She had taken this man to her bed many times when he was master of Kinloch in all but name. But now, after flirting with a brawny champion like Lachlan MacDonald, she felt rather disgusted by Gordon.
“Nothing of any permanent importance,” she replied.
She sipped her wine and regarded him congenially over the rim of her glass, for she would never be so foolish as to allow her passions to get the better of her. She had to keep all options open. She might find herself in need of Gordon’s assistance in the future.
“I see that your daughter has found some contentment in her marriage,” he said.
“Indeed.”
“No doubt, she has been greatly conflicted by it,” he added. “It’s been such a short time since her father’s passing. She’s barely had time to grieve. And her brother… Well. He will certainly regret his absence when he learns of her personal sacrifice to Angus the Lion.”
Onora pondered her daughter’s happiness over the past few weeks and decided it was not turning out to be such a terrible sacrifice after all. The passion Gwendolen felt for her husband was genuine, and no political differences of opinion could change it. She was falling in love with the great Highland Lion, and despite her own personal loyalties, Onora was happy for her.
“I suppose they won’t return to the hall tonight,” Gordon remarked.
“Probably not.” Onora felt a hand on her shoulder just then, and found herself gazing up at Lachlan’s dark and handsome eyes.
“Am I interrupting?” he asked.
“Not at all.” She handed her glass to Gordon, so that Lachlan could lead her onto the floor.
A thrill of anticipation shimmied up her spine.
“He’s too old for you,” Lachlan said with a smile, as they began to dance.
“He’s exactly my own age,” Onora replied. “If anyone is too old for anyone, I am the one who is far too worldly for you.”
“But I, too, am worldly,” he told her, leaning close. “I am an experienced man of war who has seen things most virtuous young lassies like yourself couldn’t even begin to imagine.”
“‘Virtuous young lassie’?”Onora laughed out loud. “Are you drunk?”
“Does it matter?”
She smiled at him appreciatively, while an emotion she did not welcome began to grow inside her.
It was a feeling of affection, she supposed.
Or perhaps desperation.
Either way, it worried her.
***
“First you must learn how to select a sword,” Angus said, as he unsheathed his claymore and held it out, point up, for Gwendolen to admire.
She had convinced him to teach her something about swordsmanship by telling him she would not remove her gown until he satisfied some of her curiosities.
“The basket-hilted broadsword is the best weapon for battle,” he told her, “but even the mightiest blade is useless in the hands of a man—or woman—who is not calm or lacks judgment on the field.”
“May I hold it?” she asked.
“Aye.” He moved to stand behind her, and she reveled in the sensation of his body brushing up against hers. “Take it in your right hand like this. That’s it. Now left foot forward.”
She let him guide her into the proper stance.
“If I had my shield,” he said, “I’d show you how to hold that, too, but since I don’t, we’ll just have to use our imaginations.” He closed his hand around her left fist and lifted her arm. “You would hold it right here, like this, close to your face at an angle, or lower, to protect your sword arm, depending on what your opponent was doing. If you were charging into a bayonet line, you’d keep it low to guard your belly.”
“Good Lord.” She turned her head slightly to look up at him. “How in the world would you charge a bayonet line and live to tell about it?”
