Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
Roy was halfway through a report concerning the western watchtower when Hamish stopped listening.
It was not a subtle change. Hamish possessed many virtues, but delicacy had never troubled him.
His attention moved from the parchment in Roy’s hand to the courtyard window, where a groom was tightening the girth upon a royal messenger’s horse.
“That rider leaves early,” Hamish observed.
Roy continued reading. “The roads are poor.”
“Aye.”
Silence followed.
Roy lowered the report. “Say it.”
Hamish scratched his jaw. “It has been brought tae me attention that he carries a petition from Lady Donaldina.”
Roy felt something tighten beneath his ribs. “What petition?”
Hamish gave him a look suggesting the answer ought not require military intelligence.
“The marriage.”
For several moments, he said nothing. Beyond the window, the messenger secured a leather dispatch case to his saddle, and Roy observed him test the buckle twice.
“When does he leave?”
“Now.”
Roy folded the report.
Hamish leaned back against the table. “Ye could let it go.”
“I intend tae.”
“Then why are ye standing?”
Roy had no answer worth offering. He crossed the courtyard before the messenger mounted. The man straightened at his approach, with one hand resting upon the dispatch case.
“The petition from Lady Donaldina,” Roy ordered, though without anger. “Give it tae me.”
The messenger hesitated. “Me laird—”
“It concerns me name as well as hers.”
That was true, though not the whole of it. The letter had not yet been placed beneath the messenger’s official seal. He surrendered it reluctantly.
Roy read it where he stood. Donaldina’s words were precise, measured and entirely reasonable. The circumstances had altered. The alliance no longer served its intended purpose. Clan MacNicol required stability rather than the enforcement of an agreement made eight years before.
Not one sentence accused him of abandoning Lachlan. That absence should have pleased him. Instead, he found himself more troubled by the care she had taken not to speak of him at all.
Roy folded the petition along its existing crease and walked toward the inner stair.
“I thought ye meant tae let it go!” Hamish called after him.
Roy did not turn. “I dae.”
Donaldina opened her chamber door herself. Surprise crossed her face when she saw him, followed swiftly by caution. Her gaze dropped to the parchment in his hand.
“Ye… stopped the messenger,” she concluded.
“I merely delayed him,” he explained.
“By taking me letter?”
He handed her the letter, her fingers brushing his. He pretended not to notice the effect it had on him.
“Ye had nae right tae read this,” she told him.
“Nae.”
The admission seemed to unsettle her more than any argument could have. Roy entered the chamber, leaving the door open, yet the space still felt increasingly confined.
“If this is truly what ye wish,” he said, “I will see that it reaches the King exactly as ye wrote it.”
Donaldina looked down at the folded petition. “Then why bring it back?”
“Because I wanted tae hear ye say it.”
Her chin lifted. “The letter says it plainly.”
“Aye, the letter is very sensible.”
“I hadnae realized sense offended ye.”
“It doesnae.”
He moved closer. Donaldina remained where she was, though her fingers tightened upon the parchment. Roy stopped only inches from her.
“I simply dinnae believe it.”
Her eyes flashed. “Ye believe ye ken me wishes better than I dae?”
“Nae.” His gaze moved over her face. “I believe ye are trying very hard tae remember what they were before I arrived.”
Her breath caught softly, and Roy should have stepped away, but he did not. “Every time ye look at me,” he continued, lowering his voice, “ye blush before remembering ye are meant tae hate me.”
Color rose at once beneath her skin. Donaldina’s eyes widened with indignation. Roy felt the first dangerous pull of amusement.
“I most certainly dinnae blush.”
“Ye are now.”
“That is anger.”
“Aye,” he grinned playfully. “It appears remarkably similar.”
The distance between them seemed to disappear without either moving. Donaldina’s lips parted, but no reply came. Roy could smell beeswax from the candles and the faint lavender clinging to her gown. He looked at her mouth for one moment too long. Then he forced his attention back to her eyes.
“The King’s answer may take months,” he continued. “By the time it returns, I am certain ye will regret sending that.”
Her voice, when it came, was quieter. “Ye possess a great deal of confidence for a man who has kent me three days.”
“I have survived those three days. Confidence is all I have tae show for it.”
A faint smile almost threatened her composure.
Roy quickly stepped back to prevent any mistake, then carefully took the petition from her hand.
Donaldina made no effort to stop him. Roy then went to the courtyard, placed the letter in the messenger’s dispatch case, fastened the buckle, and looked at the rider, who was gazing at him expectantly.
“Edinburgh,” he ordered. “Place it directly in the King’s hands. ”
The messenger mounted and rode beneath the raised gate. Roy watched until horse and rider disappeared beyond the mist.
He had sent Donaldina’s request for freedom. The act ought to have felt honorable. Instead, it felt very much like a wager, and Roy had never before risked so much upon the color of a woman’s cheeks.
The council feast had the cheer of a truce negotiated at sword point. The great hall was restored as quickly as possible. Broken benches were replaced with those from the lesser chambers, the rushes were swept clean, and the worst damage from the fighting was scrubbed from the flagstones.
Yet no quantity of roasted venison, warm bread or spiced ale could disguise the guarded glances passing between the tables.
Men who had crossed swords that afternoon now sat within arm’s reach of one another.
Some wore fresh bandages beneath their sleeves.
Others bore bruises they pretended not to feel.
Conversation moved cautiously through the hall, rising and falling whenever a hand reached too suddenly toward a belt or a chair scraped against the floor.
The feast had been ordered to restore the appearance of unity. Donaldina suspected unity would have preferred another evening.
She sat upon the dais beside Roy. The council determined that Clan MacNicol must see its lady and her promised husband seated together before the assembled household. Apparently, reconciliation required placing her close enough to feel the warmth of Roy’s shoulder through two layers of wool.
He occupied his chair as he did every space: watchfully. He appeared to count weapons, exits, and expressions with equal suspicion. Donaldina wondered whether he ever entered a room without first deciding how best to survive it.
“Ye may cease looking for enemies,” she murmured. “Most of them are seated plainly before ye.”
His gaze moved to her. “That is what concerns me.”
She reached for her cup. “Ye have brought a remarkably suspicious nature intae me home.”
“I found the doors barred.”
“Only after arriving beneath a decree compelling me tae marry ye.”
“Aye.”
“And yet ye were surprised the welcome lacked flowers?”
“I would have settled for fewer knives.”
Donaldina glanced at him despite herself.
A slight lift of his mouth hinted at a smile, though it wasn't quite one.
Roy seemed to reserve such gestures as carefully as a household manages winter grain.
The mere hint of a smile was so surprising that she turned toward the hall before her face could reveal her reaction.
Servants moved between the tables with platters of meat, bowls of stewed roots and loaves darkened by rye.
The rich scent of venison and rosemary mingled with peat smoke and beeswax.
A piper stood near the western hearth, playing a tune slow enough to respect mourning yet lively enough to suggest the clan had not entirely surrendered to it.
Donaldina should have felt comforted by the familiar sounds.
Instead, every corner of the hall reminded her of the morning.
Lachlan’s bier had stood beneath the banners.
Cormac had watched her from among the councilors.
Roy had entered through the doors with rain upon his shoulders and years of accusation waiting to meet him.
It seemed impossible that all of it happened within one day.
Roy tasted the stew. His brows drew together.
Donaldina noticed before she could stop herself. “Is something wrong?”
He considered the contents of his bowl. “I am deciding whether this is food or punishment.”
She stared at him. “That recipe belonged tae me grandmother.”
“Then she was a formidable woman.”
“She was renowned for her hospitality.”
“Perhaps among enemies.”
A laugh escaped Donaldina before she could prevent it. The sound seemed too bright for the hall. Several heads turned. Roy looked at her. She lowered her eyes at once, suddenly fascinated by a piece of turnip.
“It is better with salt,” she said.
“It would be better with mercy.”
This time, his amusement was unmistakable, though it vanished almost as soon as it appeared. Their conversation should have ended there. Donaldina intended it to. She lifted her spoon and devoted herself to the stew with a concentration it had done little to deserve.
Then the musicians changed their tune. The first notes rose warmly beneath the rafters, winding between the low voices and the clatter of cups.
Donaldina recognized the melody at once.
It accompanied winter gatherings, harvest suppers and more than one celebration from which Lachlan had returned with a torn sleeve and no reasonable explanation for it.
Roy turned his head slightly toward the piper.
“Is that a MacNicol song?”
She nodded. “It is played here often.”
“I have heard it before.”
“Lachlan sang it.”
Roy’s expression changed. Donaldina’s hand stilled around her cup.
“He sang many things,” Roy revealed.
“Badly?”
“Heroically badly.”