Knight In My Bed (27 page)

"The MacKinnons have been feuding with us and the MacLeans for years, so a motive is there. They could have used stealth to reach Doon." Lorne's argument drew angry looks from the others.

Struan gave a derisive snort. "Only the veriest of innocents would believe thus."

Lorne shot to his feet. "You bray like a mule," he vowed, earning a titter from Ailbert. "With the exception of Lady Isolde, there isn't an innocent at this table. We are all possessed of our own vices and follies, my own self perhaps more than most."

Ribald chuckles rippled through the ranks of the elders. One or two of them jabbed their elbows into their table partners' ribs, and wry sidelong looks flew the length and breadth of the table.

Lorne swept the lot of them with a withering glare, then sat back down. "That the MacLean must do penance is without question. Grounds to suspect the MacKinnons exist but are slight. So long as no one amongst the MacLeans admits the act, their laird is honor-bound to shoulder the blame."

His words chilled Isolde.

She'd hoped his show of lenience had meant he'd discovered something new, that he might speak out in favor of releasing Donall the Bold and his friend.

Taking an ale mug off the table, Lorne drained it. "Heedless of the MacLean bearing the guilt, my conscience as a belted knight will smite me cold if I do not condemn the disregard we've shown his gentled status."

"Since you're the only knight amongst us, I vow the rest of us are safe from being thus afflicted?" someone called.

A chorus of hoots and guffaws followed.

Struan helped himself to a deep draught of ale. "You are alone with your views, Lorne. The council sees no need to grace the MacLean with chivalric concern." He slammed down the tankard. "They crave a long and odious death. As do I.”

"I am not gainsaying his demise," Lorne argued. "I would but enjoin you to consider the valor he has shown despite the agonies we've suffered upon him. His bravery and noble rank should be respected."

"
Respect
?" someone cried. "Noble rank? I dinna care if
 
the ghost o' the Good King Robert Bruce his self vouchsafes the scoundrel's character. I say hie him back to the sea tower."

"Aye!" others agreed.

Lorne slammed his fist on the tabletop. The grumblings ceased. When the silence held, he gave a satisfied nod. "Let us not besmirch our good name by denying him a dry pallet to sleep on between now and his execution. I would ask naught else."

"Spoken with the eloquence of a limp-wristed courtier," someone muttered.

A mere whisper, but enough to put the fire of self-righteousness back in Struan's eyes. "Besmirch our good name?" He threw up his hands. "I vow you speak more like a woman than a tarse licker."

Isolde's sharp intake of breath was swallowed by Lorne's outraged roar. He pushed to his feet so quickly, his chair toppled over. His right hand, balled to a white-knuckled fist, hovered menacingly near his dirk. "Slander me thus again, and I shall kill you," he seethed. "Kinsman or nay."

"Do so, and you'd sully yourself with a darker stain than taints the MacLean." Lounging in his chair, Struan leveled an impervious stare at Lorne. "What would such a grievous sin do to your fabled sense of honor?"

Lorne's only response was the jerking of a muscle in his jaw.

"You do not know?" Struan flicked his fingers. "Cast your honor to the four winds is what it'd do."

Dark waves of anger rolled off Lorne, but after a painfully long moment, he unclenched his hands. "I shall keep my honor until I breathe my last," he said. "You would be wise to acquire some."

Pandemonium broke loose. Struan laughed. "You wax proud if you think to advise me what I ought or ought not acquire." He waved a careless hand at the assemblage. "Nor are we a company of gentles, gathered to sing praises for the supposed valor of a roistering devil the likes of Donall MacLean."

Several of the council members thumped their fists on the tabletop, others stamped their aged feet. All heartily voiced their accord.

Fickle faithless fools.

Isolde forced a tight little smile, a contrivance, but necessary to conceal her true purpose.

"We are here," Struan declared, his chest swelling, "to wreak vengeance on a man Lorne would have us admire simply because, like Lorne, he wears the spurs and belt of knighthood."

Beside her, Isolde could sense Lorne's ire churning inside him. Quite boldly, she slipped her hand onto his knee and squeezed. Blessedly, his tensed muscles relaxed a bit beneath her fingers.

"Conferred knighthood does not make a man," Struan thundered on. "The MacLean's vestments are no longer white as befitting those claiming such ennobled privilege, but soiled red with the spilled blood of one of our own."

Nods and grunts of approval rippled around the table, but a few mumbles about "Archibald" could be heard as well.

Struan sent a dark look in the direction whence the references to his brother had come. "Were Archibald here, he would not want us cozening the perpetrator of his daughter's death.”

Lileas's sweet face rose up in Isolde's mind. Her guile-less blue eyes loomed troubled, her pale lips moved in wordless distress, but whatever message she hoped to convey was lost. The fleeting image was overpowered by Struan's diatribe.

Struan stood. "Archibald would want us to protect his remaining daughter and we shall! To the death, if the good Lord so wills it."

His watery blue eyes clouding with a trace of perplexity, Ailbert lifted a hand. "How shall we protect her if the MacLeans attack?"

"Not by the bite of your blade." Struan shook back his coarse mane of rust-colored hair. "The MacLeans will not seek to avenge a death they'll think befell the wretch at sea."

"What if they wax suspicious?" Ailbert's grizzled chin jutted forward. "Your sword arm cannot be of much better use than mine."

Muted laughter erupted around the table. Struan glowered. "Am I surrounded by fools? “
How shall we protect her?
"' he groused. "Why do you think we're wedding her to MacArthur?"

Isolde's breath caught at the mention of the dread name, but she maintained an air of indifference. Ailbert pursed his lips, belligerence oozing out of every line in his wizened face.

"Dinna tell me you doubt the stoutness of Balloch's sword arm?" Struan carped at him. "The man has never been defeated."

"His braw arm will have to stretch a fair distance to defend these walls." Ailbert spread his hands in emphasis.

Isolde glanced at Lorne. He' d leaned forward and watched the exchange with growing interest.

"What fool twaddle is that?" someone asked. "Balloch
 
has sworn to bring a whole company of warriors to man Dunmuir's ramparts."

Isolde's hand clenched on Lorne's knee.

"And so he will," Struan declared, reclaiming his seat. He lifted his tankard to his lips but paused in mid-sip when Ailbert rapped his walking crook against the table edge.

"By the devil!" he railed, spewing ale foam onto the table. "What ails you now, Ailbert?"

"I would know how we are to defend our lady," Ailbert piped, his reedy voice glazed with self-importance. "MacArthur will bring neither his own nor his men's might to defend us."

Struan slammed down his tankard. "What prattle-monger has been filling your head with such tripe?"

"More than one." Ailbert met Struan's glare. "'Tis claimed he'd be wise to keep his strength at home. His father will want all his men to guard their own holdings."

"From whom?" Struan's brows lifted. "Their isle is so remote, there's hardly any would care to claim it."

Ailbert drew back his bony shoulders. "The Sassenachs would."

Something flashed in Struan's eyes, and whatever it was, it lifted the fine hairs on the back of Isolde's neck. Her uncle appeared riled, but not surprised by Ailbert's comments.

"The English?" Struan snorted. "'Tis bleating like an old goat, you are -- full of stuff and nonsense. Edward of England signed a treaty two years ago. He will not be harrying our waters."

Ailbert shook his head. 'The Treaty o' Northampton was signed before Robert Bruce died. Times are perilous now."

"Perilous for you if you do not cease spouting such drivel," Struan snarled.

Ailbert raised his walking crook in the air. "'Tis the God's truth. My sword skills may not be what they once were, but Re still got my wits." He lowered his stick. "All of 'em!"

"Could have fooled me," Struan muttered.

Lorne expelled a long breath. "Ailbert speaks the truth. Many claim Edward Balliol would seek English aid to wrest «be Scottish throne from young David's tender hands."

"Aye, and Edward the Third is granting him that support, and much of it," someone else tossed out. "The young English king is said to have his grandfather's success at arms.
 
He'll prove a greater threat than his loose-hipped sire should
 
he turn his attentions northward."

Ailbert puffed out his chest. “The MacArthur will want his men atop his own walls. Each last one o' them, most especially his son."

Lorne placed his hand on Isolde's shoulder. "Balloch has vowed to live here and reinforce Dunmuir."

A speculative gleam entered Struan's heavy-browed eyes. "If such tidings be true, should we not accommodate our lady's future husband in these perilous times?"

Isolde could feel the blood draining from her face. Surely Struan would not suggest she live with Balloch on his isle?

Not that she intended to live with him at all.

Lorne's hand tightened on her shoulder. "What are you suggesting, Struan?"

"Only that, a
suggestion,"
he said, stroking his chin. "Mayhap our lady should reside at Balloch's holding after they've wed? He can better defend his father's walls, she is removed from marauding MacLeans, and we gain prestige by impressing on the MacArthurs what congenial allies we are."

He paused to draw a breath. "Once the Sassenach threat has passed, the happy twain can return to Dunmuir."

Stunned surprise held Isolde's protest firmly in her throat. Blessedly, Lorne spoke for her. Fixing an accusatory stare on Struan, he said, "Ne'er have I heard a more unblessed pack of fool ideas. The lady Isolde belongs here."

As one, the council sided with Lorne.

Startlingly unperturbed, Struan shrugged. "As the council deems," he said, waving a dismissive hand. "It was only a consideration."

"And so I wish it to remain." Isolde found her voice at last. "I also wish Donall the Bold to remain in Gavin MacFie's celL I care not what is done to him days," she lied, "but I want him granted the respect a worthy man of the sword deserves. Friend or foe, doomed to die or nay."

She pushed to her feet. "Such is the way of our Isles, how my father would have ruled, and" - she lifted her chin - "how I rule."

Her authority asserted, her gaze flicked from Struan's tight-lipped countenance to each of the other council members. Some gaped, some grinned. Ailbert tittered. All save her uncle had a spark of admiration in their eyes.

Admiration she didn't deserve.

She was an imposter whose fibbing tongue boasted more forks than the devil's own.

Quickly, before they noticed, she excused herself and exited the hall, Bodo scampering after her.

Bodo, and her pack of lies.

She did care what happened to Donall the Bold.

And she did not want him kept in Sir Gavin's cell.

She wanted him with her.

"You've a visitor."

Something about Rory's tone gave Donall a niggling notion just who the visitor was.

Who he hoped the visitor might be.

His eyes snapped open, the sleep he'd been chasing forgotten. The pock-faced guardsman filled the threshold, his feet pressing against the doorjambs, his meaty arms folded. He wore a scowl darker than the crack of the devil's arse.

Donall frowned, too.

“ ‘Twas easy enough to do, giddy as he was just knowing he'd see her again any moment. Giddified elation at the mere sniff of a wench's swishing skirts was a frightful enough state to vex any man.

A powerful urge to see Rory vexed as well assailed him, so he folded his arms behind his head and fixed the oaf with an impertinent stare. "Pray, who can it be?" he pretended to puzzle. "A priest to fumigate the cell with smoke of myrrh or a well-skilled hen-wife with her basket of charms and incantations?"

Donall could feel Gavin's sidelong stare, but couldn't have swiped the taunts from his tongue if the sainted Holy Mother herself asked him to. Watching the whore-dog bastard Rory sputter and fidget provided too costly an entertainment to easily relinquish.

"I regret to tell you, neither are welcome," Donall called to him. "Myrrh makes Gavin sneeze, and I ceased believing in the dubious talents of self-professed wise women at the ripe age of four."

Rory's hand flew to his sword. "Ingrate MacLean whoreson," he hissed.

Donall crossed his ankles and flashed his most winning smile.

"Step aside, Rory." Her voice, soft and smooth as sweet cream, came from behind the lout. "I cannot enter if you would block the door."