Chapter Fifteen
Having gleaned from Finn and Ramsay that the
tub had been spilled in the borderlands at Victor’s behest, he then
warned his men against confiding anything further in James
Campbell. He knew Euan’s son had always been on good terms with
Finn and Ramsay, yet the mon was still The Campbell’s heir. In
other words, confiding details—like Veronica’s arrival—could have
been a verra bad mishap on their parts. Whatever James knew so too
did his sire.
“I would never gainsay you, Lachlan, but
word would like as naught have reached Euan the soonest anyway,”
Finn explained, pointing out his reasoning. There were Campbell
wenches married to Gunn men after all. Occasionally, when the clans
were on good terms, their husbands would take them visiting across
the border. “I wanted to be certain he heard our concocted version
of how your lady came to us rather than whatever gossip might have
been whispered in its stead.”
“Fair enough.” He grunted. “I just dinna
have a care for that bedamned Euan.”
“I challenge you to name someone who does,”
Ramsay snorted. “The mon is as welcomed as the devil wherever he
goes. You can tell even his own son finds him unruly and
exasperating.”
Lachlan found a half-smile. “True, that.” He
could make out his keep in the distance just o’er the next hill.
Their party was returning much sooner than any had expected.
Leastways, time would allow for them to partake of the nooning meal
after all. He hoped Veronica was handling her new role as Lady Gunn
without too much distress. “Let us speak of Euan no more. ‘Tis a
mon I choose not to give my thoughts to unless absolutely
necessary.”
“Aye,” Finn and Ramsay jointly agreed.
“My belly is rumbling,” Finn announced.
“Your belly forever rumbles,” Ramsay
jested.
Lachlan grunted. He was hungry too, yet his
thoughts were on his wife.
Reaching the inner bailey of the castle,
Lachlan jumped off his destrier, patted the fine stallion on its
side, then handed the reins over to a stable lad. Finn and Ramsay
on his heels, he threw open the keep’s massive doors and strode
inside. There she was—Veronica—looking more beautiful than even
he’d remembered. It felt like days rather than hours since last
he’d seen her.
Not that she noticed his arrival. She was
too busy talking with his mother and sister to take note of aught
else.
“Maisie!” Lachlan barked as he walked toward
Victor and the women. “Three trenchers and much mead!”
Veronica at last looked upon him. Their
gazes clashed. She stood up to greet him from the head table of the
great hall, apparently unawares ‘twas the mon who stood for the
lady. “I was getting to know your mother and sister,” she told him,
smiling. “We’ve been having a nice chat.”
“Aye we have,” his mum, Moira, cut in. She
smiled at Veronica, her spine regally straight, her silver-streaked
raven hair in a perfect coif. “You married well, my son. Your wife
is a delight.”
Lachlan expelled a breath he hadn’t realized
he’d been holding in. His mother was a hard nut to crack. The lady
of Castle Cumhacht for twenty years afore his father died, she was
accustomed to having her way in the keep. He knew ‘twould be
difficult for her to accept her replacement. Praise the saints
‘twas off to a good start.
“Aye, you did brother,” his sister Catriona
crooned. She wore a blue dress similar to Veronica’s green gown,
her long, dark hair braided with matching blue ribbon. “Dinna you
ken she and her brother are half French? Leastways, you dinna tell
us.” She sighed dreamily. “I’ve long wished to visit Francia.”
“Nay, I dinna,” Lachlan replied. He frowned.
He dinna wish for his wife to give away details of her life without
telling him of them first. They had to keep their stories
straight.
“Our mother,” Veronica said of herself and
Victor, “was French. Our father was, uh, the laird of Clan
Banks.”
He inclined his head, pleased his wife had
thought to keep with that part of their concocted explanation as to
her origins. Mayhap her mum truly had been French. He’d find out
later.
“I was explaining to Moira and Catriona why
Victor and I have odd accents,” his wife said, still smiling.
‘Twas good thinking on Veronica’s part
actually. He grunted at her, letting her know he was pleased.
“Dinna stand on my account, wife,” Lachlan told her. “’Tis I who
should stand when you walk into a room.”
She took her seat. He took the one betwixt
his wife and mother at table’s head. Finn sat on Veronica’s other
side whilst Ramsay plopped down next to Victor. To Victor’s other
side sat Catriona, the laird’s sister.
Lachlan endeavored not to roll his eyes.
‘Twas an obvious attraction betwixt his sister and Veronica’s
brother. They were constantly talking with each other at meals.
More than once he’d caught Catriona roaming the halls near to
Victor’s bedchamber, hoping to catch even a glimpse of him. In
truth, Lachlan dinna ken how to handle the situation. He wished for
his sister’s happiness and Victor was a loyal mon, yet the true
tale of how Victor came to be here would like as naught cause his
sister to swoon. And that was assuming she believed it.
“Your wife,” his mum cut in, “desires to
decorate your bedchamber. I can hardly blame her. Your walls are so
barren ‘twould seem to an outsider that a Spartan dwells
within.”
Not this again. Now he had two females
pestering him aboot his bedchamber.
“Aye, Lachlan,” Catriona said, “’tis a good
thing you took Veronica to wife. Leastways, you’ll have a fine
bedchamber the soonest.”
Make that three females. He grunted again,
this time in acquiescence. Whilst Veronica had hardly seemed the
decorating type, he wished to provide her with whatever brought her
happiness. “Just dinna make it too frilly,” he grumbled.
One of Veronica’s eyebrows inched up. “Do I
seem like a woman who prefers frilly? I just don’t like the echoes
inside the bedroom. Some adornments will rectify that flaw.”
He met her eyebrow for eyebrow. “’Tis happy
I am to see you settling in, wife.”
“Thank you, uh, husband.”
‘Twas the first time she had referred to him
thusly. He decided he loved it.
“Now aboot your wardrobe,” Moira said to
Veronica. “The seamstresses will come to the keep in the morn to
take measurements for your new bliauts and chemises. The cobbler is
coming to the supper meal this eve to measure your feet for
shoes.”
“Thank you,” Veronica demurred, smiling
again. “I feel badly taking over Catriona’s wardrobe.”
“Nonsense!” Catriona declared. “’Tis a boon
we are a match in gowns and shoes.”
Maisie, the head of the maidservants, set a
trencher afore Lachlan. A short and round woman of advanced years,
her figure was testament to her good cooking. “Isla is bringing
yours,” she instructed Finn and Ramsay, “so keep your boots on.
Ailsa is fetching the mead.”
“I’d like more mead too,” Moira told
her.
“Of course, milady,” Maisie said, nodding.
“Ailsa will bring enough for everyone at table.”
The conversation turned to how precisely
Veronica had eluded Lachlan when first he’d captured Victor.
Lachlan tried not to stir in his seat, but he dinna ken what his
wife would say. He was thankful when Ailsa set a goblet of mead
afore him. “Leave the jug after you fill everyone’s cups,” he
murmured to the maidservant. Mayhap he’d need much more than one
goblet of the stuff. “You have my thanks,” he gruffly added at her
nod.
“My father treated me rather like a son,”
Veronica said without missing a beat. “He taught me how to hide and
how to fight.”
Lachlan continued to squirm, yet oddly, his
mother and sister seemed impressed by his wife’s confession. “I
long told my Angus he should have taught those skills to Catriona
and I,” Moira returned, surprising him. He dinna ken that had
happened. “We women should be able to defend ourselves whilst the
men are out and aboot making battle.”
“I’d be happy to teach you,” Veronica
offered, nearly causing Lachlan to choke on his mead. “Truthfully,
I fight better than most men.”
Silence fell o’er the table as all eyes
turned to Lachlan. Oddly, he didn’t have a care who o’erheard him.
He was proud his wife was so strong. “’Tis true,” he said
matter-of-factly. “My wife is a powerful force to be reckoned
with.”
Catriona grinned. “I wish to learn!” she
enthused. “Please teach me, sister!”
Moira chuckled. “I fear I’m too old to
learn, yet ‘twould lessen my worrying did Catriona ken how to
protect herself.”
“There’s more than a few tricks I could
teach you too,” Veronica assured Moira. She winked at his mother.
“Trust me.”
The remainder of the conversation was
pleasantly devoid of anything that could give away Veronica’s time
traveling experience. Victor and Catriona resumed their flirtation,
leaving Lachlan to wonder if he should simply order them wed and be
done with it. Leastways, if wed, the deuce of them could leave
their fawning ways to the privacy of their own bedchamber. Once
upon a time he had considered wedding his sister to a Campbell in a
show of good will, yet he refused to send her there whilst Euan
still lived and ruled. He doubted the old bastard would be leaving
this world verra soon.
Victor and Catriona? Lachlan frowned. He’d
consider the matter later.
*****
“Oh come on!” Veronica said, grinning. She
plopped down onto Victor’s bed. Lunchtime was over, but she had
witnessed firsthand how he and Catriona got on while they’d
partaken of it. “She’s obviously into you and you…” She chuckled.
“Let’s just say I’ve never, ever seen you trip all over yourself to
make a woman happy.”
Victor blushed. “I admit she intrigues me,”
he sniffed. His glasses were back on so he pushed them up the
bridge of his nose. He did that when excited or nervous. “But
that’s not how marriage works around here.”
“What do you mean?”
“Lachlan has total say of who marries who
within the castle. Ordinary people—the villagers or peasants if you