his hand around the younger man's arm.
His brows shooting upward, James stared at him as if he'd sprouted horns. "A smithy?"
"A blacksmith. A master ironworker."
James tossed back his hair with a jerk of his head. "I am not a dullwit," he seethed, struggling to free his arm. "I ken what a smithy is, and, nay, we do not have one. Not any longer."
Marmaduke released him, but blocked the door by leaning his back against its heavy oak panels. "Then we shall make do on our own," he said, crossing his ankles, his tone deliberately jovial. "We can reward our exertions with a refreshing plunge in the cold waters of the sea."
'The sea?"
Marmaduke nodded. "After we visit the forge."
"We?" James's brows arched a notch higher. "I am not an underling to be ordered about."
Full aware all eyes in the hall watched their exchange, Marmaduke flicked an invisible speck of lint off his steel-clad arm. His tone as casual as he could make it, he said, "I said we, my friend. Ne'er would I breach the laws of hospitality by issuing orders to my host."
Satisfied when a bit of the fire went out of the younger man's eyes, Marmaduke pushed away from the door. "A well-meant suggestion, mayhap, but never a command."
Visible tension still thrumming through him, James glanced toward the shadowy window embrasure where Lady Rhona still sat. "There is no point in visiting the forge. It holds naught but rusting iron and dust-covered bellows. Our smith abandoned us months ago. As for bathing in the sea, I-I... do not swim."
True alarm had glimmered in James's eyes when he said he didn't swim, so Marmaduke focused on the task at hand.
Securing the latrine chutes and bolstering James's confidence.
"Four strong arms should compensate for one disloyal smithy," he said.
James shoved a hand through his hair. "I will take you to the forge, but do not expect assistance from me. As you saw this morn, I am not much good to anyone."
"You will only be of no avail if you persist in dallying about with your lady rather than coming with me." Marmaduke reached out and gave James's upper arm a fan-squeeze. "You have brawn enough for what we must do."
From the high table, Caterine watched their exchange with increasing amazement. Rather than protest when the Sassunach tested his muscle, a faint flush crept onto her stepson's cheeks and he stood a wee bit straighter.
And, for once, he did so without losing his balance.
The two men walked toward the hall's entrance vestibule together and Caterine would've sworn she'd caught the hint of a smile on James's face as he snatched his cloak off a bench near the door.
He waited while James adjusted the fall of his mantle before he fetched and donned his own. Then, in a gesture that smacked of comradely ease, he slung an arm around the younger man's shoulders as they exited the hall, her champion's stride powerful and self-assured, her stepson's less confident but nowise as hesitant as his usual limping gait.
Caterine's heart warmed.
Ne'er had she thought to see James walk with a spring in his step again.
Slowly sipping her wine, she stared into the shadows of the entrance vestibule long after they'd closed the great oaken door behind them.
More and more, her sister's chosen champion was proving himself a man truly worthy of the title.
But even as her heart softened toward him, her mind wrestled with other concerns.
Grave ones of a most serious import.
Such as when exactly she'd ceased referring to him as the Sassunach champion and started thinking of him as simply her champion.
**
Other eyes watched their departure as well.
Brooding, hate-filled eyes hiding in the shadows near the bottom of the outer stairs.
The observer's brow arched with disdain when they passed.
Soon the English interloper would ride a swift and cold wind straight to the bowels of hell, hastened there by a well-aimed English arrow.
That irony curling the watcher's lips, the dark-cloaked figure slipped deeper into the dank chill of
His brows shooting upward, James stared at him as if he'd sprouted horns. "A smithy?"
"A blacksmith. A master ironworker."
James tossed back his hair with a jerk of his head. "I am not a dullwit," he seethed, struggling to free his arm. "I ken what a smithy is, and, nay, we do not have one. Not any longer."
Marmaduke released him, but blocked the door by leaning his back against its heavy oak panels. "Then we shall make do on our own," he said, crossing his ankles, his tone deliberately jovial. "We can reward our exertions with a refreshing plunge in the cold waters of the sea."
'The sea?"
Marmaduke nodded. "After we visit the forge."
"We?" James's brows arched a notch higher. "I am not an underling to be ordered about."
Full aware all eyes in the hall watched their exchange, Marmaduke flicked an invisible speck of lint off his steel-clad arm. His tone as casual as he could make it, he said, "I said we, my friend. Ne'er would I breach the laws of hospitality by issuing orders to my host."
Satisfied when a bit of the fire went out of the younger man's eyes, Marmaduke pushed away from the door. "A well-meant suggestion, mayhap, but never a command."
Visible tension still thrumming through him, James glanced toward the shadowy window embrasure where Lady Rhona still sat. "There is no point in visiting the forge. It holds naught but rusting iron and dust-covered bellows. Our smith abandoned us months ago. As for bathing in the sea, I-I... do not swim."
True alarm had glimmered in James's eyes when he said he didn't swim, so Marmaduke focused on the task at hand.
Securing the latrine chutes and bolstering James's confidence.
"Four strong arms should compensate for one disloyal smithy," he said.
James shoved a hand through his hair. "I will take you to the forge, but do not expect assistance from me. As you saw this morn, I am not much good to anyone."
"You will only be of no avail if you persist in dallying about with your lady rather than coming with me." Marmaduke reached out and gave James's upper arm a fan-squeeze. "You have brawn enough for what we must do."
From the high table, Caterine watched their exchange with increasing amazement. Rather than protest when the Sassunach tested his muscle, a faint flush crept onto her stepson's cheeks and he stood a wee bit straighter.
And, for once, he did so without losing his balance.
The two men walked toward the hall's entrance vestibule together and Caterine would've sworn she'd caught the hint of a smile on James's face as he snatched his cloak off a bench near the door.
He waited while James adjusted the fall of his mantle before he fetched and donned his own. Then, in a gesture that smacked of comradely ease, he slung an arm around the younger man's shoulders as they exited the hall, her champion's stride powerful and self-assured, her stepson's less confident but nowise as hesitant as his usual limping gait.
Caterine's heart warmed.
Ne'er had she thought to see James walk with a spring in his step again.
Slowly sipping her wine, she stared into the shadows of the entrance vestibule long after they'd closed the great oaken door behind them.
More and more, her sister's chosen champion was proving himself a man truly worthy of the title.
But even as her heart softened toward him, her mind wrestled with other concerns.
Grave ones of a most serious import.
Such as when exactly she'd ceased referring to him as the Sassunach champion and started thinking of him as simply her champion.
**
Other eyes watched their departure as well.
Brooding, hate-filled eyes hiding in the shadows near the bottom of the outer stairs.
The observer's brow arched with disdain when they passed.
Soon the English interloper would ride a swift and cold wind straight to the bowels of hell, hastened there by a well-aimed English arrow.
That irony curling the watcher's lips, the dark-cloaked figure slipped deeper into the dank chill of
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