Chapter Eight
Rory stepped through the wide arched entrance into Luthmore Castle’s great hall.
His eyes flitted from the intricately designed tapestries to the massive hearth to the rows of trestle tables filled with villagers enjoying the noon meal.
A hum of voices and laughter lent the room a joyful air.
Rory had never been in a castle before. He looked up.
The ceiling was so high, it may as well have been the sky, with candles flickering around large, iron candelabra like stars.
Underfoot, fresh rushes shifted, releasing fragrant lavender into the air, which mingled with the scent of cooked meats, herbs and the smell of freshly baked bread.
He smiled, enjoying the lively space. To him it felt like a busy marketplace or village green enclosed within a vast stone belly.
He patted his own stomach as it growled in response to the rich aromas.
“Do ye approve?”
Rory’s gaze shifted from the high dais where mounted on the wall was the MacKenzie coat of arms, to find Alex looking at him expectantly.
Her keen eyes met his with uncharacteristic boldness for a woman—not the haughty entitlement of a noblewoman or that of wanton desire or even defiance.
She seemed to move through life with a quiet confidence that so often escaped the fairer sex.
To her, she was his equal, the same. He imagined she spoke to all men and women without deference for gender or title, her behavior unaltered whether they appreciated her candor or not.
“I do approve, although I do not believe my approval matters to ye, nor anyone’s for that matter.”
Her head slanted just slightly to the side as she considered him. “Do ye fashion yer actions or ideals with someone else’s approval in mind?”
He smiled, then slowly shook his head. “Nay,” he said simply.
“Well, neither do I,” she replied and continued to hold his gaze, both at ease just looking at the other.
At length, she cleared her throat. Then her eyes darted toward Michael and the other men who were not three strides away.
“Allow me to show ye our tapestries,” she said loudly, leading him away from the group.
Pointing to a large woven scene with knights on horseback charging at an unseen enemy, she began in a louder voice, “This one is over three hundred years old...” Her voice trailed off as they finished crossing the hall.
“I never thought I would see ye again. Least of all here,” she said, still gesturing at the wall as if pointing out the intricacies of the design.
“Trust me,” Rory said his voice hushed. “When we first met, this is not where I thought ye’d come from.” He motioned toward the full trestle tables and high dais.
Alex shrugged. “’Tis a fair assumption on yer part. Women are scarce in our movement—ladies, well, we are non-existent. I believe I am the only one. But now I’m making assumptions of my own. ‘Tis entirely possible that the good abbot has legions of ladies secretly at work.”
Rory smiled. “And all wearing tunics lined with silver marks and kissing fellow Scottish rebels in the woods.”
Her lips curved in the slightest of smiles. “Mayhap.”
“I have not forgotten that kiss.”
“Nor have I.”
It felt like a continuous bolt of lightning shot off her and straight into his core, igniting currents of need without end. His breathing sped up, becoming shallower, and the sound of her rapid breaths met his ears, further fueling his own desire.
“Enough,” she snapped, he knew as much to herself as to him.
He stepped to the side to try to sever the intensity of their attraction.
Clearing his throat, he sought to change the subject and made a sweeping motion with his hand meant to encompass the whole of the great hall.
“In truth, I’m in awe. Unlike the men in my company, I am but the humble son of a shipyard laborer.
I have never set foot in so grand a home. ”
She laughed. “I’ve never heard Luthmore Castle referred to as a home, but it certainly is that to me.” She also took a step to the side, distancing herself even more. Then she cleared her own throat. “So, what is yer home like?”
“These days I find my rest in a wooded glen or a room at an inn in the latest village to which the Abbot has sent me. But I grew up in Berwick when it was still a Scottish city. My parents, four brothers, and two sisters shared a room not much larger than three of yer trestle tables pushed together.”
A shadow of concern reshaped her countenance, drawing her lovely brows together and sharpening her violet eyes. “Ye were in Berwick when it was attacked?”
“Aye.” Images of narrow cobbled streets piled high with rotting corpses of men, women, and children flooded his mind, despite his wish not to see them again. He shook his head, chasing away the images.
She drew closer. “Forgive me. I see it pains ye to speak of it.”
“It does,” he said softly. He closed his eyes and drew a steady breath before once more meeting her eyes.
“Most days it is impossible to understand or even believe it happened. I was not there, in the city, when King Edward and his tens of thousands attacked. I had accompanied my sister into the wood that morning to forage for herbs. I am not tortured by the screams of the dying like my brother, Alec, who was in the city that day—one of the few within the city limits to escape the sword and the torch. But I saw its aftermath. I saw the thousands and thousands who were slain. I saw the bodies of my parents and our youngest sister, Rosalyn.”
Her hand darted to her face, swiping at her eyes.
“Nay, Alex. Do not cry. So many tears have already been shed. I ken yer own heart suffers the loss of yer father. I did not mean to pile my own grief onto yer already heavy heart.”
“Those must have been dark days indeed.”
He nodded. “They were. We were exiled of course, my brothers and sister and me. But then we met the abbot, and he brought us into the cause, giving me a direction for my fury and grief. Early on I craved vengeance.”
“And now?” she asked.
“Only justice.”
She grew quiet and stared at the tapestry, although Rory could tell it was not the colors and pattern she observed but some distant heartache. “Grief and fury also led me to the cause.”
He was about to ask her more, but she turned then, her shoulders straight and her face stern with resolve. “Which brings us to the matter at hand. We have a mission.”
He would not press her to speak of her pain. Instead, he nodded. “Indeed, we do.”
“Meet me in my solar following the evening meal. The guards will grant ye entry. Now, we should return to our company, or tongues will start to wag.”
He followed her away from the periphery of the great hall into the joyous fray, passing tables of clan folk who called out in greeting to their lady, but they never used her rightful title.
She was not Lady Alexandria to her people; she was just Alex.
Rory drank in the noble sight of her. Never had he observed a woman more deserving of the title Lady, even though her hair was still tangled, her dress soiled, her filthy toes peeking out from beneath the hem of her dress.
Her nobility was in her bearing. It was in the warmth that radiated from her eyes as she smiled and greeted her people.
It was in the humble way she received their good wishes and praise. She was the lady of legends.
He continued to follow her as they made their way past the final row of long wooden tables, but as she continued toward the high dais, he hesitated.
At the high table sat a richly dressed young woman.
Her was back ramrod straight, and her head was demurely contained by a wimple and veils.
On one side of her sat Alex’s brother, Will, who looked as polished as a new penny in a velvet tunic.
Though when he looked up and smiled at Rory, his face was still dirt-smeared, and his hair stood on end.
Rory smiled and looked past Will to where his traveling companions and the steward of Luthmore Castle stood.
Clearly, they were awaiting the arrival of the lady of the keep before they would sit down themselves.
Rory was not one of them, nor had he ever wanted to be.
He looked at the people who surrounded him with their easy smiles, simple tunics, and relaxed postures.
This is where he belonged. He found a free seat at the end of one of the tables and sat down, greeting those around him.
Ravenous, he reached into one of the trenchers in the center of the table and grabbed a piece of meat.
His fingers dripping with gravy, he groaned in response to the delectable flavor.
Alex smiled at her waiting guests as she mounted the steps to the high table.
Then she looked over at Mary, whose eyes lit up as she drew closer.
Alex bit the side of her cheek to keep from smiling at her cousin who she knew was bursting beneath her smooth, calm facade.
The arrival of four handsome lowlanders had not escaped Mary’s notice, and she was clearly dying to ask Alex who they were and why they were there.
Alex cleared her throat, keeping her own excitement in check.
Then she glanced back to point Rory to one of the chairs, but she faltered.
He was gone. She paused and gazed out over the hall, finding him at one of the long tables, his shirtsleeves rolled up, his elbows on the table while he bit the meat off a bone and laughed at some jest from Corc who sat next to him.
It was not hard to hide her disappointment.
Her years as an agent to the cause had honed her skills of concealment, but she felt his absence in a way that surprised her.
She proceeded forward and dipped in a low curtsy in front of Michael, Adam, Robert, and Timothy.
“Forgive my delay,” she said.
Adam came forward then and bowed at the waist. “There is no grievance to forgive, my lady. Do not hurry dinner on our account. We will happily continue to wait while ye change.”