“Interesting dress,” he said slowly. “But some of it seems to be missing.”
Helen felt the heat rise to her cheeks but ignored his comment—and his obvious disapproval. She took the fine silk in her hands and spread the skirt wide, swishing it around a little for effect. The silvery pink threads caught in the light streaming through the high windows of the Great Hall where he’d caught her. “Isn’t it beautiful? The latest style from France, I’m told. Lady Christina was wearing one just like it at the wedding.”
Helen had lowered hers by an inch in the bodice, but she wasn’t going to point that out. What difference did an inch make?
Quite a bit, it seemed, if her brother’s reaction was any guide. “Lady Christina is a married woman with a husband who would kill any man for looking at her.”
“And I’m a widow,” she pointed out. She thrust her chin up, refusing to let him cow her. “I shall wear what I like, brother.”
She could tell that Kenneth didn’t know whether to be amused or annoyed by her sudden assertion of independence.
He considered her for a moment, and then seemed to decide. A wry smile turned his mouth. “It won’t work, you know. You won’t change his mind. MacKay is one of the most proud and stubborn men I know, and damned if I’m not happy about it right now. You refused him and married his friend; it will take more than a low gown to change his mind.”
Furious, Helen met his amused gaze with a glare. “I don’t know what you are talking about.” But the heat in her cheeks belied her claim; she was embarrassed that her ploy had been so obvious.
Brothers could be so infuriating. Especially when he only laughed and tweaked her nose in response as if she were two. “Ah, Helen, you are still such an innocent.” He had that even more infuriating “silly Helen” look on his face. If he looped her under his arm and mussed her hair, she might sock him in the stomach the way she used to do when she was younger. “One night as a married woman does not make you acoquette.”
Not even one night, but she wasn’t going to tell him that. It would only bolster his argument, and her “widowhood” imparted a certain amount of freedom that she was reluctant to lose.
“Hell, that bastard’s so stubborn you could probably crawl into his bed naked and he wouldn’t notice you.”
Kenneth was laughing so hard he didn’t see the flare of possibility in her widened eyes. Climbing into his bed naked…good God!…was that what women did? It seemed rather extreme, but she added it to her mental list of weaponry.
She thought about thanking her brother for the suggestion, but didn’t think he’d be as amused by the irony. “If we are done, then I should see to the king’s meal.”
“Ah Helen, don’t get all prickly. I’m sorry for laughing.” He tried to look chastened, but his deep blue eyes, so like her own, sparkled with laughter.
Brothers!Her mouth thinned. Sometimes she wished she were five years old again and she could just kick him—even if he was twice her size.
As if he knew what she was thinking, he took a step back. He crossed his arms, clearly not done with her yet. “You’ve taken quite an interest in the king’s food. The cook mentioned that since Carrick—I mean, the king—has resumed eating, you’ve insisted on overseeing his meals personally.”
Helen thought she covered her reaction, but Kenneth had always been irritatingly perceptive. All signs of his previous humor vanished. “What is it?”
She shrugged. “The king nearly died under our roof. It is prudent to have care.”
He watched her until she felt like squirming. Sometimes he could be just as stern and intimidating as Will.
“But that’s not all is it?”
She shook her head. She hadn’t given voice to her fears, but the urge to confide in someone was overwhelming.
With a harsh curse, Kenneth looked around, took her firmly by the elbow, and pulled her into the small storeroom behind the stairs that smelled of ale and wine. Although the hall wasn’t crowded, there were always people milling around to overhear.
“Tell me,” he insisted in a low voice.
She bit her lip. “It’s probably nothing. But there were things about the king’s illness…things that reminded me of monkshood.”
She mouthed the last word, but the flare of alarm in her brother’s eyes told her that he’d understood. “I thought you said the king suffered from the sailors’ malady.”
“I did. He did. Probably. But I can’t be certain.”
He swore again and stormed around the room restlessly. She feared that he would be angry with her, but it pleased her to realize that he trusted her skills as a healer enough to accept her suspicions without comment.
It was also clear he was shocked—which relieved her more than she wanted to admit. Her brothers wouldn’t be involved in something so dishonorable. It hadn’t been easy for them to swallow their pride and submit to Bruce, but they’d warmed to the king…hadn’t they?
“You mustn’t say anything to anyone until we are sure.” He grabbed her arm and forced her to meet his gaze. “Do you hear me, Helen? No one. And sure as hell not MacKay. No matter what you think of him or his feelings for you, be clear of one thing: his duty is to the king. If he thinks the king is in danger, he will act first and ask questions later. They don’t trust us as it is. Even the suspicion of something like that would jeopardize our clan. That’s all it is, isn’t it—a suspicion?”
She nodded. “I probably shouldn’t have mentioned it. The king seems to be improving with the change in diet.”
