“For not butchering me last night. Part of me wanted you to, and I might have let you, if you’d put more effort into it.”
She studied his pale blue eyes. “Why would you want that? You just achieved a great victory and reclaimed your father’s castle. One would think you’d have reason to celebrate.”
“One would think so… if I was a happy sort of man.” He turned from her and headed for the door.
“Wait!”
He paused and faced her. She wanted to ask him why he was unhappy, but something about that question seemed too personal, too caring, and she did not wish to care for him.
“Nothing,” she said.
He stared at her for a tense moment that seemed to go on forever, then returned to her, as if he had peered into her soul and heard every private thought and emotion, and wanted to interrogate her further about why she looked sosly.
“We’ll dine in the hall again tonight,” he said. “It’s important that the clans feel united. You’ll see to the arrangements?” He eyed her expectantly.
“Of course.” Heaven help her—her heart was slapping uncontrollably against her rib cage.
“And don’t wear that ugly frock you wore last night,” he said. “Wear something colorful. This place needs a bit more cheer.”
“Then you might try smiling once in a while.”
His eyes narrowed, then he took a step closer. “Would you like that, lass? Would it help you warm to me?”
She thought carefully about how to answer that, then decided that this time,shewould be the one to walk away first. She turned around and headed for the door. “No. It would take considerably more than a smile to warm my heart where you are concerned.”
She was distinctly aware that he remained where he stood, watching her cross the vast distance of the hall. It brought a tiny smile of satisfaction to her face.
***
Angus found Lachlan in the bailey, supervising the rebuilding of the front gate, which they’d smashed to bits during the invasion the previous morning. The crack of hammers pounding on wooden pegs echoed off the castle walls, while a number of clansmen worked together to saw through fresh timbers and carry heavy planks of wood to the bridge outside the tower.
“Mornin’,” Lachlan said to Angus, while leaving a crew of three men to continue about their work. “Did you sleep well, back in your own bed at last?”
“I didn’t sleep a wink,” Angus replied, “for it’s my father’s bed I must occupy, not my own—and I swear that his ghost was pacing about the room, shouting at me.”
Lachlan chuckled. “And what did his cranky spirit say?”
“He told me I disobeyed him by coming home, and he slapped the back of my head with a book.”
Lachlan scoffed. “That’s bluidy ridiculous, Angus,” he said. “Your father hated reading.”
“Aye, but the MacEwen chief left a novel on the bedside table.”
“Maybe it washisghost who whacked you in the head. That would make more sense, would it not?”
Angus looked up at the bright blue sky, then let his gaze travel along the battlements from one corner tower to another. “Have someone keep an eye on the comings and goings out of the kitchen today, but be discreet about it.”
“Anyone in particular you’re concerned about?”
He regarded his cousin coolly. “I’m concerned that my food will be poisoned, for one thing. Replace the head cook with a MacDonald, but leave the rest of them where they are. And make sure a MacDonald goes along to market today. Send someone observant.”
“Understood.”
Angus turned to go.
“Where are you off to now?” Lachlan asked.
“To the treasury. I need to examine the records and find another, less influential position for that puppet steward, Gordon MacEwen. I’ll need a MacDonald there as well.” He strode with purpose toward the entrance to the hall, but shouted one last important order over his shoulder. “Keep working on the gate, Lachlan, and make it stronger than before.”
