Devil in a Kilt (9 page)

Or
bold.

But
what?

Had she
rolled among the pigs, soiling the fine gown he'd provided for her? Or had she
hacked off her glorious tresses, thinking to spite and embarrass him by coming
to the wedding feast bald as an old hairless man?

If
so, she'd be surprised, for he'd be pleased... she would have saved him the
trouble of shaving her head himself. The saints knew he was sorely tempted to
do so.

"‘Tis
him! She's brought the lad with her."

Clear,
sharp, and going straight to his heart like a well-aimed arrow, the quickly
whispered words cut through the fog of his frustrations.

Duncan
froze.

It
mattered naught who'd uttered the words. He'd ne'er know and didn't care.

‘Twas
the
meaning
behind them what stopped him cold.

He
didn't realize he'd loosened his grip on his chalice until it hit the top of
the table with a dull thud, its contents staining the tablecloth the deep red
of spilled blood.

Dropping
his wine seemed to break the spell of unnatural silence, too, for the moment
he looked up from the ruined tablecloth, the entire hall erupted into
pandemonium.

A
cacophony of voices.

Sheer
chaos.

And
through it all Duncan heard but one word: Robbie.

The
lass had done what not a single of his clansmen would have dared.

She'd
brought the lad before him, into his hall, and chosen a time when he could do
naught about it. Not with the priest sitting to his right and his men watching
his every move.

‘Twas
no secret what they thought of his behavior toward the child, scarce little
they cared his heart had been wrenched from his chest and trod upon, ground
into the dirt.

Duncan's
blood ran hot and cold as he searched the shadows, trying hard to catch a
glimpse of his bride and the lad he'd once thought his son.

Dread
filled him as he anticipated the moment his gaze would fall upon them. Yet deep
inside, anticipation made his heart pump ever faster whilst anger at his own
weakness pulled his brows together in a fierce grimace.

His
new wife best be thankful for her sex. Were she a man, he'd flay her within an
inch of her life for such flagrant disregard of his orders. Not a soul under
his roof would've attempted such an affront.

He
felt Marmaduke grip his arm and heard him speaking to him, but he couldn't make
sense of the words. His head pounded, and the blood rushing through his veins
turned all sound into an unintelligible buzz.

All
except the one word that caused him so much pain and cut straight through his
defenses as if they were naught but butter.

Robbie,
Robbie, Robbie
... the name echoed around the cavernous hall,
bouncing off the stone walls, reverberating in his ears until he feared his
head would burst asunder.

If
only he could see better, but the haze from the hearth fires and wall torches
filled the vaulted chamber, blurring his vision, making it hard for him to spot
them.

Not
that he wanted to.

Still,
may God have mercy on him, his traitorous gaze searched the darkness. It'd been
nigh onto two years since he'd closely looked upon the boy, truly
seen
him.

Breaking
away from Marmaduke's iron grasp, Duncan pushed back from the table and stood.
He leaned forward, planting his hands firmly on the table to keep from sinking
back into his chair... a humbling possibility considering the way his knees
threatened to buckle on him.

With
the last reserves of his willpower, he forced his legs to cease trembling while
he scanned the crowded hall.

Then,
of a sudden, the murky air seemed to clear, and he located his wife almost
immediately. Her unbound hair, shining brighter than the most brilliant flame,
gave her away. His first squire stood next to her, and he, too, resembled a
flame, but ‘twas his face what glowed, not his hair.

Aye,
Lachlan knew well his master would be mightily displeased.

And
his contrition was well justified. But Lachlan's punishment would be dealt
later. At the moment, he cared naught about his squire and less about his new
lady wife.

His
entire attention focused on the small boy she held by the hand.

Taller
and sturdier than the chubby bairn Duncan used to bounce on his knee, Robbie'd
grown into a handsome lad. Someone had draped a child-sized plaid in the
green-and-blue MacKenzie colors over his left shoulder, tucking it in place
under a finely tooled and obviously new leather belt.

A
belt
he
should have fashioned.

Duncan
blinked back the stinging sensation in his eyes as he stared at the beautifully
crafted belt. The last thing he'd made for Robbie was a toy sword he'd carved
from wood for the lad's fourth birthday.

He
could still recall the look of wonder on Robbie's face when he'd given it to
him.

It
seemed like a hundred years had passed since then.

Without
warning, a red-hot throbbing started in the back of Duncan's neck then spread
lower to grip his chest in a stranglehold that fair squeezed the breath out of
his lungs.

The
longer he stared at the boy, the more painful the tightness became, but he
couldn't tear his gaze away.

At
six, Robbie looked every bit a miniature version of a fine MacKenzie warrior.
‘Twas no denying the clansblood ran thick and proud through his veins. Even
from across the hall, it was plain to see the lad bore a sharp likeness to
Duncan.

Nay,
he looked
exactly
like Duncan.

And
how proud he'd once been of the undeniable resemblance.

The
pain in Duncan's gut intensified, hurting as fiercely as if someone had thrust
a knife into his belly and now twisted the blade, cruelly upping the torture,
taking advantage of a besieged man already on his knees.

A
deep groan welled in his throat, and he disguised it as a cough. All would have
been so simple if Kenneth MacKenzie, his hated half brother and his first wife's
lover, couldn't pass for his twin.

Indeed,
fate had shown no mercy in stealing all he'd ever loved. Should he and his foe
stand with the child between them before the wisest of men, there wouldn't be
one among them who could say whether the seed that begot Robbie had sprung from
his or Kenneth's loins.

And
the doubt was killing him.

Had
killed
him, for surely his life hadn't been worth living since the day he'd learned of
Cassandra's treachery.

But
mayhap an end to his suffering was close at hand. High were his hopes Linnet
MacDonnell—nay,
MacKenzie
—would soon put an end to his days, and nights,
of despair.

As
he stared at the boy, a great weariness bore down on him. A heavy, crushing
weight, pushing aside all else, leaving only a desperate need to lower himself
into his chair.

By
the Rood, he couldn't bear to stand and watch their approach.

‘Twas
too much.

With
great effort, he sank back down, letting out his pent-up breath in a deep sigh
the moment he rested his back against the cushions of his canopied master seat.

Ever
chivalrous, Marmaduke poured him a liberal dose of wine he gladly accepted,
gratefully curling his fingers around the heavy silver chalice.

Clutching
the drinking vessel provided a good way to hide the trembling of his hands
whilst he waited. He only hoped, once his wife wove her way through the hall
and took her place at his side, she'd finally grant him the answer only she
could give.

And
by the power of the Holy Rood, he prayed he'd like what she'd have to tell him.

Her
new husband was drunk!

Or
so angry sheer fury twisted his features and glazed his deep blue eyes, turning
them into dark pools that stared right through her rather than at her.

Linnet
scooted as far away from Duncan MacKenzie as she dared considering
circumstances deemed she occupy the seat of honor, a smaller duplicate of his
own canopied chair, and also share a trencher with him.

Trying
hard to hide her nervousness, she peered at him from beneath lowered lashes,
watching as he held tight to his chalice with one hand and gripped the edge of
the table with the other. The whiteness of his knuckles and the rigid set of
his jaw made her believe it was ire and not an overindulgence in spirits what
ailed him.

She
swallowed hard but kept her back straight.

Ne'er
had she thought he'd be so vexed, so distant and cold.

He'd
barely acknowledged her as she'd taken her place beside him. His greeting to
Robbie had been even more sparse. A few words, a curt nod, and then he'd
ignored them both. He conducted himself as if he were many leagues away and not
so close she could smell the distinct masculine scent of him with each breath
she took.

Linnet
stole another glimpse at his uncompromising profile. He stared straight ahead,
purposely avoiding her eyes... and those of the child she'd drawn onto her lap.

He
didn't even bother to hide his displeasure, giving his ill will free rein to
thrum through him. ‘Twas visible for all and sundry to see.

Anger
of her own simmered deep within her at his dismissive behavior. She slid a
sidelong glance at him, seeing the grim expression on his handsome face and
feeling his wrath over her daring to bring his son before him.

"Lady?"
an expectant voice interrupted her thoughts, and she turned, extending her
hands to a young squire who held ewer, basin, and towels. "May I?" he
asked, respectfully inclining his head before pouring scented water over her
hands.

Grateful
for the distraction, Linnet thanked the squire, then assisted Robbie in washing
his hands as well. For
his
sake, she tried to ignore the tension emanating
from her husband, but doing so was hard.

Despite
herself, Linnet's heart wrenched at the sight of the mighty Laird MacKenzie.

His
son's presence wouldn't affect him thus did he not truly love the child.

This
man needed to be taught an important lesson. If only she could open his eyes
and heart, make him realize and admit he cared for the lad whether or nay his
blood ran true in Robbie's veins.

Only
then would she tell him the truth.

A
small tug on her sleeve caught her attention. "Should I leave, lady?"
Robbie's eyes were rounded, full of an unwanted child's vulnerability.
"I'm not supposed to come near the high table."

"What
nonsense," Linnet disagreed. "Someday you will be laird. All chiefs,
present or future, must sit at the high table."

Linnet
shot a quick glance at her husband. "Is it not so?"

His
jaw twitched, and he took his time answering, but finally he grudgingly
admitted, "Aye, ‘tis the accustomed way."

Sitting
up straighter, Linnet smoothed Robbie's hair and said, "Be assured, son,
‘tis your place here as well as mine."

"Son
you say," Duncan leaned close and whispered into her ear. "And
is he, I ask you?"

Turning
to face him, her breath caught in her throat, so intense was his stare. "I
canna yet see, milord," she lied, once more begging the good saints to
guide her. "Mayhap if I saw more of you both together I could tell."

She
wouldn't have deemed it possible, but the expression on his face grew darker.
"Mayhap if you would hone your gift such wouldn't be necessary?"

"And
if you, milord, would but look into your heart, a gift such as mine would not
be needed," she whispered back, not caring if she raised his ire further.
"But then, ‘tis said you do not possess one."

From
the other side of her, Linnet heard the Sassunach offering Robbie sugared
wafers. Anxious to avoid further confrontation, she turned her back on her
liege husband lest he grow so riled he raise his voice, hurting the child with
his cruel words.

Yet
even facing away from him, she felt enveloped by his dark presence.

Linnet
shivered. Mayhap ‘twas more good fortune than insult that he didn't want her
for a
true
wife. She'd rather stay a virgin all her days than be bedded
by a man so cold-hearted as Duncan MacKenzie.

Gazing
at the boy on her lap, she prayed for wisdom. She'd oft heard none were given a
burden heavier than they could carry, yet she mightily doubted her ability to
shoulder this new one she'd taken upon herself.

Her
instincts told her both father and son needed her, both husband and stepson
suffered great pain.

But
could she aid them without unduly hurting either?

Would
she hurt
herself in
attempting to do so?

‘Twas
this truly the reason she'd been sent here ... or was she merely interfering
where she had no right to meddle?