Adrienne Basso (6 page)

The words sounded far too much like a threat for Fiona’s liking, but she was not foolish enough to challenge the earl’s authority.

Sir George stepped forward and Fiona did the same. The circle of Scots around them kept their distance and she felt grateful for the privacy.

“I thank you, most sincerely, for all that you have done, Sir George, but the time has come for us to part. I release you from my service. May God protect you and keep you safe.”

“Are you certain you wish to stay?” Sir George asked, his brows drawn together with concern.

Fiona bit her lip to stop its trembling. The afternoon had gone by very slowly. Sitting in solitary silence in her chamber had given her far too much time to think. But she could not allow any of her doubts to show, for then Sir George might not leave, which would place his life in peril.

“This is the only way to get what Spencer deserves,” she said.

Sir George’s shoulders lowered and Fiona knew she had successfully made her point. With a dramatic flourish he dropped to one knee. “We shall meet again, my lady. Under far better circumstances, I assure you.”

Fiona swallowed back her tears, refusing to mar the dignity of the moment by crying. The determination she witnessed in the knight’s eyes gave her courage. He would never forsake Spencer’s cause.

“I pray that you are right, my friend.”

Fiona extended her hand and Sir George rose to his feet. Looking over his shoulder, the knight locked his gaze on the earl. “If any harm comes to her or the boy while she is in your care, you’ll answer to me.”

The words were boldly spoken, with a wealth of meaning infused in every one. Fiona flushed and turned to look at the earl. His eyes narrowed as he went very still. Fearful, she held her breath, but the men exchanged some kind of unspoken understanding and Sir George backed away without further incident.

The tightness pressing against her chest increased as she watched the proud knight mount his horse and ride away. He had been a strong, constant support through all the pain and grief of the past year and she truly had no idea when she would once again set eyes upon him.

She clenched her mouth and turned away, concentrating on keeping her emotions steady and even. She would not break down in front of this curious crowd of strangers, would not give them the pleasure of seeing her cry.

Her jaw still tight, she walked to the earl’s side. He gave her a slight nod. Her heart skipped. Strange how this small gesture gave her a measure of comfort, made her feel less alone.

For one impulsive moment she wanted to reach out, grab his hand and squeeze tightly.
Saints alive, wouldn’t that get their tongues wagging?

“The evening meal will be served soon,” the earl said. “Let us retire to the great hall.”

“Fine.”

His brow cocked at her cool tone. He watched her closely for a very long minute, then gestured for her to walk ahead of him. But she was not to be left alone. After only a few steps the earl clutched her arm, rather possessively.

Fiona drew in a stiff breath, feeling a jolt of awareness as her flesh leapt at his touch. She looked over at his handsome face, locking her gaze on his. His expression was completely unreadable. How unfair! Her body was responding to him in ways she had never before experienced and he felt nothing.

Unsettled, Fiona extracted herself from the earl’s touch the moment they reached the high table. Attempting to hide her thoughts, she looked at her hands, which were shaking in her lap. Gracious, it felt as though every feeling coursing through her body was on display for one and all to see. She felt as exposed as if she were sitting there with nary a stitch of clothing on her body. Even the arrival of the servants carrying heaping trays of hot food didn’t spare her the scrutiny of those seated in the hall.

Oddly enough, the one person who was not paying attention to her was the man seated by her side. Goblet in hand, the earl was engaged in a rather heated conversation with a group of men seated to his left. They were debating the merits of different weapons and battle strategy, and relating the gory outcome of a recent fight.

It was astonishing to hear how spiritedly the men offered their opinions and argued their points. None had any difficulty disagreeing with the earl. Nor did he deny his men the right to express their thoughts.

How unusual. Henry had, on a few occasions, sought the opinion of his captains, but they rarely disagreed with his views. At least not within her hearing. It was a confident leader, indeed, who allowed such liberties among his retainers.

Lost in thought, Fiona did not at first notice when a servant plunked a large tray of meat between her and the earl. ’Twas the smell that finally caught her attention. She wrinkled her nose at the strong odor, realizing few herbs or little if any seasoning had been used when roasting the meat. And from the char on the outside, it was obvious the flesh had been thoroughly cooked.

Perhaps too thoroughly.

Fiona’s stomach flipped. She glanced beneath her lashes at those seated around her and saw everyone was eating with gusto. Resolved, she sliced a piece of venison off the bone and popped it into her mouth. It tasted like sand, but she chewed it purposely, though she needed a large sip of wine to wash it down.

She picked at the food on her trencher, grateful the earl was occupied in conversation with the men seated around them.

“Do ye not like our food?”

Fiona glanced up and met Duncan’s challenging stare. “It’s delicious,” she countered, forcing a large piece of meat into her mouth.

“Shall I offer ye a bit of friendly advice?” The warrior sat back in his chair, lazily surveying her. “Work a tad harder at hiding yer true feelings.”

“Or else?”

“Ye’ll never survive.”

Merciful heavens. She didn’t doubt he was offering her friendly advice. Which naturally begged the question—what would those who wished her ill say?

Fiona let out a long breath and looked across the hall. Father Niall was seated one table below, his head bent close in conversation to a man dressed in priest’s robes. Her maid, Alice, was nowhere to be seen.
I must remember to make sure food was provided to her.

Fiona glanced down at her nearly full trencher of bread, wishing there was an easy way to spirit it out of the hall. ’Twould rather neatly solve two problems—bringing food to her maid and freeing Fiona from trying to choke down another morsel of the heavy, rich fare.

Distracted, she picked at her food while taking in all the activity of the great hall. There were plenty of servants moving about, bringing food and drink to the men and women seated at the lower trestle tables. ’Twas a large crowd and most were in good spirits, talking and laughing amongst themselves, though one table of guardsmen was shouting and rudely banging their empty tankards on the table, demanding more ale and wine.

It was then that Fiona spied Spencer among the ranks of the squires, his features twisted with anxiety as he scurried to do the soldiers’ bidding. Her stomach heaved with fear at the sight of his clumsy movements. He shouldn’t be there, serving these heathens. ’Twas bound to end in disaster.

No sooner had the thought formed in her mind, Spencer lost his footing and pitched forward. Instinctively his arms thrust out and he was able to save himself from hitting his face on the stone floor. But the metal pitcher of ale he carried did not fare as well. It bounced as it crashed to the ground, the contents splashing high in the air.

Laughter rang out as most of it landed on a brutish-looking warrior with a nasty scar on his thick forearm.

“The ale goes in the tankard, lad, not on the face,” one of the men shouted.

“About time Donald had a proper bath,” another teased, and a second round of laughter erupted among the men.

“Dammit, lad, watch what yer doing!” Donald’s beefy hand swung out, cuffing Spencer on the back of the head. “Spill another drop of that good ale on me and I’ll be spilling yer blood on the rushes!”

The hall went silent at the outburst. Fiona rose purposefully from her seat, but the earl placed a restraining hand upon her arm. “Leave it.”

“But, my lord—”

“I told ye, Spencer willnae be given any special treatment. He must learn his duties just like the other squires. And he must also learn the consequences of failure.”

“Beg pardon, sir,” Spencer said to the angry soldier.

Fiona heard the trembling in Spencer’s voice as he offered an apology. Which was soundly ignored. His eyes grew enormous in his pale face as he stepped aside to elude another blow from the unforgiving Donald. Spencer wobbled, yet through sheer force of will managed to stay on his feet.

Fiona’s heart sank like a rock. She felt powerless, sitting there like a witless fool, watching the drama unfold without being able to do anything to prevent it.

“If that oaf harms my son . . .” she began, clamping her hands together until her knuckles turned white.

“He willnae,” the earl insisted. “Trust me.”

Sod off.
Dear Lord, that’s what she wanted to say—nay, to shout. But instead she held herself very still, allowing the words she dared not speak to reverberate in her head.

Donald bit out a crude oath and lunged for Spencer, but this time he never got close. One of the men seated at his table blocked the blow, then two others held him back.

Donald couldn’t mask his fury or frustration. He struggled to free himself, his expression nearly murderous. Fiona’s heart stopped. If either man lost his grip, Spencer would be grievously injured.

Do something!
She wanted to reach over, grab the earl by his broad shoulders, shake him until his teeth rattled, and then scream the words at him in her loudest voice.

The earl visibly tensed, and she realized the hysteria in her eyes had alerted him to her anguish. He turned to Duncan. The two men exchanged a look, then Duncan nodded.

“A swim in the loch will cool Donald’s temper,” Duncan shouted, rising to his feet. “Shall we help him, men?”

“Into the loch!” One of the retainers took up the challenge and the hall soon reverberated with the chant.

“Into the loch! Into the loch!”

Fists pounded on the trestle tables as the cries grew louder. The mood turned celebratory. A protesting Donald was lifted on the shoulders of several men and carried from the hall. A few giggling serving wenches followed, along with some of the squires, a smiling Spencer among them.

The noise level returned to a hum of conversation as the attention shifted back to the meal. Fiona lifted her goblet and took a long sip of wine, hardly believing that disaster had been averted.

“I told ye there was no need fer worry. My men are tough, but they know I willnae tolerate thoughtless cruelty,” the earl said, placing his hand over hers.

Fiona’s pulse spiked. The feel of his flesh against hers made her tremble. The residual effects of her anxiety over Spencer? Or was it something else?

He moved his fingers lightly, a gentle caress over the top of her hand. Fiona started trembling more, embarrassed that he could feel her reaction. She could sense the passion surging inside him, could see how he wanted to hold her closer, press his hard strength against her softer curves.

She wanted it, too. Her hands exploring the contours of his broad chest, her lips touching his softly, teasingly before thrusting her tongue into his mouth and stroking it against his.

The boldness of her longings shocked her. Fiona searched his face, seeking to understand how he could have caused such a reaction. But she found no answers in the depths of the earl’s blue eyes. In fact, he looked every bit as puzzled as she felt.

Enough! Fiona rose. “With your permission, my lord, I will retire.”

Though she had asked, as any meek, well-trained subservient female should, Fiona did not wait for his approval. Instead, she tried to sweep past him, but he caught her hand, pulling her to a halt.

Fiona shivered. Lord, what was wrong with her? Was it the venison? The ale? The—

“Gavin.”

“What?”

“My Christian name is Gavin.” His gaze intensified. “Fiona.”

She looked hastily away from the growing passion in his eyes. “Gavin.” His name rolled off her tongue awkwardly. “I bid you good evening.”

’Twas only years of practicing restraint that kept Fiona’s back straight and her steps steady as she exited the great hall. Her maid, Alice, was waiting to greet her when she arrived at her chamber.

“Shall I help you prepare for bed, my lady?”

Alice’s simple, familiar words shocked Fiona out of her trance. Ignoring the hint of trepidation in the older woman’s eyes, Fiona nodded, and then sat silently as the maid performed her usual nighttime duties.

Fiona’s gown and underskirt were removed, replaced by a linen chemise that had seen so many washings it was nearly transparent. Her tightly woven hair was unpinned and unbraided, then brushed until it shined like a glossy veil of gold. Lastly, she washed her face, neck, and arms in a basin of lavender-scented water, then rinsed her mouth from the pitcher of water.

“Shall I stay with you, Lady Fiona, un . . . until he arrives?”

Fiona blanched. She knew her maid was only trying to be helpful, but her fussing made Fiona even more nervous. “I think it best if you leave now. Oh, I forgot to ask. I didn’t see you in the great hall. Did you eat any dinner?”

The maid shook her head. “I couldn’t swallow a bite.”

“I imagine it will take us some time to get used to our new surroundings.”

The maid’s wry expression conveyed how likely she believed that would occur. Fiona couldn’t blame her—everything seemed so very foreign.

A moment later Fiona was alone with her thoughts, sitting rigidly in the chair, her eyes staring at the closed door. Her heart was racing and her hands felt like ice as she gripped the edge of her seat.