Gwendolen glanced around to make sure no one was watching, then took Mary by the hand and led her into a dark corner of the kitchen, out of sight. “Can you do something for me?”
“I’ll do anything for you, Miss MacEwen. You know that.”
“Aye. It’s why I came to you.” Gwendolen reached into her stays and pulled out a sealed letter. “Can you see that this is delivered to Marcus MacEwen, the winemaker, and tell him to give it to his brother, John. They’ll know what to do with it.” She slipped the note into Mary’s hand.
“I cannot read, lassie, so you know I won’t pry into your personal affairs, but can you tell me what it’s about?”
“No, Mary, it’s best if you do not know. The only thing you must do is keep it secret and make sure no one sees you handing it over, and make sure it’s well hidden when you leave the castle, in case you are searched.”
Mary stuffed it into the depths of her generous bosom and patted down her frizzy hair. “You can trust me to do your bidding, Miss MacEwen. The winemaker and I go way back. He’ll be more than happy to accept the message. I’ll lead him behind a haystack and take a few naughty thrills for myself while he searches my underthings.”
Gwendolen touched Mary’s arm. “You are a very good friend. I appreciate your sacrifice, but please be careful.”
She returned to the busy kitchen, where the others were kneading balls of dough on worktables. “May I have some breakfast? I am famished.”
Mary directed her to the tray of oatcakes, fresh out of the oven, and a bowl of fresh cream.
A short time later, Gwendolen was passing through the Great Hall on her way to her mother’s chamber, when she heard her name called out from the head table.
Angus’s deep voice echoed off the ceiling timbers, stopping her in her tracks. She shut her eyes, took a breath, then turned around to face him. He was seated at the table alone, eating his breakfast.
“Here I sit,” he said, spreading his arms wide, “in my father’s chair again.” He leaned back casually. “And I have no one to talk to but that little bird overhead.”
His eyes lifted, and he gestured toward the swallow, perched on a beam over the door.
Gwendolen looked up. “She’s still here. After yesterday, I thought we might never see her again. Clearly she is unaware of her peril.”
He inclined his head. “Now why would you say such a hurtful thing, lass? Do you think I am such a monster, that I would prey on a small, defenseless creature such as that?”
“You have preyed on my entire clan, and me as well. In the dead of night, may I remind you?”
“Your clan is hardly small,” he replied. “Andyouare hardly defenseless—neither by day, or night. Do you forget the knife you held at my throat?” His shrewd eyes raked over her from head to foot, then he wiped his mouth with a napkin, tossed it lightly onto the table, and stood.
Gwendolen’s stomach clenched tight as he hopped down from the dais and approached her. She couldn’t keep from backing away from him, which set a certain tone for their encounter. He was the predator, she the nervous prey.
In a belated attempt to assert herself, she halted on the spot and straightened her posture.
“Tell me, lass,” he said, as he reached her with brooding curiosity. “What are you up to this morning? You look rather…sly.”
Her eyebrows flew up. “Sly? What is that supposed to mean? I have no idea what you are referring to.”
He cupped her chin in a big hand, lifted her face slightly to examine it from all angles. “Now you’re blushing. Your cheeks are turning red.”
“Maybe that’s because I don’t like your hands on me.”
He pondered that. “Nay, that’s not it.”
“It most certainly is!”
Letting go of her chin, he leaned his golden head closer. She felt his hot, moist breath on her cheek. “I think you like my hands on you very much, and that’s what has you so desperate to dash out of this hall right now, praying that you’ll be rescued before the grand thrill of our wedding night.”
“That’s not true,” she said.
She sensed the tiniest hint of a grin on his face and turned her head quickly to look at him, wishing she could catch it, but it was too late. He stepped back, looking dangerous again.
“I suppose I owe you a debt of gratitude,” he said.
“Good Lord, for what?” She couldn’t begin to imagine.
