“I suppose I should thank you.”
“Only if the gratitude is sincere. If it’s not, it’ll be sure to curdle your belly. Hungry?” he asked. Chin propped in his hand, he regarded her with a friendly smile.
Rowena shrugged and looked out at the revelers, seeing a sinister side to the merriment. The two men who’d nearly felled her were themselves rolling on the floor. She caught the glint of a dirk in one man’s hand, but none of those nearby made any attempt to intervene. Mayhap because many of them were drunk, too. A few had passed out on the tables. One man lay retching beneath a bench. No one paid any attention.
She looked away, just in time to see a large man grab one of the serving maids, sling her over his shoulder and stride from the hall. “Why does someone not stop him?”
“’Twould be one against a hundred, and most of them so drunk they’d not listen to reason.”
“Where are your men?”
“Out and about. We none of us care for the entertainments to be had at Blantyre these days.”
“But...” Rowena began, then she sighed and looked down at her hands. She’d fought this same battle when she’d first come to Hillbrae, for the Gunns were a wild and unruly bunch. Padruig alone could control them, except when they were gone with drink. Rowena had learned to lock the maids in her solar when the men were in a festive mood. These men were meaner than the Gunns, she decided. Her gaze strayed to the pair of fighters. One of them lay bleeding on the floor. Seeing the other calmly going through his victim’s money pouch, she shivered.
“This is no place for you, lass. Let me provide an escort to see you home on the morrow.”
Much as she wanted to go, Rowena shook her head. “I cannot leave till my purpose is accomplished.”
“Milord.” A plump, homely maid approached the table and set down a cloth-covered tray. “Here’s the food ye asked cook to keep by for ye and the lady.”
“My thanks, Mairi, and to cook, also.” His smile would have charmed the birds from the trees.
“Always a pleasure to serve ye.” Mairi cast an envious glance at Rowena, then hurried away, evading a dozen groping hands with skillful swats.
“You have many friends among the serving staff.”
“The best kind...if a man plans to eat well.” He whisked the cover off the tray and sniffed. “Cook makes the best meat pies.” He lifted one and juggled it, wincing. “Hot, too. Better let me hold it, or you’ll burn your fingers.
Dazzled by the smell, Rowena did as he bid, leaning forward and taking a big bite. It was delicious, the crust flaky, the meat juicy. It wasn’t till she’d taken her third bite that she realized Lion had her eating out of his hand. Sitting back, she scowled at him. “You think you are clever, don’t you?”
“Time will tell if I’m clever enough,” he said lightly.
To do what? Seduce her? Likely he’d try, and yet... Rowena frowned, struck by the hidden meaning in his words. She’d known him as a canny lad of eight and ten, yet sensed that the time away had broadened his intelligence. What had he done in France?
“Lion!” A voice boomed out over the din in the hall, silencing the laughter and even the wail of the pipes.
Everyone, Rowena included, looked to the doorway. There stood a tall, dark-haired man, his muscular body draped in velvet and gold chains. The princely tilt of his head as he arrogantly surveyed the hall confirmed his identity.
“The earl,” Rowena breathed.
“True, unfortunately,” Lion said just as softly.
Alexander Stewart’s piercing gaze pounced on their quarry. “Lion! I have need of you.”
Lion sighed and stood. “I regret that I must leave you.” He took her hand, his lips lingering a moment in a gentle kiss, his eyes locked on hers. “I will have one of my men stay with you.”
“C-could you not introduce me to the earl?” she asked.
“Lion!”
“In his present mood, ’twould do more harm than good.” Lion bowed formally, then strode over to meet the royal prince, who whisked him from the hall.
Of all the times for Alexander to choose for a meeting, Lion thought as he grimly followed the earl across the courtyard and into the ancient tower, built by the Shaws a century ago. Up the winding stairs they went, to the old hall where once the Shaw chiefs had ruled. Here Alexander’s inner circle of followers met to drink and talk strategy.
A fire struggled in the central hearth, but a dozen or so torches burned brightly in sconces set the length of the long, narrow room. Alexander did not like dark corners where assassins might lie in wait. Ten Stewart clansmen, the earl’s personal bodyguards, sat gaming and drinking at one of the trestle tables. The other tables were occupied by leaders of the clans who’d thus far come to serve Alexander: the Keiths, Chisholms, Mackintoshes, Cummings and, of course, the MacPhersons.
As Lion entered beside the earl, Georas MacPherson jumped up, toppling the bench on which he’d been sitting. “Glenshee!” His hand fell to his sword hilt. “I demand satisfaction.”
“Name the time and place,” Lion said coolly.
“What is the meaning of this?” Alexander exclaimed.
Georas snarled, “He attacked me on the trail.”
“Not without provocation.”
“The hell you say. I’d done naught to you,” Georas roared.
“To me, nay, but to the lady—”
“I saw the wench first. You had no right to interfere.”
“What is this? Two of my best men fighting over a wench?” the earl grumbled.
“Not a wench, a lady,” Lion said grimly. “And you are wrong, Georas. I had every right to stop you. The lady Rowena grew up five leagues from my home at Kinduin. I have known her for years. I’d not stand aside and see any lady mistreated, much less one I—”
“Mistreated!” Georas MacPherson’s face turned scarlet “She wanted me. I could tell. She just needed a bit of persuading, same as most females do.”
“Persuading, is it?” Lion asked with a softness his men would have recognized as more dangerous than another’s shouts.
“Aye, and I demand a piece of yer hide to replace the one ye ripped from my hand.”
“Easy, Georas. You’ve forgotten our Lion is more chivalrous than most,” the earl said, clearly hoping to ease things.
Lion knew that Alexander would not discipline Georas, who commanded one hundred of the most ruthless fighters in the Highlands. While others might quibble over being asked to commit murder and wreak havoc, the MacPhersons thrived on it. Likely Georas himself had killed Padruig. Nay, the earl could not afford to alienate the MacPherson chief. But neither would he want to lose the Sutherlands, Lion mused.
His clan was large and prosperous with strategically located land. Alexander had tried without success to woo Lucais, Lion’s father, to his cause. He’d been delighted when the heir to Kinduin had showed up in his camp, never guessing he was welcoming a spy.
“A pox on his damned chivalry,” Georas muttered.
“Nay, nay, Georas, we could learn much from our old friends in France. ’Tis pleased I am we’ve someone who’s spent time in the French court.” The earl winked at Lion.
Coarse himself, Alexander made much of Lion’s courtier ways and was anxious to acquire some himself. Thus Lion spent an hour each day in the hopeless task of trying to coax lyrical French