirk at hand?” Donald glared at his handsome cousin Malcolm, who laughed softly. “She will pay dearly for this come our wedding night. I will ride her hard and long just as I should have ridden her whore of a sister.”
“Ye, Mairi was a whore, but she gave us a cursed fine tool for blackmail and revenge,” said Duncan. “And soon wee Ailis will give it to us to do with as we please.” He rubbed his blunt hands together in anticipation.
William, the laird’s young, homely son, frowned and smoothed his hand over his receding chin. “Are ye sure that old Colin MacFarlane doesna ken who fathered the bairns?”
“Aye, I am very sure,” answered Duncan, and he shook his head, his lanky gray hair shifting clumsily with the movement. “And the old fool isna even interested. All he can see or think about is the shame of it, the mark upon the MacFarlane name. What we must hope for is that Barra MacDubh kens who the wee bastards really are.”
“He kens,” snarled Donald. “The cur kens well that he twice filled Mairi MacFarlane’s belly. His slut of a wife, Agnes, told me as much ere she died. For two long years I have ached to have my revenge on that whoreson. Soon, very soon, I will have it.”
Duncan scowled at his son. “The bairns are to be used to gain us the MacDubh land and naught else. Remember that, Donald. Ye arena to use them to soothe your poor wounded vanity. Ye had best keep in mind that the bairns are also of MacFarlane blood. Your wee bride is their aunt.”
“In her heart she is more than that,” remarked Malcolm, drawing all attention to himself. “ ‘Tis a very strong bond she has with those bairns, and ye, Donald, had best begin to see it clearly. If ye want as little woe as possible, ye had best tread warily in all your plans for those bairns.”
“The bitch will be my wife, and she will do as I tell her or she will sore regret it,” snarled Donald. “She willna fight me for long, I vow.”
Malcolm sighed but said no more. Yet again he wished he had the wherewithal to be free of his cousins or to be in the service of some other man. He had so little in common with his kin.
But he was bound to his rough, unperceptive relatives. Unlike the others, Malcolm could see the finely honed steel that straightened Ailis MacFarlane’s lovely backbone. He also saw that she had as much feeling for those babes in her care as if she had borne them herself. There was no doubt in his mind that if she thought those children were in any danger, she could be as lethal as any she-wolf guarding her cubs. It was plain, however, that Donald would take no advice in the matter. Malcolm suspected that that blindness would eventually cause them a great deal of trouble.
“Aye,” muttered Donald. “Ailis will learn, and I suspect that she will grieve little for those bastards when she discovers who their father is.”
“If Barra MacDubh really is their father, why has he made no claim upon them?” asked Malcolm.
“He doesna care to have his kin aware of who his lover was just as Mairi didna want any one to ken it,” answered Duncan.
“Let us pray that he remains reticent, for I ken that his brother, Alexander, isna a man to sit back and wait to deal,” drawled Malcolm, then sighed as he was virtually ignored.
Alexander fought valiantly to stem his swiftly rising temper. His younger brother, Barra, was oblivious to his efforts, however, and blithely continued to add to his fury. The evening meal was becoming an ordeal, and the quiet in the great hall told Alexander that the other men expected matters to grow worse. The pages and the occasional serving woman crept amongst the men with the tense air of people awaiting an attack.
Yet again Barra was drunk. While Barra’s shrewish wife had been alive, Alexander had been somewhat sympathetic, believing Barra had sought peace in the wine. Yet Agnes had been dead now for two years, and Barra had remained almost consistently drunk since the day of the woman’s death.
That in itself was a source of extreme annoyance to Alexander. He simply could not believe that grief for the woman prompted Barra’s wallow in ale, and all of the man’s shame should have faded by now. Even more unsettling was that this night was the anniversary of Agnes’s death, and Barra was clearly worse than most nights. He would have to be carried to bed. If Agnes had been a worthy wife, Alexander might have found some sympathy for his brother, but his opinion was that the only drink that should be taken in Agnes’s name was a loud toast to her absence. Agnes had been a vicious, unpleasant wench who had delighted in making every man, woman, and child within her reach utterly miserable.
A grimace twisted Alexander’s mouth as he silently admitted that even if Agnes had been a sainted angel, he would have been hard-pressed to feel any sympathy concerning her untimely death. Even the women whose bodies he used received little more from him than a few grunts and a coin or two. It was difficult to believe that he had once been so flattering and gallant. He marveled at his own naïveté. The women his family had been cursed with over the last dozen years had certainly cured him of his amiable innocence as thoroughly as they had decimated his clan’s fortunes. Barra was simply yet another good man who had been caught between a woman’s thighs and drained of all good sense and strength. If Agnes were still alive, Alexander was certain that he would kill her himself.
Unable to restrain himself any longer, Alexander leapt to his feet, wrenched the tankard from his brother’s hand, and hurled it toward the far end of Rathmor’s great hall. “Ye have had enough.” His tall, broad-shouldered frame taut with anger, Alexander glared at Barra.
Barra calmly took the tankard belonging to the man seated next to him, refilled it, and took a drink. “I canneverhave enough.”
Alexander raked his fingers through his thick golden hair, agitated by his inability to understand his own brother. “Curse ye,” he snarled.“Howcan ye wallow in drink for two long years because of that whoring bitch Agnes?”
“Agnes?” Barra blinked owlishly at his brother. “Ye think this is for Agnes?”
When Barra suddenly burst into laughter, Alexander’s blood ran cold. The laughter was not the free, contagious sort customary to Barra in earlier, happier times. There was a sharp note to it that made Alexander fear for Barra’s mind. That fear was enhanced by the wild look in Barra’s red-stained eyes, eyes of a less intense blue than his own. Drink had been known to destroy a man’s mind before, Alexander thought, and uttering a foul curse, he slapped Barra, knocking the slender man off the bench he sat on. As he watched Barra pick himself up off of the rush-strewn floor and resume his seat at the table, Alexander clenched and unclenched his hands, fighting the urge to slap his brother until Barra was both sober and sane. The fact that there was no sign of anger in his brother only added to Alexander’s fury.
“I amnotmad, Alex,” Barra murmured. “However, I have often wished that I were. Madness might finally release me from my hell.”
“I had thought ye released when your bitch of a wife breathed her last.Shemade your life a living hell.”
“Oh, aye, that she did, and she saw to it that her death wouldna put an end to my purgatory. Ere Agnes, died, she took from me the only thing that made my life worth a farthing.” He laughed hoarsely. “Although I dinna doubt that ye would thank her for it.”
