Rolling her gaze skyward, Bridgid stomped off, muttering about coddled brats under her breath. Duncan scowled as he set off to find Kinnon. He stepped out into the misting rain and breathed deep, flexing his hand within its leather glove to ease the ache that the damp brought to the poorly mended bones.
He could waste no more time on troublesome women. His cousin had been right when he’d warned of the unrest among the neighboring clans. He needed to contact the MacKenzie soon and make plans for stemming the growing problems, or it seemed likely that the question of how to handle Aileana MacDonell would soon prove to be the least of his worries.
Shadows had fallen over the waters of Loch Duich by the time Duncan allowed himself to consider taking his rest for the day. The rain had dissipated by late morning; now the setting sun tinted the billowing clouds pink and gold, finally fading to smoky violet as he called a halt to the sparring and war practice he’d overseen for most of the afternoon.
The evening meal had taken place in virtual silence. Kinnon was wrapped in his own thoughts, and the others were so exhausted from the day’s activity that they’d barely kept their heads steady above their venison stew.
Duncan smiled wryly and chewed the end of a narrow bone. At least his frustrations had had one positive result today; he’d managed to incite a sort of terrified enthusiasm for the hunt. Many of the men had chosen to take to the wood rather than face him in the hand-to-hand fighting he’d pressed on any that decided to remain at the castle. The reward had been three fine bucks and a doe, with meat aplenty for Bridgid to make several hearty meals in the kitchen.
Yet for all of his efforts, the most difficult task still lay ahead of him. At the top of the curved steps, in what used to be the haven of his bedchamber, Aileana MacDonell lay in wait to ruin his sleep for a second night in a row.
He stole a wistful glance toward the end of the hall. Several of his people sat around the massive fireplace to hear the clansenachietell tales of battles fought during times of old, when the MacRaes had first pledged their allegiance to the great MacKenzie overlords.
The bard painted a glorious picture of Duncan’s ancestor, Lachlan MacRae, who’d joined in a bloody battle when the MacKenzie was protecting Wester Ross from the MacDonalds; Lachlan killed many in the conflict, crowning his victory by slaying a MacDonald chief. Then he sat on the body in the middle of the battlefield. When the MacKenzie saw him there and asked why he fought no more, Lachlan had replied that if everyone killed as many MacDonalds as he had that day, the MacKenzies would win the day.
Duncan frowned. Would that he’d been so sensible in his response when Robert MacDonell had asked him if he wanted to take Aileana in payment for Gavin’s crimes. His mouth tightened. But stubbornness had prevailed over common sense, inciting him to meet the challenge with one of his own. Greedy for revenge, he’d added insult to the harm he was about to inflict. And now he was stuck with Aileana MacDonell because of it.
There was nothing redeeming about this mess. He couldn’t even bed her. Memories of the evil her clan had wrought made that unthinkable. Yet at the same time, Kinnon was right in believing that his conscience wouldn’t allow him to stand idle while others abused or insulted her. Revenge or no, he couldn’t stomach it.
He clenched his jaw and looked down at his right hand, flexing it against the warm, smooth leather of his glove. Aye, it was a fine mess. And there was no way out of it that he could see, save finding a way to make Aileana MacDonell give him theEalachand go home.
The sound of laughter pulled him from his thoughts, and he looked again toward the gathering at the hall’s end. One of the village wenches had hopped onto Angus’s lap and was winding her arms round his neck in invitation.
A pang shot through him. For thirteen years in the hell of the Tower he’d longed for such warmth. Not only for the release to be found in a woman’s softness, though that need drove him the same as any man. Nay, more, even, he’d ached for the simple want of touch, the peace to be found in a loving woman’s embrace. He craved the perfect sense of belonging he’d been so close to knowing with Mairi before she’d been killed.
He’d loved Mairi in the way of youth, the emotion sharp and sweet, but it had never come to full fruition. When he’d returned from captivity, he’d sought out female companionship, eager to feel again, to have something other than the grinding pain of regret and vengeance twisting in his gut. But every time he looked into their faces he’d seen it. The shadow of fear. His scarred face and ruined hand made them shudder.
Nay, being with women only left him feeling more alone and more aware of the truth—that if Nora or Tyra or any of the other women warmed his bed, it was due to their respect for his position as the MacRae or the pleasure he might give them, nothing more.
More laughter and cheers rose from thesenachie’s corner, and Duncan pushed himself to his feet. He had to leave. Self-pity was an emotion he rarely indulged, and that he had just now surprised him. But he couldn’t afford to dwell on the past; his present difficulties demanded attention and would wait no longer.
By the time he reached his chamber, he’d decided on how he would approach Aileana and what he would say to her. He wasn’t a heartless man, and that was going to make this conversation unpleasant for him as well as for her. But she was too upsetting to the balance of his life, and if getting her to admit where she’d hidden theEalachmeant that he’d have to appear unfeeling, then so be it.
He gritted his teeth and nudged open his door, prepared for a confrontation. Yet the sight that greeted him almost took his breath away. Aileana sat curled before the evening fire, a needle in her hand; her arm moved in rhythmic motion as she darned one of his tunics.
Duncan’s throat constricted at the utter serenity, the picture of domestic tranquility she embodied. The firelight caught her hair, setting her cinnamon tresses to gold, and he watched in fascination as she nibbled her lower lip. For the briefest moment he allowed himself to revel in the vision and to imagine what it would be like if she were truly his woman…if she were his wife.
Then she looked up and dropped her needle with a gasp. Her cheeks paled. And he saw it, the cursed whisper of fear—or was it revulsion?—shadowing her expression.
Pain wrenched through him, and he strode into the room, muttering, “What do you think you’re doing in here?”
“I—I’m mending your clothes.” Aileana retrieved the tunic she’d dropped, her gaze shifting nervously between him and the small mound of his clothes that she’d already repaired.
“Why?”
“I thought it my responsibility, and I’m skilled with the needle.” She set the work aside, curling her hands on her lap. He’d noticed that she fell to it often, that anxious, twisting of her hands. Another twinge rippled through Duncan’s gut, and he realized suddenly that her constant, fearful reaction to him bothered him more than anything else did.
Anything except the knowledge that he’d done nothing to prevent her from feeling it.
Striding to her, he scooped up the garments she’d stitched and shoved them in a basket. When he spoke, he tried to sound normal, as if he hadn’t just allowed another MacDonell to twist the knife deeper in his belly.
“Your efforts to appear biddable are wasted when none but I can see them. In future you will confine your domestic work to the hall or other areas where the clan can bear witness.”
He thought she might argue, but at the last moment she held back. Her cheeks reddened to a furious blush, and he couldn’t help but think that she looked like a woman drowning, too frightened to reach for the branch that would save her.
The nagging pain jabbed him again, and he surprised himself by asking suddenly, “Well, what is it? Do you wish to say something to me?”
Aileana swallowed, and, amazed, Duncan watched her demeanor change. She unclasped her hands and sat up straighter, as if his question had unlocked some magical door.
