Chapter 31
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The next sennight was so uneventful it seemed possible, to Tearloch, that Duncan Keith might have been the cause of all the trouble with the king’s sister.
She went willingly where she was asked. She stayed meekly where she was put.
When Tearloch could not readily locate her, she could usually be found in the kitchens, either helping the women there or sitting in front of a fire, sewing.
He reckoned she must be a novice, and a slow novice at that, since she always held the same white square of linen, stitching around the edges. Or so he thought.
On the seventh evening since Duncan and Jamie took their leave, the meal was interrupted when a pretty lass entered the hall in search of her laird.
When she was led to his table and invited to address him, she burst into tears.
Immediately, ten or more squares of white linen were offered to the young woman by his eager knights.
Their gallantry stopped her tears abruptly, and she smiled as she glanced around at her keen benefactors.
When she accepted Frazier’s offer, they sighed in disappointment and returned to their seats.
After Tearloch listened to the girl’s tale and sent a more than willing Frazier to sort out her problem, he looked along both sides of the long table and saw that each man was stuffing a white cloth back up his sleeve.
They grinned and chuckled goodheartedly as each realized they had been given the same gift.
Then as one, the group turned to look at Tearloch’s sleeve and seemed both surprised and pleased they saw nothing there.
Tearloch called Mary to him. “Bring her to me, if ye please.”
He knew why she did what she did—she wanted to prove to the people of Lochahearn, and to that wee laddie and his new sister, that she meant them no harm, that she was not the enemy they feared her to be.
As usual, Kenna had found one reason or another not to sit at table with Tearloch and his captains. Someone always needed her aid in the kitchen, or she would confess she had already taken her meal and was not hungry.
With the door to his bedchamber repaired, he had invited her to join him again, but she declined, claiming that his old rooms suited her, and she’d suffered no nightmares while sleeping alone. Whether it was true or not, he would be quite the brute if he insisted she join him now.
But once they were married, once her worries ended, she would be his in truth and would share his bed forever more.
Kenna hurried out from the kitchens, another white linen square in her hands. She was just biting off a stray thread as she reached the table. Tearloch smiled up at her and gestured for her to sit next to him. Reluctantly, she sat where Jamie typically sat, across from him.
“Why have ye shared these cloths with my men?”
His directness took her back. She looked down the long table and saw that each knight did indeed have a hint of white protruding from his sleeve. Many of them pointed or tugged on them to prove they wore them.
Turning back to Tearloch, she asked, “Was someone weeping?”
“Aye, a young woman.”
Kenna turned back to scan the faces at the long table. “And whose did she accept?”
“Frazier’s,” they all said with a slight hint of disgust.
“But it works,” Monroe added, and sent her a wink.
“What works?” Tearloch sought to seem only slightly interested in the private jest she shared with his men and not him.
“Well, I have been a difficult captive, and I thought to make amends.”
Tearloch was taken aback by the denials that rose from the group. Blatant falsehoods, all, but it was Kenna who called them out for it.
“Ye lie. Ye all lie and ye know it,” she chided them with a smile. Then to Tearloch, she explained that as a peace offering, she had made them all kerchiefs with which they could catch a maiden’s eye.
“And how do kerchiefs catch a lady’s eye?” Tearloch demanded.
She shrugged. “Offering a weeping lass a kerchief is a truly gallant gesture. And a gallant gesture is never forgotten.”
Tearloch eyed the kerchief in her hands and wondered if she might finally offer one to him.
She followed his gaze and raised it so he could see the finely sewn edges. “This one is for Duncan. If he ever comes back,” she said quietly.
Tearloch gave her a wink. “I sent for them. He and Jamie will return on the morrow. Must I wait at the end of the line and follow Jamie? Why have ye not served yer laird and master first?”
“Oh my, nay. Jamie will not need one for obvious reasons. Nor will you.”
“Obvious reasons?”
“Jamie is a handsome young lad.”
“And I?” He was confident she would give him the same praise.
“Ye’ll not need one…for I never weep.”
The entire hall erupted with laughter. Tearloch exchanged a glance with her while they tried to decide which of them should be the most offended.
When Tearloch joined in the laughter, Kenna realized this was not the same man who had rescued her from The Gowry.
The hardened knight had completely transformed.
The deep lines on his face, that she’d assumed were from constant scowling, receded even deeper into his flesh when he laughed.
The dark brows shot up into his forehead, and those permanent creases radiated from the sides of his eyes.
He threw his head back and exposed his straight white teeth, something she rarely saw while he was stalking her around the bedchamber, or over a fire, or staring at her lips.
He was beautiful. His bright green eyes were nearly closed by cheeks that threatened to displace them, and Kenna realized that this must be his natural disposition, to laugh heartily and allow his joy to infect others.
She knew two things instantly—that she wanted nothing more in that moment than to believe he could be this happy forever…and that to leave him, when the king came to collect his ward, would cause her very real pain.
For Tearloch to be truly happy, however, the king had to come. Which meant she would be taken away, likely used to make some alliance, her hand in marriage given over to some laird that would hopefully be less monstrous than Struan Gowry.
This man has the power to hurt me…
And yet, she couldn’t wish away the time they’d spent together.
The first morning she rose alone in the second bedchamber, a maid had come to lay the morning fire. She’d been young, eager, and easy to draw out.
Kenna had learned that the room had been Tearloch’s until his father was killed and Tearloch had become laird.
And this visit was the first he’d made to Lochahearn since that day.
That he had yet to mourn his father properly, but his place had been at the king’s side, that he'd trained and fought with Malcolm, his boyhood companion, in every battle.
She’d pointed to two toy soldiers on the mantle. “Even the imaginary ones.” And now, the maid believed Tearloch was home to stay.
The lass had also answered Kenna’s questions about his mother, who had died when Tearloch was eight summers.
Since then, the only women in his life had been servants, and so he’d never been taught the proper way to speak to ladies.
And for as long as anyone could remember, when high-borns would come to Lochahearn, he would fall mute, only to be himself again once they departed.
“He has clearly overcome the malady now,” she’d added. “Otherwise, he could never have said a word to ye.”
Since that conversation many days ago, Kenna had grown attached to the room, attached to the soldiers on the mantel and the ghosts of wee lads playing out battles on the floor, one of whom feared speaking to lassies.
She’d asked Tearloch to allow her to remain there, and not just because she wished to avoid sharing his bed. Because she often imagined doing just that…
A pity the king couldn’t give her hand to his champion. Then she could share the happiness she wished for Tearloch Chattan. But once she murdered The MacPherson, there were only a handful of ways the king would deal with her, and an honorable marriage was not one.