Circle of Honor (29 page)

Each of his mates took a stiff guzzle of ale, and the musicians began the familiar tune. Within minutes Adam's haste to speak to Gwenyth receded as he reveled in the dance. Performed almost entirely on the toes, it required a proscribed order of steps and leaps, and Adam lost himself in the challenge of the movements and in a skill he'd always excelled at.

The people crowded close, too close, and someone accidentally bumped against his back, breaking Adam's concentration. A gasp rose from the onlookers as his left foot nudged the blade of the top sword. Determined to finish without another fault, he pushed aside the distraction and continued.

When the music ended, the applause and congratulations were robust, as if to overshadow the portent. No one said a word about his touch of the blade, and Adam shook off his apprehension. 'Twas naught but a superstition anyway. He excused himself and strode to where Gwenyth stood, hoping to dispel the hint of foreboding the dance had evoked.

“Greetings, wife.” He didn't have to force the smile that accompanied his words, for he truly delighted in seeing her here among his clan.

“My laird.”

The sound of her dulcet voice struck a cord within him, crowding out these past several days of cool politeness between them.

Cool because he'd been unwilling to face her rejection. Unwilling to know for sure that she would not commit herself to this marriage. And yet what did he expect? Nothing had changed. Leod would take her or kill her if given the chance, and Bruce had not rescinded the order to hold her.

Even though she smiled at him, he believed she put on a show—a brave smile, here among her enemies. He curtailed the impulse to pull her into his arms and kiss her and asked instead, “Are you enjoying the festivities?”

“AYE, INDEED.” The sight of Adam gracefully leaping and moving between the sword blades had impressed Gwenyth to no end. How could a man of his size move so precisely in such a small space?

Glancing up at Adam, she hoped he couldn't tell what she had been thinking.

He was grinning and wiping the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. “Why haven't you come to watch the athletics?”

“I've been busy helping your mother.”

“Aye, and I'm sure she's thankful for it. But I'd be pleased if you would attend tomorrow.”

He sounded a bit like a small boy hoping for a favor, and his eager, open request for her company was impossible to resist. “Aye, then. I'll come if it would please you.”

He beamed. “I shall escort you.”

Controlling her features so as to hide her delight in the prospect of Adam's company, she nodded and smiled.

Adam was called away to dance another round, and Gwenyth studied his broad back as he walked away. Each day it became more and more difficult to withhold her affection from him. Kind, generous, and honorable to a fault—surely she could create a satisfying life with such a man, despite their differences.

She had been praying, asking God to help her resolve her need for revenge with her need for the love and security Adam promised. So far, no answer had come, but she was hopeful.

As Adam disappeared into the crowd, Gwenyth's attention snagged on the man who had just entered the hall. Although she'd felt safe enough this evening, the many strangers in the hall made her anxious. And now Leod added to her apprehension.

She slipped away to her chamber, and Morogh followed her.

“I'll be outside yer door through the night, my lady,” he said. “But lock the door all the same.”

She did not hesitate to slide the bolt home.

DARON WATCHED LEOD enter the hall and accept a tankard from a serving girl. Gwenyth and Morogh left soon after. He'd watched Gwenyth's encounter with Adam, and they seemed to have parted amiably. Actually Adam had looked like a bairn on a holiday.

The thought made him smile.

He turned back to his task for the night—keeping a close eye on Nathara. He'd danced with her once, and he planned to do so again as soon as the musicians played another folk tune. Until then he occupied himself with watching her flirt with every man who came within range.

That thought did not make him smile.

The bruise on her face had faded quickly, or perhaps she had disguised it with some womanly art. Daron controlled the anger that accompanied the thought of Leod striking her. Despite her admission that she'd gone to him willingly, Daron held only scorn for a man who would hit a woman.

But Nathara did not dally with the fellow who stood with her now. She faced him, hands on hips, then her back stiffened and she pushed her hands against his chest. Daron quickened his steps, never taking his eyes from the two, fearing the man's reaction. He recognized him as the archer who had bested everyone in today's competition.

By the time Daron was close enough to hear, the man concluded the discussion with a courtly bow and a quiet, “As you wish.”

Daron breathed a sigh of relief just as Nathara whirled around and charged into him. Steadying her with his hand, he demanded, “Who was that?”

“No one,” she bit out.

“Did he refuse your favors, then?”

“My favors are no concern of yours.”

“Ah, but they are, fair Nathara.”

She eyed him suspiciously. “Why?”

He dared not let her know of Adam's order to keep her under watch, and the only other excuse he could muster was to feign interest.

“Who is he?” Daron asked with more jealousy than he'd planned.

Nathara smirked, but there was a touch of desperation in her voice along with the flirtation. “He's the archer who won today's match.”

“Aye, I know that. Why did you have cross words with him?”

“You'll have to ask
him.”
She pushed past Daron, and he let her go. What business was it of his whom she chose to meet later? And how was it possible that he, Daron of Buchan, was interested in a woman who passed her favors around as if on a platter?

Foolishness.

He shook his head, then followed discreetly, suddenly hating the order to follow and see for himself what she was up to. Not because he cared what she did. No, he followed her because Adam asked and no other reason.

Thus assured of his motives, he trailed her. She went directly to her own cottage, and though he watched well into the night as the music faded and the castle quieted, no one shared Nathara's home with her this night.

As the night deepened, Daron pulled his plaid tighter about his shoulders and settled in for an uncomfortable night of contemplation. Who was the mysterious archer, and why did he have heated words with Nathara? A vague uneasiness plagued Daron as he dozed.

When dawn finally broke, he rose stiffly at the approach of the man who would keep Nathara under watch for the morning. Before he broke his fast, Daron searched the castle and grounds for the bowman.

He was nowhere to be found.

GWENYTH STARED out the arrow slit in her chamber, looking down on the gathering of clans. Despite her grief at Angus's death, she had been reluctant to keep company with those who'd come to mourn, preferring to remain in the kitchen or helping Eva instead. And this morning, a gnawing sense of anxiety, a feeling of dread, held her captive in her room.

Last night she'd promised to join Adam at today's festivities, despite her reluctance to mingle with the many strangers within the walls. Leod Macpherson was here—she'd seen him last evening and fled the hall to avoid an encounter. The castle and grounds were swarming with those who might wish her harm.

Adam arrived at her door, looking incredibly handsome in his best plaid, held at the shoulder with the rampant cat brooch. “Come, we'll stroll amongst my clan.” She could swear she actually saw his chest puff with pride. “And I'll impress you with my prowess.”

She stifled a giggle, draped her
arasaid
around her shoulders, and took his proffered arm. “I am ready, then.”

Thin sunlight filtered through a cloud-filled sky, but no mist or fog hung in the cool air. Gwenyth pulled her plaid closer as Adam led her to the area of the outer bailey set aside for the caber toss.

Gwenyth had not seen such a competition for many years, but she remembered it vividly. A poplar tree was cut to a length twice as tall as a man, and the bark stripped from it. The men took turns seeing how far they could throw the massive pole. The trick was to heave it end over end and get it to land as straight away from him as possible.

The competition was already underway, and Gwenyth couldn't hide her amusement at the balancing act required in order to juggle the upright spar into position. Once satisfied, the man tossed it forward, and the giant tree flipped in midair before it tumbled and bounced just slightly off-center.

The crowd cheered as the smiling fellow carried the pole back for the next entrant.

She turned to Adam. “You were able to compete in this?”

“Not very well. I was eliminated in the first round. But 'tis the laird's duty to attempt each sport.”

She grinned at his sheepish admission. “Tell me again why they do this?”

Adam moved them to a better observation point, then stood behind her. His arm nearly encircled her as he pointed, and she relaxed into his solid chest. His breath hitched before he said, “See how the pole is notched along one side? A man who can toss the log against the wall of a fortress with the notches facing up can then climb the pole and breach the wall.”

“How clever.” She felt safe as cares and duties fled in the simple bliss of a beautiful day with an agreeable partner.

“But I have also seen the skill used to toss a limb over a rain-swollen creek.” His breath grazed her cheek, and she pulled away slightly, afraid to show her reaction to his nearness. But a shiver betrayed her, and he pulled her close again.

“Ah, then it is a very practical skill,” she teased.

Tongue in cheek, he answered, “Aye. Perhaps I should teach you.”

She laughed, relaxing as Adam guided her to a pavilion for something to eat. They sat at the makeshift table and devoured bannocks and savory colcannon stew before heading off to watch the hammer throw.

Everywhere they walked, Gwenyth was greeted with obvious curiosity and shy respect. But there were also other glances that clearly displayed animosity. She shivered.

Adam touched her hand where it rested on his arm. “I thought the hot stew would warm you, wife.”

“ 'Tis not the air that chills me.”

“Aye, I've noticed the stares.” He halted. “Do you wish to return to your room?”

“Not without seeing Daron.” A stubborn part of her refused to cower from those few people who did not want her here. “No one has threatened me, and somehow I doubt they would risk your wrath to bring me harm.”

“I think you're right. Come, let's find Daron.”

They walked past the hammer-throwing event. “Were you eliminated in this event as well?” she asked.

“Aye. Barely managed ten feet. However,” Adam bragged, “I am still among the leaders in the stone toss.” He guided her to where that sport was taking place.

It didn't take much imagination to see how this event came to be. Gwenyth could remember her brothers and cousins tossing rocks into the loch, seeing who could throw the farthest, who could heft the heaviest rock. She smiled at bittersweet memories of so many whose lives ended much too young.

She offered Adam a tentative smile, pushing her memories aside. As they approached the other athletes readying themselves, Gwenyth saw Daron among them.

Daron came to stand with them. “As laird, Adam makes the first throw—he's really very good at this,” Daron admitted. “So far only Seamus and I have bested him.”

Throwing the stone only required the use of one arm, and Adam was obviously enjoying his success. Gwenyth watched as he made his second throw and the distance was measured. There were many admiring sounds, and Adam grinned.

His grin widened when he caught her eye, and she smiled back, unable to resist the warmth of his obvious affection for her. Seeing him standing there so pleased with himself and looking more handsome than any man had a right to, she wanted nothing more than to move into his arms and promise him anything . . . everything.

But he had made her his wife and imprisoned her with the words. Not a prison formed of love and attachment, but the walls of his keep and the enmity of his king.

And yet . . .

What had he said when he told her about love and loyalty? He expected both from her, but he'd given her no words of love. But didn't actions speak louder than words?

And yet. What if? But no. She sighed.

Daron and the others finished their throws, and to her surprise and delight, Daron was declared the winner. Adam strode toward them, and Gwenyth braced for the onslaught of emotions his presence seemed to bring.

Clapping Daron on the back, he winked at Gwenyth. “If I'd known he could beat me at the stone toss, I'd have refused his vow of loyalty.”

Daron grinned. “Should I have held back and let you win?”

“Never,” Adam responded, his voice full of good cheer.

In high spirits Daron joined them, and the three of them moved about the grounds. By late afternoon the competitions were finished, and a loud bell sounded.

Adam's cheer visibly faded as he said, “ 'Tis time to name my personal guard.” He led them to a small rise, indicating she and Daron should stand there while he made the announcement.

ADAM'S JOY in Gwenyth's company and the day's festivities abruptly ended in anticipation of what lay ahead. He dreaded the naming of his guard, for Leod had done well and made no secret he expected to be chosen. How could Adam invite a man he couldn't trust into his inner circle? How could he explain if he did not?

The answer eluded him.

Leod approached him. “My laird, I propose one final contest, all in fun and in the name of sport.”

Uneasy, Adam said, “And what would that be?”