Wild Highland Magic (The Celtic Legends Series Book 3)(60)
“Lachlan?”
“What would you think,” he said, as he trailed a tress through his fingers, “if I asked you to make use of another of your gifts?”
The sun was halfway to the west horizon when they finally approached the portcullis. Lachlan’s gut tightened as he saw guards swarming on the ramparts. Within, the courtyard teemed with boys taking the reins of the horses as mail-clad men dismounted. Through the gate, he recognized Tadgh the blacksmith hammering horseshoes while dogs, goats and chickens roamed freely. Bonnie and Coira came out of the shadows, laundry in baskets on their hips, while Peigi the cook, her apron dusty with oat flour and stained with cooking grease, argued with the fisherman Gilroy over a basket of eels.
When he ducked into the courtyard among Angus’s men, all heads turned toward them. Bile burned in his throat, but he kept walking, his cowl low but his eye on the path that led to the wooden doorway of the mead-hall, clear across the yard. The attention felt like a thousand torches thrust close. His skin prickled, anticipating discovery.
But halfway across the courtyard, when no man shouted his name and no hand grabbed his tunic, he realized that his plan was working. He and Angus’s men followed in the wake of a beautiful woman, striding without a cloak, her shimmering tresses bouncing upon her pale shoulders and sunlight gleaming on her skin above the scooped neckline of her tunic.
Not a single man turned his face from that vision to settle on the bowed-headed, lowly-dressed porters and clerics following in her wake.
A MacGilchrist warrior taking his ease by the mead-hall door broke into a smile at the sight of Cairenn. He interceded to open the heavy door for her. The man’s gaze wandered over her curves with avarice and lust as she passed through. Lachlan curled his hands into fists. He supposed this was the price he paid for arranging to hide behind Cairenn’s skirts. It took all his will not to throw the warrior a sharp, well-placed elbow before he himself passed into the dimness of the hall.
Once inside, his unease surged. Men and servants filled the room. Pewter tankards clanked as they hit wooden tables. The guests shouted to be heard over one another. Several lute players in the near corner battled to play above the din. Crossing to the tables, the wife of MacGilchrist strode by with a flagon of ale in her hand as if she were the lady of the castle, greeting them all as they entered.
That woman’s gaze passed over Cairenn without a flicker of interest before resting on the men, “More space in the middle, lads,” she said. “And mind you be patient about the ale.”
Lachlan dipped his head and stepped behind one of Angus’s men. He hoped his beard obscured the cut of his jaw, for MacGilchrist’s wife knew the slope of it too well. Whenever she’d visited in past years, she’d taken to searching it for scruff, with a gleaming promise in her eye.
The men in front of him moved forward, so he followed close behind. Beyond the bobbing shoulders, he saw Cairenn heading to the far end of the hall where the dolmens stood, lit by narrow beams of sunlight streaming through the arrow-slits. The crowds impeded the way. Soon he and Angus’s men were winnowed into single file.
The light that came through the arrow slits flashed upon Cairenn’s hair in intervals, like bursts of golden lightning. The effect had an impact, for as he wove his way through, he could see, even with his cowl pulled low, how heads turned and whispers rose. He took advantage of the distraction to glance quickly around. Against the east wall, he caught sight of Fingal standing and chatting with people at the lower tables. A young girl hovered by Fingal’s side, another MacGilchrist if the red hue of her hair was any indication. In the shadows behind Fingal, Lachlan saw his stepmother lurking like a spider.
Sensing attention upon him, he turned his head to face the west wall only to dodge another gaze by turning back east. There was Alan, a Stuart cousin his father had fostered. On the other side was buxom Murdina, hefting a tray of ham above the heads of the crowd. He felt like a man sparring, bobbing his head at every hint of a glance in his general direction. The gauntlet of danger seemed to stretch out forever, all the way to within yards of the standing stones. His back tightened with each step.
By habit, the most honored guests would be seated at the head of the main table. That fact was confirmed as they approached. Angus, catching sight of Cairenn, suddenly shot up off the bench so fast that half the ale sloshed out of his tankard.
“I prefer ale in my mouth, Angus,” shouted a clearly drunken Callum Ewing, receiving the full brunt of the spray. “But see how our Irishman straightens up at the sight of his leman!”
Lachlan didn’t slacken his pace as he continued on, choking down the urge to make Callum swallow his words.
“Angus, you old dog.” If the slurring of The MacGilchrist’s words were any indication, clearly the ale had been flowing. “If that’s the beauty you’re swiving, I’ll have a piece—”
“Shut your mouth, old man.”
Lachlan started at the sound of the woman’s voice behind him. Lady MacGilchrist shoved past, carrying a fresh pitcher of ale and an empty tankard in her pocket.
“Fill my cup, woman,” MacGilchrist said, thrusting out his tankard, “and keep to your place—”
“You’re a drunken fool who’s had enough,” she said, stopping short in the lane between tables as the man just ahead of Lachlan squeezed by. “I won’t waste the last of this ale on you.”