Chapter 13 #2
As soon as the door was shut, he removed his bandage, to stare at the puckered wound on his thigh.
While he felt it was taking forever to heal, the truth was, he was healing rather faster than most. He sank into the tub, which had grown lukewarm, the water splashing with a sting over his leg wound and then his shoulder.
A small ball of soap and a linen cloth had been placed beside the tub, and he used them to scrub away the grime of their journey.
After cleaning himself up Lachlan did not want to rest. There was a restlessness pulsing through him—not only to lay eyes on Isabel, but also to keep his eyes on Comyn.
He rubbed a salve that Isabel had given him onto his wounds, and wrapped his leg in fresh linen, and then rolled out his plaid, pleating it just so as he donned it with a clean shirt.
He made his way down to the great hall, where long tables were set out and several men in the bold colors of blue, red and green of the Comyn clan were already seated.
Torchlight lit the room from the darkness, and tapestries of clan battles lined the stone walls, between the heads of great hunts–stag, bear, wolves.
The scent of roasted meat made his stomach growl. The closest thing he’d had to a home cooked meal of late had been the stew at the inn, and his body craved more.
Comyn had even gone so far as to have music playing on the short balcony above. Three musicians played a lute, a fiddle, and a pipe. The song was a lively one that set a jovial tone in the group.
Isabel was already seated near Comyn at the high table, with no one else, as if they were already wed and presiding over the great hall and Comyn’s men.
Comyn too had cleaned himself up, dressed in crisp white leine shirt, and a clean plaid, with a massive, bejeweled brooch at his shoulder.
Isabel too was clean, part of her hair fell softly around her shoulders, and it appeared her maid had created a crown from braids woven with ribbons and flowers.
Her gown, too, was clean and pressed, a dark blue brocade that looked every bit as regal as her soon-to-be-king guardian.
This was the first time he’d seen her dressed so well, after all they’d first met with her tending the wounded, and then on the road they’d been covered in dust. It was a stunning reminder of who she was.
“Och, Lachlan MacLeod. At last.” Comyn beckoned Lachlan closer to sit on her other side. Not that he needed the invitation, he was planning to sit there anyway.
Isabel was demure in her chair, hands in her lap, her gaze straight ahead. There was not a look of joy on her face, and Comyn was studying her. No doubt she worried the man would once more mistreat her hand.
As Lachlan drew closer, Comyn leaned down and whispered something close to her ear. It took everything inside him not to rush forward and wrench Comyn over the table. Isabel smiled politely but did not react. This was the world she was bred for. And saints above, she played her part well.
But Lachlan felt more like a wolf among nobles as he seated himself. Ready to gnash his teeth and attack.
Both the Comyn clansmen, and Lachlan’s own small contingent all settled around the lower tables, and the food was brought out.
Gilded platter upon gilded platter. A roasted pig, redressed and stuffed geese, poached fish with rich sauces.
A feast fit for a king, rather than one of his lesser subjects.
The exorbitance and extravagance did not impress Lachlan but rather had him questioning just who Comyn was trying to impress, and where he’d gotten the means to afford such luxuries when much of the country was suffering.
Comyn raised his wine, red droplets sloshing over his fingers. “To our allies!” He nodded at him, but Lachlan had the distinct feeling Comyn wasn’t toasting them.
As they raised their pewter cups, Lachlan studied another man down the table who seemed to have more than a subtle interest in Isabel.
Unlike the Comyn warriors, this man’s colors were not as easily identifiable, and rather than wearing a plaid, he wore trews, and a doublet.
Though he did wear a plaid cap over his dark hair, and a belt around his slightly rounded belly, they were simple in pattern, and not identifiable to Lachlan.
While the man tried to be inconspicuous, in his placement between Comyn warriors, the pointiness of his beard and the intensity of his open stare was unnerving.
Lachlan leaned over the table, catching the man’s eye.
He looked startled and finally turned his gaze back to the trench in front of him.
Perhaps it was simply that Isabel was beautiful. But the man hadn’t been smiling the way most did when they admired a lass’s face. Nay, this one looked like he was studying her. Memorizing her.
Lachlan squinted his gaze, realizing the man was familiar to him. Though he couldn’t remember where he knew him from, the name Kerr came to mind.
Isabel sat stiffly in her chair, feeling extremely uncomfortable.
Comyn was flirting with her as if they were not only betrothed, but as if she’d already agreed to share his bed.
And, god’s bones, if he touched her one more time…
Her hand, the way he’d stroked it, had made her want to vomit.
She was eternally grateful for Elsa faking the sneeze.
The ruse had been one they’d used over a dozen times at court, deployed whenever Isabel needed to extricate herself from a situation.
Even at court, no other man had flirted with her in such an inappropriate way. Unofficial betrothal or not.
There was only one man who’d dared touch her that she hadn’t pulled away from…
Isabel’s gaze slid to her side where Lachlan sat, recalling the way he’d kissed her when in a fever state.
Funny how with Lachlan the heat that had prickled her skin then had felt good.
But with Comyn—she suppressed a shudder.
Lachlan, however, appeared unaffected by her as he stared hard at the rest of the men at the tables. The warrior had not relaxed since he took his chair, actually since they’d arrived. He looked on edge as if he expected something terrible to happen at any moment.
The way Comyn dressed, parading his wealth, left her feeling uneasy.
There was a chance he was simply hoping to impress the woman he was to marry, but there was also another sinister side to such showiness and that was power, control.
Was it possible that Comyn had something to do with what happened at Falkirk?
That he was getting much of his coin from a wealthy English king?
Or was he simply from a long lineage of wealth?
A flat-mouthed soldier with eyes that were shuttered came forward and bent to whisper something in Comyn’s ear that she couldn’t make out.
Comyn’s expression shifted briefly, and he glanced toward her and Lachlan—but only for a moment—before he waved the man away.
He smiled, bits of food between his wine-stained lips, and continued his flirtatious conversation.
She found it hard not to cringe at the overwhelming scent of stink and the musty potions he used to mask them.
Politeness was costing her this evening.
If seen in another, less indulgent and overly amorous light, he might be considered handsome, but Isabel found his entire demeanor and garishness to be the opposite. Ugly.
“Care for a bit of meat?” he asked, spearing a hunk of fowl and placing it on her trencher.
“Thank ye, my lord,” she said, feeling her appetite wane a little at his gesture. For him to serve her, sent two messages. One, she was an honored guest, but two, he was cementing that she belonged to him in front of an audience.
As he attempted to plop another hunk of meat on her plate, he flicked the knife and the meat landed on her lap.
“Oh, my apologies, allow me to—”
“Nay, thank ye,” Isabel cut him off shortly, taking the meat out of her lap before he could dare touch her there. To stave off any negative response, she continued, “Thank ye for offering your home to us. And your protection. We do appreciate it.”
Comyn smiled, though it was tighter than before, as if he were vexed she’d not allowed his greasy fingers to probe her lap.
She glanced toward Elsa, who stood with the other servants along the wall, her cheeks rosy with indignation.
Oh, if only she’d insisted on bringing Freckles to dinner, she might bite the hand that tried to feed her.
Alas, the wee creature had curled up on her bed and ignored her when she’d called for her to come.
“I would do it again, my lady. I am but a humble servant of Scotland.”
Why did it feel like, as he said it, he was exactly the opposite?
There was nothing humble about this man. They had just been to war and lost a major battle, and yet his men seemed fully energized and his kitchen full. His person groomed, coiffed and dressed to entertain. That didn’t seem right.
Beneath the table, Lachlan’s foot bumped against hers, and a jolt of awareness shot through her body.
She glanced at him, and he made his apologies in a mutter. Isabel kicked him back.
Lachlan raised his eyebrow at her, a small grin curling his lip.