Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Gwendolen looked down at the bowl of soup that was placed before her, and breathed in the rich, steaming aroma of meat, swimming in a thick, seasoned broth. In the center of the table, a whole roast pig, golden and crisp, rested on a platter, waiting to be sliced and devoured. She gazed around despondently at the urns of fruit, the shiny candelabras, and all the servants moving about the hall with trays of food, and felt a pounding chaos inside her head that simply would not die.
"I heard rumors," Angus said, "that you were helpful in the surgery today. That you worked tirelessly, devotedly, and that you were kind and compassionate. It sounds like you were an angel of mercy."
Gwendolen strove to remind herself that she had promised to be amiable toward him. "I did what I could, though some losses were inevitable. And very great."
"The men of your clan fought bravely," he said. "You should be proud."
"Perhaps that is true, but my pride will not bring that woman's son back from the dead." She gestured toward Beth MacEwen, Douglas's mother, to whom she had just been speaking.
Angus gave her a sharp glance. "Nor does my triumph today restore my father to this chair, lass. Rather it is I who must take his place."
She recognized the note of displeasure in his voice and took some time to allow the heated moment to cool before she replied. "I am sorry for the loss of your father. It is never an easy thing. As you know, I lost my father, too, and my grief is very recent."
He inclined his head. "Is this a competition? Do you think that because my father died two years ago, you suffer more?"
"No, I did not mean that"
"I learned of my father's death one month ago. For two years, I have lived in exile with no knowledge of it. I was not here to fight at his side, and for that, I will always live with regret."
She sat quietly, dipping her spoon into the broth. "I'm sorry. I did not realize." After a brief moment of silence, she added, "I suppose that means we have something in common."
"And what is that?" he asked impatiently.
"Grief. Four weeks old."
He studied her profile for a moment, then turned his head the other way to say something to Lachlan, who sat to his left.
Similarly, Gwendolen turned her attention to her mother, who sat beside her, praising the food and the wine as she conversed with the MacDonald clansman who sat to her right.
"Are you learning anything?" Onora discreetly asked Gwendolen, while reaching for a bright red apple.
"I am trying my best."
"Keep trying, darling. You must discover how this man can be brought to his knees."
Under any other circumstances, such talk about a man would have offended Gwendolen, who believed in truth and honesty between the sexes not this strategic posturing and game playing. But this impending marriage was hardly a natural one. It was forged from bloody battles and a quest for power, so she could not afford to be so righteous or romantic, nor could she retreat from her duty.
"I don't know what to ask him."
"Find out if he plans to follow in his father's footsteps and raise another rebellion for the Stuarts. If that is the case, we may find ourselves on the wrong side of the law when King George learns of it. He awarded this castle to our clan as a gift of loyalty. We cannot be branded as Jacobites. You must discover Angus's intentions."
Gwendolen turned to her future husband, but Onora touched her arm. "Wait. First, try to find out if he is the Butcher of the Highlands. Knowledge like that could be invaluable. The Butcher is the most sought-after rebel in Scotland, and if we were to reveal his identity and turn him in, the King would be in our debt."
Recognizing the simple brilliance of that plan, Gwendolen turned to Angus and strove to be inconspicuous as she brought up the subject of his past. "May I ask you a question?"
"Aye."
"Why were you gone from Kinloch for so long? And why did you ever leave, if you love this place so much?"
"Have you not heard the rumors?" He glanced at her with a thin sheen of ice over his eyes.
Determined not to shy away from the question, she met his gaze head-on. "I have heard some, yes, but I don't put much stock in them. Especially when they surround a man like you, who attracts gossip like the plague."
"I don't seek such attention," he told her.
"Nay, but it finds you, nevertheless. And you still have not answered my question."
"Nor have you told me what rumors you've heard."
She took a sip of wine. "There are a few different stories. Some say you are the infamous Butcher of the Highlands the notorious Jacobite rebel who disappeared two years ago after escaping from an English prison. No one has seen or heard from him since. His identity is still a mystery, and many think he is secretly gathering forces to raise another rebellion. Is that what this is?" she asked him directly. "Have you taken Kinloch to create a garrison for the Jacobites?"
He was quiet for a long time. "Nay. I don't want to raise a rebellion. I want to live in peace."
She glanced at his face, searching for the truth in his eyes whatever it was but everything about him was hard as steel. There was nothing readable in his expression, no hint of vulnerability, no chink in his armor.
"You wouldn't tell me anyway, would you?" she said.
"Even if this was to become a Jacobite stronghold, you would guard that secret with your life, for you know my political opinions."
"Aye."
"But would you tell me if you were the Butcher?" she asked.
"Because I would like to know if I am about to marry someone so..." She was about to say "murderous," but thought better of it. "Famous."
Angus glanced at her knowingly, as if he knew exactly what she was going to say the first time. "Did you follow his escapades, lass?"
"Aye, and although I did not agree with his politics or his savage approach to achieving his goals, I was intrigued and strangely moved by his passions. They say he did everything to avenge the death of his beloved, that he loved her so much, he could not exist without her."
Angus slowly sipped his wine. "I would expect you to condemn him for his methods, not praise him for his motivations."
She dipped her spoon into her soup. "I am not praising him. I simply found the situation intriguing. That is all. As you know, I am a proponent of peace, and indeed his methods were inexcusable."
Angus turned in his chair to face her. "But sometimes violence is the only way to achieve peace. Do not forget that your own father attacked this castle in the name of it. Many clansmen were forced to fight, and many died that day."
Gwendolen nodded, for he was correct on that point.
"And I am not the Butcher of the Highlands," he added.
"You have my word on that."
She was pleased to hear that she was not about to marry that particular murderous rebel, whose reputation was even more notorious than Angus the Lion's but then she reminded herself that if he was the Butcher, King George's army would have marched here straightaway and liberated her clan from the clutches of that Scottish fugitive in an instant.
"Do you believe me?" he asked.
She looked up at him and nodded.
But his eyes turned cold. He picked up his wine. "Good. Because I couldn't possibly be him. I never had a great beloved, nor am I even capable of such passions where a woman is concerned. That sort of thing clouds a man's judgment and makes him weak."
She looked him squarely in the eyes, realizing that he was again working to put her in her place, to make sure she understood that she would never be able to control him or influence him with her femininity. She was a mere lamb to him. She was not a threat.
"You prefer it when people fear you," she said.
He reclined against the tall chair and looked at her with a renewed sexual hunger that seemed to come out of nowhere. "I'm glad to see you're catching on."
Her heart began to pound, for there was nothing weak or cloudy about this man's passions. He wanted to bed her in order to slake his lust, and he was fully confident that he would do so, without impediment, when the appropriate moment arrived.
She was offended by the notion of simply providing him with an outlet for his sexual impulses. He might be an unromantic, coldhearted warrior, but she was more sensitive than that. Before this invasion of her home, she had dreamed of a great love match for herself. She'd imagined a chivalrous Scotsman who would devote himself to her passionately until his last dying breath.
She was a romantic at heart, she'd always known it, but it seemed the time had come to accept a harsher reality. Soon she would be married to a ruthless warrior without a tender bone in his body, and it filled her heart with dread.
They did not converse during the rest of the meal, and only when dessert was served, did Gwendolen realize he still had not answered her question about why he left Kinloch two years ago.
"Are you ever going to tell me why you were gone for so long?" she asked, without looking at him. "Or do you intend to use the mystery of your absence to keep me guessing about your ferocity?"
He swallowed his dessert whole, then wiped his mouth with a linen napkin. "My father and I had a disagreement," he told her. "I did something deceitful and will probably burn in hell for it. He told me I was no longer his son, and he ordered me to leave and never return. I abided by his wishes until Lachlan found me after a two-year search, and informed me of my clan's defeat, and the loss of Kinloch to your father."
Gwendolen regarded him with a persistent curiosity. "What deceitful thing did you do to deserve such a punishment?"
She waited, breath held, for a description of his offense.
"I betrayed a friend."
"Why? Did he do something to you? Did you quarrel?"
"Aye, we quarreled a number of times. Let's just say I did not approve of his choice of a wife, and I was adamant in my opinions."
She mulled over his reply. "Were you in love with her yourself?"
"God, no! Did you not hear a word I said earlier?"
Gwendolen supposed she had become somewhat flustered since she sat down. "Pardon me. I wasn't thinking."
He picked up his goblet and held it on his lap. "I despised her, if you must know. If I'd had my way, she wouldn't have survived long enough to bewitch him into marrying her.
"Good heavens, would you have killed her?" The horror poured out of Gwendolen like a flash flood.
A muscle clenched at his jaw, and he spoke with a dark and quiet foreboding. "What do you think?"
Gwendolen leaned back in her chair. "That is why you betrayed this friend? Because he chose her, over you?"
He glanced the other way. "Aye."
"I can hardly blame him," she said. "Love should always triumph over evil."
Remarkably unperturbed, he leaned very close.
"You think I'm evil, do you?"
"You said yourself that you would burn in hell for your actions."
"That I did. And I'm certain I will."
A fiddler passed in front of them. He sang a lively tune in Gaelic, distracting them for a moment, then moved on down the table.
"Did you ever try to reconcile with your friend?" Gwendolen asked, reaching for her goblet.
"Nay."
"Why not?"
"Because I still think he was wrong."
She pushed her plate away. "Is he still with the woman you warned him against?
"Aye."
"And are they happy?"
He tapped the tip of his finger impatiently on the arm of the chair. "I don't know, and I don't care. I haven't seen either of them for two years."
The fiddler finished the tune, and Angus rose to his feet. A hush swept over the room like a breezy chill, for everyone knew it was time for all MacEwens to pledge their oath of allegiance to their new laird.
Feeling a ripple of apprehension, Gwendolen sat back and considered all that she had learned about her future husband in the last hour.
None of it made her feel any better about her situation.
***
That night after the feast, Gwendolen lay in bed, still contemplating the disturbing conversation she'd had with her betrothed.
He claimed he had no intentions of using Kinloch in another Jacobite rebellion. She wasn't certain, however, that he was telling the truth.
He also did not believe in romantic love. Not that she had any fanciful notions that their marriage would be anything other than a political arrangement, but she'd hoped that somewhere in his past, he might have cared for a woman, or at least understood the emotion in others. With every word or gesture, however, he confirmed her initial impressions of him that he was an instrument of war, a steel-edged blade, and his heart was made of stone.
Although... There was one thing she had learned tonight which suggested a hint of compassion somewhere in the dark abyss of his soul. He had insisted the MacEwen widows be given time to grieve for their dead husbands before any MacDonald clansmen could make advances upon them.
Had that order come from him directly? she wondered. Had he felt some sympathy for their plight? Or had the idea come from his cousin Lachlan?
At least that man seemed attuned to the feminine mind. He had been understanding of her fear when he escorted her from the hall that morning, and he had certainly known how to go about charming her mother.
Angus, on the other hand, had no interest in charming anyone. He was more like a sledgehammer when it came to getting what he wanted.
A knock sounded at the door just then, and she sat up in bed, startled as she peered through the darkness.
"Who's there?"
The door creaked open, and without waiting for an invitation, her fiance entered the room, carrying the silver-plated candelabra from her father's chamber.
Although it belonged to Angus now. Everything did. Including her.
He set the candles down on the chest, closed the door, locked it behind him, then slowly approached the foot of the bed.
Gwendolen watched him in uneasy silence. "What are you doing here?" she asked.
He strode casually around the bed, while the candlelight picked up the golden tones in his wavy hair.
Geen opmerkingen:
Een reactie posten