Chapter Four
The Great Hall that evening pulsed with the laughter of men, underscored by the spirited music from a fiddle player who wandered about the room, his bow dancing merrily across the strings. The colorful gowns of the MacEwen women lent a festival atmosphere to the gathering, and the aroma of fresh bread and seasoned roast mutton, with the promise of sweet pastries for dessert, made it seem as if there were something to celebrate.
Not so for Gwendolen, however. She entered the hall in a plain gown of gray silk, feeling as if she were descending into the searing hot flames of Satan’s dining room.
All the MacEwen heraldry had been taken down. There was nothing left of it, except for what was carved into the stones over the hearth. Everyone seemed happy enough on the surface, she supposed, but for the MacEwens, this smiling civility toward their invaders was nothing but a mask they wore to cover their fear and loathing.
Fear, mostly, thanks to their new leader.
She ventured more deeply into the hall and roamed through the crowd. Having spent the day tending to the wounded on both sides, she was physically and emotionally spent. For those who had survived the battle, their injuries were mostly light. Some were here this evening, patched up, but still ready to drink and make merry, although one clansman—Douglas, her old friend—had suffered a painful end when the surgeon tried to remove a musket ball from his shoulder.
Hence, the music and tempting aroma of the feast did little to improve Gwendolen’s mood. She knew she must hide her grief, however, for the people of her clan would need her confidence and encouragement in the coming days.
She spotted her mother on the far side of the hall, looking radiant in a sage-colored gown that highlighted her auburn hair. Gwendolen was at least pleased to see that Onora was wearing her best jewels, which meant Angus had kept his word and not deprived her of her status.
Gwendolen glanced around the hall for her future husband, whom she had not seen since the morning, but recognized only the darkly handsome warrior who had escorted her to her father’s chamber—the one named Lachlan. He had caught sight of Onora, however, and set out on a determined path toward her from across the room.
Gwendolen hurried to join her mother, and like the third point of a triangle, she arrived just as they all connected in the center.
“And who, may I ask, do I have the pleasure of addressing?” Onora asked, when Lachlan handed her a goblet of wine he had picked up from a passing servant.
“I am Angus’s cousin,” he said with a heavy Scottish brogue. “Lachlan MacDonald, Laird of War. My father, before me, was also Kinloch’s Laird of War, cut down in battle when your husband invaded here two years ago.” He gazed at her with a masculine, but somehow playful, arrogance.
Gwendolen’s mother, also playful and never daunted, awarded him a dazzling smile. “What an honor to meet such a brave and heroic man. I am charmed.” She held out her hand.
He bent forward and kissed it, never taking his eyes off hers, and Gwendolen felt rather invisible.
“You have soft lips, sir.”
“And your eyes, madam, are as elegant as your jewels.”
Gwendolen stepped forward to interrupt. “We met earlier this morning,” she said.
He straightened and turned to her. “Aye. Miss MacEwen.”
“And where is our great conquering laird this evening?” she asked. “I hope he will soon grace us with his presence.”
He smirked at her blatant show of sarcasm. “As do I, because I have no interest in occupying his chair this evening. I have other plans.”
Onora touched a finger to the brooch at his shoulder, and adjusted his tartan. “And what might those plans be, sir?”
“Don’t know yet, madam. I’m just now getting reacquainted with the lay of the land.”
“Well.” Her eyes sparkled. “If you need help finding your way around the castle, you must come to me first. I would be delighted to assist. If there isanyway I can be of use to you.Anyway at all…”
Gwendolen cleared her throat. “If you will excuse us please, Lachlan. I would like to have a word with my mother.”
He bowed to them, and backed away toward a group of warriors who were knocking their pewter tankards together, spilling ale onto the floor, tipping their heads back to guzzle.
Gwendolen led her mother to a quiet corner. “Must you idly flirt with every last member of the enemy clan? Can you not behave yourself for just one night?”
Onora shook her head. “First of all, I never flirt idly. That one was Laird of War. Now tell me what happened this morning when the ferocious Lion locked you in your father’s chamber. I heard it was difficult. Are you all right?”
“I am fine, Mother. I spent the day tending to the wounded.”
Onora led her deeper into the shadows. “I don’t care what you did all day. I want to know what happened in the bedchamber. You can tell me anything, darling. In fact, tell me everything. What happened?”
Gwendolen looked around to ensure no one was listening, then leaned close and spoke in a whisper. “It was difficult, indeed. He used the threat of sex to bring me under control and trick me into submission, because he knew I did not want it.”
