Chapter 28
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Duncan retreated to the end of the bed. Tearloch played innocent. He’d made it absolutely clear to the entire clan they were never to mention the name MacPherson until after the king’s visit. No one would have told Kenna who he was. She must be guessing. And if so, he need only bluff.
“Ye have more ill will against Clan Chattan, do ye?”
“You are a Macpherson. Not just a MacPherson, but The MacPherson.”
“The man who was responsible for your brother’s death?”
“Aye. I have very nearly become a whore to the very man I’ve planned to kill for the better part of my life. And Duncan,” she turned. “I promise… I will.”
Tearloch knew if he allowed this to escalate, everyone in Scotland would believe his future bride was a madwoman, and they would turn against her, permanently. He could not allow that to happen.
When Tearloch came at her, Kenna braced herself for pain, but instead of striking her, he lifted her off her feet and set her next to the bed where he kindly ordered her to sit. He used his boot to pull a table close and sat on it, facing her. “My lady, how old are ye?”
Kenna had no intention of ever speaking to him again. She hadn’t wanted to explain herself at all—just to kill him and be done.
“I asked yer age, woman.”
“Twenty and six,” she spit.
“And how old were ye when ye met me and decided ye would kill me?”
Reluctantly, she answered, “Eight.”
“When ye were eight, I was a lad of twelve. I have changed some since then.”
“Are ye sure ye have the right mon?” Duncan asked gently. “Are ye confident ye can trust a memory of eighteen years past?”
“I trust my memory. I have relived that day in my nightmares often enough. The faces never change.” She glared at Tearloch. “Oh, how I have wished I could have killed ye then.”
Tearloch took a deep breath. “Ye’re not listening to reason, lass. Just how old do ye suppose I was, in this memory?”
“You have not changed. You simply lie now about your age then.”
“Heed me when I say the only way I could have looked this way eighteen years ago would be if I were thirty years then. That would make me older than Duncan is now. Does that seem possible? I was but a boy of twelve. Did ye vow to see a boy of twelve dead?”
She shook her head, then closed her eyes tight, trying to remember. She could see Tearloch plain as day when he turned his horse to look back at her. “He wore your face, your eyes, your brow. He sat a horse as you do. Explain that.”
Tearloch shrugged. “This mature lad of twelve. Did he command many men?”
She saw the end of the nightmare again. It was always there, but most of the time she tried to put it out of her mind. Trying to recall it was painful, but simple enough. She saw Tearloch turn toward her, pity her, looking possibly older than he did when they met only days ago.
She’d been a fool not to consider... “Pray, where is your father?”
Tearloch’s guts twisted as he watched his precious captive working out the truth, tugging at strings as if they were simple strands of flax that untangled at her touch. She was Alexander to his Gordian Knot.
His only option was to tangle the lies faster than she could unravel them.
“John Chattan died a year past.” A truth. Thankfully, there were no renderings of his father’s lieutenant, or she might have recognized him as another man in the party who came for her brother.
She shook her head vigorously. “It must have been him. I see you turning back to look at me when I protested. You told him not to look back. How could he not allow me to look upon Sander one last time? His cruelty remains fresh. I was there, only moments ago—”
“Moments ago?”
She sighed. “In my nightmare. And it was you. It has always been you.”
“Has it? Or has your mind changed MacPherson’s face for mine? Ye were right weary. Our minds can wreak havoc on us then. Did yours mix yer memories, perhaps? Can ye remember yer brother’s face just as clearly?”
Judging from the look on her face, she was considering the new knot. He gave her time to get lost in his reasoning, and when she shrugged a shoulder, he knew he’d won.
“Tearloch Chattan,” she said, testing it on her tongue.
“Aye?”
“John Chattan.”
“Aye. His grave is here, at Lochahearn, with his name chiseled in stone.”
“And you swear, upon his soul, that he was not the devil who took my brother from me?”
“On the soul of John Chattan, I swear it.” May John forgive me.
He waved Duncan from the room, and when he was gone, he leaned forward to rest his head against Kenna’s once more.
“If it had been me, love, I would have taken ye along as well. In fact, I would have taken ye for myself and left yer brother behind.”
She laughed lightly. “You would have been smitten by a mere lass of eight?”
“Verily, I suspect I would.” He lifted her face to his and kissed her, and she allowed it. A delicious moment later, he considered joining her on the edge of the bed when Duncan returned with one woman to treat his arm and another to dress Kenna’s hair.
Though the woman’s ministrations were tender while cleansing the slice in his skin, he grumbled. “Duncan, there is a matter ye and I must discuss, and soon.”
“Oh?”
“Aye. The matter of yer timing.”
With the men seated by the fire, speaking low while a woman tended to his wound, Kenna sat on a stool silently suffering the arranging of her hair by a second woman who clearly did not appreciate the fact that Kenna had inflicted that wound.
She took every opportunity to tug firmly on smaller strands that had come free of her plaits.
At one point, she pronounced it all unmanageable and started from the beginning, freeing all her hair and brushing it violently before plaiting it back into submission.
And all the while, Kenna held her tongue and took her first round of punishment.
If tears sprang to her eyes, she blinked them away as quickly as she could.
She was in the midst of doing just that when she realized that, despite Tearloch’s appeal to him, Duncan had yet to forgive her. He’d given no promise that he would not murder her for what she’d done.
Then why bring someone to dress her hair?
She pulled a kerchief from her sleeve and dried her face, then waited for the men to quiet before she asked, “Sir Duncan. Do you still mean to murder me?”
The hands on her head stilled.
The older man strolled over to stand before her. His face revealed nothing while he stared at her. “Yer own intentions will determine my answer, lass.”
“I intend only to see The Macpherson dead. I will do no further harm to Tearloch Chattan. I vow it. Does that satisfy?”
Duncan bent closer and lowered his voice. “Would that ye could promise no harm to the lad’s heart as well.” He straightened. “I will protect ye with my life, Lady Kenna. But alas, I cannae protect the two of ye from each other.”
He offered a quick bow, threw a salute toward the fire, and left the room.
The woman resumed her ministrations on Kenna’s head, though the violence had ceased. When she was finished, she handed Kenna a small mirror to check the result.
The back of her hair had been left to hang straight while half a dozen plaits near her face had been pulled back and combined cleverly behind her head. Green and gold beads, to match her bliaut had been woven here and there, giving an impression of jewels, though they were only hand-worked pottery.
“I have never had my hair done by another,” she admitted. “Not since I was a child.” She returned the mirror and smiled. “It is lovely. You have my thanks, though doubtless you would have rather slit my throat.”
The woman gaped for a moment, then gave up the charade and nodded.
“Forgive us, my lady, but we do cherish our laird. He has declared ye’re not to be harmed, so ye may rest easy.
Whilst he lives, neither man nor woman, and I daresay not even Duncan Keith, would defy him.
” She whispered the last, then took her leave.
Whilst he lives. The message was clear enough.