Captured Heart (10 page)

Rachel snorted behind her niece. “Did I mention that Highland chiefs are lacking in the fine art of compliments?” She leaned in, but Caden could still hear her words. “What they lack in words they usually make up for in action.”

Color rushed up Meg’s open neckline and into her cheeks. Instead of turning away, she stared up into Caden’s eyes, her own sparkling with mischief and laughter. His iron will stopped him from descending upon that pink mouth and showing her exactly what type of action he had in mind.

“Thank you,” Meg said and bowed her head. “I would also like to thank your sister for the gown. I was told it was one that she left behind and would not miss. Is she here?”

His sister? Here? Thank the Lord, no. “Nay. Sarah lives with her husband’s family toward the sea.”

“Near the Macleod holdings?” Rachel asked.

“Aye.” Caden motioned for them to sit, though he didn’t take his eyes from Meg.

“I will have to thank her when we meet,” she said, and pulled her dress around to perch on the bench. He sat on her left side. The hum of voices rose again as warriors took seats. Ewan sat across from Meg with Jonet and Ann on either side. Gwyneth sat farther down next to Hamish.

“Sweet Diana,” Ewan said, leaning forward on his elbows as if he spoke conspiratorially. “Do not venture into London. I hear that England’s King Henry snaps up pretty young wives before they can rise from their curtsey.”

When Meg laughed, Jonet frowned and Ann’s eyes narrowed. Although Jonet practically fought off marriage offers and Donald’s sister was a bonny maid nearing the age to marry, the two lasses acted like jealous harlots defending their territory.

“There are some Highlanders who use pretty phrases,” Meg said quietly to her aunt. “Perhaps that’s why he’s the only man present with a lovely lady on each arm.”

Caden watched the two women across the table from him. Word had spread that Meg was to be treated like a guest, but had everyone heard his command to hide her true status?

“I am Meg Boswell,” she said, gifting the two women with a sincere smile.

Ann and Jonet glanced at one another and grinned back hesitantly.

“I am Ann Black and this is Jonet Montgomery.”

“Are you both Macbains, living here?”

“Aye, we live in the village,” Jonet answered. “Ann is Donald’s sister and I live under the protection of The Macbain, as my husband was taken in battle.” Jonet regarded Rachel with cold eyes.

“Donald mentioned you on the journey,” Meg said to Ann. “I can tell he cares for you deeply.”

Ann blushed and glanced down. “He is a good brother.”

Meg turned her gaze on Jonet. “I am so sorry for your loss,” she said. “Living alone must be hard. You must be a very strong woman.”

Jonet tipped her head. “I have managed.”

“You two are very fortunate to have one another, to have friends.” Meg tasted the roast goose as she looked between the women.

Caden watched her delicate fingers pull some of the meat. So slender and dainty, yet he’d seen those same fingers probe bleeding wounds, too.

“I’ve never had a friend,” Meg said as if just stating a fact. The only reaction she showed was a slight furrow in her brow. She’d been lonely. No wonder she’d befriended the wolf.

“No friends?” Ewan asked.

Meg shook her head. “I lived on a secluded farm with my aunt and uncle in England. Of course, Nickum is my friend.”

“Nickum?” Ann asked.

“My wolf.”

Jonet glanced nervously at Ann. “I heard the beastie’s been walking the village at night.”

“There’s nothing to fear from Nickum,” Meg added anxiously. “He hunts then.”

Jonet’s eyes grew round.

“Not people,” Meg added. “Only other animals. Rabbits and such. He likes to keep guard, too.”

Jonet and Ann bobbed their heads slowly.

Meg asked the ladies about their skills and lives in the village. She seemed to really be interested in them. Was she trying to win them over, befriend them as allies in this war? That didn’t make sense since she knew nothing of this war, yet. Or so he hoped.

Ann and Jonet talked more and more. What was it about Meg that calmed people, almost lulled them into liking her? Her voice ebbed and flowed in the conversation. The cadence and pitch moved like a song. Caden warmed, his shoulders relaxing. He laughed out loud at one of her quips about the stench of warriors.

Meg turned to him, as did most of the table. “’Tis true, Caden,” she said and his breath caught at the sound of his name in her lush little mouth. The ladies laughed, but Meg didn’t. Her hand on Caden’s arm clenched tightly.

“I…I forgot,” she stammered out.

“She’s pale.” Ann filled Meg’s wine cup. “Drink.”

Caden placed his hand over hers. “What did ye forget, lass?”

“The attack at the loch,” she said, frowning. “Girshmel was there, when I laid against the tree. He’s the one who ordered the other man to shoot Nickum.”

“Girshmel?” Ewan asked. “Ye’re sure? Ye were unconscious.”

Meg shook her head. “I could hear. He said…” Her brow furrowed. The entire table hushed, hanging on her words. “He knew who I was, my full name, and that I was The Munro’s niece. That’s what he called me,” she said. “That I was valuable and that his chief would want me.”

Caden’s gaze lifted to Rachel. Her eyes were cold, concerned, dark. She shook her head. If Girshmel wasn’t working for the Munros, then who?

“How could I possibly be valuable to someone up here in the Highlands?”

Silence fell flat around the table along with everyone’s gazes.

“Girshmel is a warrior for hire,” Caden said, drawing her attention. “He could be working for any of the clans around us. And yer beauty alone makes ye valuable.”

Meg frowned as if she didn’t believe his explanation.

“Also the fact that ye’re English makes ye valuable, especially if they could ransom ye back to yer family.”

“Did the man say anything else that you remember?” Rachel asked.

“Nay, not that I could hear.”

Rachel squeezed Meg’s hand. “Then let us talk of better things.”

Meg had slid closer to Caden during the tale and her thigh brushed his. Even through the many layers of material, the rush of her nearness surged through him. He could imagine the milk-white skin of her thigh pressed against his own. As Ann and Jonet continued to describe the intricate process of preparing wool for weaving, he lifted a cup, his arm brushing Meg’s. The slight flush to her neck was the only sign that she appreciated his proximity. She didn’t move away.

Meg laughed at Jonet’s quip about male sheep being as stubborn as men and bowed her head, causing a curl to escape the tight weave of pearls. A copper honey lock slid against the delicate skin on the back of her neck. The stray turn of silk bounced up and down along her skin as she tipped and tilted her head. If they were alone, alone and without the bloody feud between them, he’d chase that curl with his tongue, savoring the taste of her skin, her delicate flower smell.

“What say ye, Caden?” Ewan asked from across the table.

Caden swallowed hard past the dryness that coated his throat and tore his eyes away from Meg’s neck. Ewan’s eyes held mischief and the edge of jealousy. “My mind has wandered from yer fascinating conversation about sheep,” he replied, his teasing tone making Jonet huff in mock indignation. “What is yer question, Ewan?”

Ewan stared at Caden for a moment. “About Jonet’s woven cloth. Would there be a market to trade it down in the Lowlands, for grain?”

Meg glanced along the table. “Are you low on grain? Was the harvest not good?”

The talk around the table melted away. Angus choked on his ale at the far end, leading to a fit of coughing and cursing as Bruce tried to whack his back. Meg leaned forward across the table to see down to the end. Ewan’s eyes nearly fell from his face at the display and Jonet punched his arm.

“Is he well?” Meg asked. “Perhaps I should check on him,” she said, leaning back. If not for Angus’s cough, she would have surely picked up on the tension in the suddenly still hall.

“Old Angus is always coughing.” Ann indicated Meg’s plate. “Finish yer meal. He’ll wait.”

Meg took another bite of meat. “Was the harvest a poor one, then?”

All eyes drifted to Rachel Munro, who ate the last bite of venison on her plate. The crafty woman continued to chew as if her niece hadn’t just asked the most fury-invoking question she could.

“Some harvests are large and some are small due to unforeseen circumstances,” Rachel said, her steely eyes daring anyone to throw the first stone. “Let us be thankful that the Lord provides this generous meat.”

Meg murmured, “Amen,” and took another bite of roast goose.

She leaned closer to Caden and the energy of her warmth flowed into him, making his muscles ache and his heart pound as if he were in battle. “I think,” Meg started, but then linked with Caden’s gaze and stopped. She sucked in her bottom lip for a brief instant, wetting its pink softness.

Angus began to hack again.

“I think…someone…” She moved her attention away from Caden, down the long table to Angus. “Should see about his coughing. Especially if it has been going on a long time. There was a man back home with a similar barking sound. He needed help. Perhaps Aunt Rachel could—”

“I am quite exhausted, child.” Rachel rose.

Caden and Ewan slowly stood after her, Caden more reluctant at having to break contact with Meg.

“I think I will retire,” she said.

Meg started to rise, but Rachel motioned for her to stay. “Perhaps you should speak to Angus about his cough.”

“You know him?”

Rachel stepped away from the table. “Of course.” She studied Meg, her eyes flicking to Caden. “Angus Riley courted me when I was fresh to the Highlands. Alec stole me right from under his nose.” Though Rachel walked away, regal as a queen, her soft but firm voice carried to Caden and those nearby. “I doubt Angus would let me talk to him, let alone
pray
over him.”

“Well hell,” Ewan said and glanced down the table to Angus and back to Caden. “Not such an ancient feud after all,” he said and then caught himself.

Too late; the words were out. Jonet, Ann, and Ewan stared at Meg. Meg watched Rachel pass the wall with the tapestry. The woman ran her hand over the weave before turning down the dark hall toward the stairwell.

Meg turned to Caden. “That tapestry. The one depicting the beginning of the Munro and Macbain feud shows an injured woman.”

Caden took a sip of his ale. He must give her enough truth to think she knew it all. Enough so she wouldn’t think he was hiding anything. “An ancient accident that the council likes to recall.”

“Did she die?” Meg asked.

“Unfortunately.”

“There were two clans involved?”

Bloody hell!
Caden set his mug down casually. “Aye, Macbains and Munros.”

“Oh.” Meg glanced at Ewan as if she suddenly understood his comment. “Best to smooth out new misunderstandings before they reignite the past,” she said and rose.

“Where are ye going?” Caden asked.

“To meet the council and my almost-uncle.”

Upon seeing her moving their way, the three council members stood and walked to the hearth. Meg changed direction and followed.

Jonet laughed. “They’re running from her.”

Caden frowned at Ewan. “Perhaps they’re worried they may slip and tell the lass there’s a feud and that she’s in the bloody center of it,” he said pointedly.

Ewan rubbed his face with his hand. “I think I’m done for the night.”

“I better follow,” Caden said. “Who knows what they’ll say when cornered?” Then what would he do? He watched her sway gently across the thrushes. She’d find out soon enough, but not bloody yet.

…

Meg had chased them clear across the room, but unless they made a spectacle of themselves brushing past her, she’d cornered them. “I am Meg Boswell. I understand that the three of you are very important to this clan.”

The three men glanced warily at one another.

“You are the council?”

“Aye, we are,” the man with a patch over one eye said. When the silence piled awkwardly between them he bowed his head stiffly. “I am Kenneth Macbain, a distant cousin to Caden’s father.”

Meg curtsied.

The man turned pink. “Kenneth. Call me Kenneth, or Ancient Kenneth.”

“Ancient as in wise,” Meg said.

“Ancient as in old as Hades,” the third man said, pulling on his gray-streaked beard until he winced, then grabbed his mug from the mantel over the hearth.

Grumpy old men were often the funniest. “And you are…?”

“Bruce Fenegin.” He stifled a belch.

She bowed her head and turned to Angus. Should she admit that she knew his name?

“Angus Riley,” he said and tipped his head, though his gaze wouldn’t meet hers for more than the briefest of seconds. Did the man still love her aunt? Poor soul.

Bruce belched and murmured an excuse. Kenneth stared at her with his one sharp eye. Angus watched the flames and drowned another cough with ale. Meg sat in a chair and the three followed. She felt comfortable with them. She’d grown up in the company of her older aunt and uncle and their few peers from the village. Older folk loved to tell stories and all one had to do to win them over was to listen. Maybe then she could get close enough to help Angus with his cough.

“So ye are here to visit,” Kenneth said.

Angus coughed into his hand. Dry, like brittle wind; not a good sound.

“Yes, until my aunt returns for me.” If she could only touch Angus, she’d know for certain what ailed his lungs. From the way he squelched the cough, Meg didn’t think he’d like her probing him with questions…or her hands. He seemed to pretend the cough wasn’t there.

She turned to Kenneth. “Has your eye been injured long?”

“Aye.” He leaned back in his chair. “’Tis a bloody tale.”

Meg matched his posture, a technique for dealing with difficult patients she’d learned from Aunt Mary. “I would like to hear a bloody tale.”

Bruce laughed and farted at the same time. The poor man must be puffed up with gas. She’d send him some marjoram on the morrow.

Kenneth narrowed his good eye. “Ye seem like a slight thing. I’d not have ye pale and fainting over the details.”