Instinctively, Jeannie stiffened, bracing herself for what was coming next. A comment about her hair was invariably followed by a knowing shake of the head and the inevitable, “just like her mother.” As if red was some kind of mark for a spirited and adventuresome—if occasionally ill-conceived—temperament.
The Laird of Menzies’s remark had not just affected her; her father tensed as well.
But to her surprise, rather than a subtle barb, the old laird said, “Your mother could light up a room with her beauty and her smile. Such energy, such light. She was a breath of fresh air, your mother.” He smiled with a wistful shake of his head. “I was sad to hear that she was gone.” He met Jeannie’s gaze and the crinkle around his eyes deepened. “I’ve never seen her like since, but I see you have some of that energy about you as well.”
Jeannie could detect no animus in his voice to suggest a different meaning. When she looked into his eyes all she could see was kindness.
She blushed and mumbled a quick thank you. It had been so long since someone said anything nice about her mother that she was at a loss as to what to say. So often reminded of the bad, she forgot the good.
The memories of her mother were faint, coming to her only in flashes. The tinkle of her laugh. The scent of rosewater and the French wine of Champagne that she loved. The thick auburn hair so like Jeannie’s own blazing red in the candlelight. The beautiful ball gowns that would have made England’s Queen Elizabeth curse with envy.
Janet Grant had loved the young King James’s court at Holyrood Palace and disliked returning to the inhospitable “wilds” of the Highlands—so she avoided it. She’d been like a beautiful butterfly flitting in and out of Jeannie’s life.
Flitting, that was a good word for it. Her mother never followed a path, only where her fancy led. She fancied herself in love with Grant, the Laird of Freuchie, so she’d married him. Four children later, with the husband she’d loved no longer dancing attendance on her, she fancied herself in love with the BloodyEnglishman—for he had no other name in their household—so she’d run off with him.
For Jeannie, the pain of her leaving never lessened. It didn’t help that her mother had quickly regretted it. The damage had been done. Donald Grant refused to take her back. The love he bore his wife could not stand in the face of the blow she’d dealt to his pride. Despite their Norman forbearers, her father was every bit a proud Highland chief and forgiveness was not in his vernacular.
Her beautiful, impetuous mother had died less than a year later in a carriage accident—the result of a madcap drunken wager—leaving Jeannie, the eldest, to pick up the pieces and burdened by a legacy of the danger of impulsivity.
“Jean is nothing like her mother,” her father said sharply.
Realizing his misstep, the Laird of Menzies stammered an apology and moved away.
Jeannie had heard the note of defensiveness in her father’s voice and tried not to let it upset her. Her father might have insisted that she stop hiding in the countryside and join him at court, but it didn’t mean he wasn’t worried about the prospect of setting her free in the environment her mother had loved so much. The presence of her dour aunt as chaperone attested to that.
She did not doubt that her father loved her, but sometimes she would catch him watching her and she would see something in his gaze. It was almost as if he was holding his breath, waiting for her to make a mistake.
Worse, she knew that his fear was not completely unfounded. When an idea struck her, she felt it so strongly it was hard to dislodge. It always seemed right at the time. Like when she’d hidden that horrid Billy Gordon’s clothes when he was swimming in the lake so he was forced to walk home naked or when she was six and decided to walk to Inverness because there was a shop that sold confections she liked or the time she’d served her father’s best claret to her poppets and the hounds had passed out drunk.
But she didn’t do things like that anymore.
She wanted to ease the worried look on her father’s face, to assure him that he spoke true, that she was nothing like her mother. That nothing would ever induce her to be so rash.
But doing so would only cause him more pain, so Jeannie kept her promises to herself and changed the subject.
The wait was at an end. The Laird of Grant had arrived.
Duncan Campbell eyed the crowd that had spilled out into the courtyard, effectively blocking the entrance to the great hall. But it did not deter him. Though he’d rather muck the castle stables than suffer through another evening of court entertainment—which too often meant the drama taking place off the stage and not on it—he had a job to do.
He forged his way through the throng as purposefully as abirlinncutting across the waves. More than one young woman saw him coming and stumbled “accidentally” into his path, murmuring apologies while casting him an inviting glance. That a few looked at him with something more than a dalliance in mind was a new experience for him. News traveled swiftly at court, and word of his being named captain of his father’s guard and keeper of Castleswene had not escaped notice. Apparently for some, his new position was enough to blur the stain of his birth.
But no manner of enticement, no matter how bold, would steer him from his course. He’d spent the past few days cooling his heels, waiting for Grant to arrive and now that he was finally here Duncan was anxious to proceed. His father, the powerful Campbell of Auchinbreck, had sent him to court to persuade the Chief of Grant to join forces with the king and the Campbells in the impending battle with the Earl of Huntly. His father was giving him a chance to further prove himself, and Duncan had no intention of squandering the opportunity. So he disentangled himself with a polite smile, before purposefully continuing on his way.
Upon entering the hall, a wave of heat and the sickly sweet stench of sweat masked with too much perfume hit him hard. He grimaced. What he wouldn’t give for a fresh breath of heathery Highland air.
He scanned the room, searching for Grant. As on the battlefield, his prodigious height proved useful and his gaze traveled unobstructed over the sea of swarming courtiers.
His younger brother Colin dragged up beside him, having had a bit more difficulty in navigating through the crowd. “Damn it, Duncan, slow down. Gad brother, you must be blind. Lady Margaret’s lovely breasts were wedged so firmly against your arm, she was practically serving them up on a platter.”
Duncan’s gaze slid down to his brother’s. At eight and ten few things interested Colin more than a pair of lovely breasts. Hell, at one and twenty Duncan wasn’t altogether disinterested himself. He arched a brow. “I saw them.”
“And you didn’t stop and offer an encouraging word?” Colin asked incredulously. “That field may be well plowed, but ’tis a bountiful harvest all the same. She’s a lusty lass. A real screamer, I hear. Thomas said he had to put his hand over her mouth to prevent her from waking the whole castle.”
Duncan frowned. Whether she was free with her favors or not, he didn’t like to hear his brother speak with such coarseness about a lass. “I’ve no time to dally with the lasses, Colin. I’ve other matters to attend.”
“How much time do you need?” Colin paused as the young woman in question approached, her eyes sweeping over the brothers with interest. His gaze followed her round backside as she sauntered past, hips swaying enticingly. Only when she’d moved out of sight did Colin’s gaze return to him. “The lass is panting after ye. Grant has only just arrived. Surely your talk can wait an hour?”
“The sooner I speak with him, the sooner I can persuade him to see reason.” And the sooner he could return to Castleswene and prepare his men for battle.
