fire without being told, bless him. “Is she sending for Donald?”
“No, but I think she should.”
His eye was still bruised, but thanks to Margie’s leeches, it was less swollen. William came over, stood beside her, and peered down at his sleeping sister-in-law. Margaret’s lips still had an unhealthy blue tinge.
“Donald should be here,” Kat said. The court would always be there. Margaret might not be.
“If ye want, I’ll see to it.”
“No, Will, don’t go to Edinburgh. I mean . . .” She bit her lip. The words had tumbled out before she could catch them. She should want him to leave Glengarry. If there were no more incidents like the shattering one in William’s bath, no more times when she succumbed to her need to touch him and let him touch her, it would be far easier to send that annulment request to Rome after Christmastide was over.
But the thought of cutting her remaining time with him short made her chest constrict. If these were the last days she might have with William, shouldn’t she wring every drop of joy she could from them?
He smiled at her. “Wild horses couldn’t drag me away, sweeting. No, I only meant I’d send someone to fetch Donald home. Of course, I’m staying.”
He bent down and pressed a kiss to her crown. A fresh whiff of clean male skin emanated from him. Katherine tipped her chin up and he brushed her lips with his.
But before the kiss could ripen into something more than a peck, Dorcas bustled through the open doorway, linens crammed under her armpits and her hands bearing a pot of water that sloshed over with each step.
The girl cleared her throat loudly and, to Katherine’s mind, accusingly.
“Beggin’ yer pardon, my lady,” she said with a sniff. “I brought ye what ye asked for. Now what should we do for Lady Margaret?”
Katherine tossed him an apologetic glance. “Will, if ye please—”
“I know, I know. There’s no place for a man at a time like this.” He raised his hands in mock surrender. “I’ll see ye after, wife.”
Ranulf MacNaught refilled the drinking horns of his compatriots—Filib Gordon, Hugh Murray, Ainsley MacTavish, and Lamont Sinclair—and swept an appraising gaze over them. Since they each owed him a debt they couldn’t repay, they were likely enough allies. All of them were minor gentry—landholders who had tenants and kinsmen beholden to them, but not enough to qualify for even a “Sir” before their names.
Not that they weren’t ambitious enough to be working toward it.
His little band didn’t include the heroes he’d hoped to draw to his standard, but they’d do.
The rest of the castle was quiet, all the drinking and revelry of the holiday season burned out for the night, like a guttered candle. Ranulf reckoned there was a fuss going on in Lady Margaret’s bedchamber after the way she’d been carted from the great hall, but that was only the province of women.
Ranulf was more concerned about his men.
They all nursed new wounds and bruises, courtesy of the quick fists of William Douglas. Ranulf tongued the empty place in his gum where an eyetooth used to be and cursed Lord Badenoch afresh.
“Aye, MacNaught, we’re with ye on that point,” Filib Gordon said as he rubbed his purpling jaw. Even outnumbered, Douglas had gotten in several good licks before Gordon had bashed him over the head with that chair. “We all agree the Laird of Badenoch is a misbegotten bastard, but talk willna change a thing. It certainly doesna do your cause any good.”
In England, succession to a title and estate was only a function of bloodlines, as if people were damned livestock, but the folk of Scotland were more practical. All things being equal, the best leader should rule.
And Ranulf was satisfied he was that leader.
Since Lord Glengarry had had that apoplectic fit last winter, Ranulf had been doing all he could to improve his chances of filling the old man’s shoes.
“Dinna fret. Bide your time. Your
“No, but I think she should.”
His eye was still bruised, but thanks to Margie’s leeches, it was less swollen. William came over, stood beside her, and peered down at his sleeping sister-in-law. Margaret’s lips still had an unhealthy blue tinge.
“Donald should be here,” Kat said. The court would always be there. Margaret might not be.
“If ye want, I’ll see to it.”
“No, Will, don’t go to Edinburgh. I mean . . .” She bit her lip. The words had tumbled out before she could catch them. She should want him to leave Glengarry. If there were no more incidents like the shattering one in William’s bath, no more times when she succumbed to her need to touch him and let him touch her, it would be far easier to send that annulment request to Rome after Christmastide was over.
But the thought of cutting her remaining time with him short made her chest constrict. If these were the last days she might have with William, shouldn’t she wring every drop of joy she could from them?
He smiled at her. “Wild horses couldn’t drag me away, sweeting. No, I only meant I’d send someone to fetch Donald home. Of course, I’m staying.”
He bent down and pressed a kiss to her crown. A fresh whiff of clean male skin emanated from him. Katherine tipped her chin up and he brushed her lips with his.
But before the kiss could ripen into something more than a peck, Dorcas bustled through the open doorway, linens crammed under her armpits and her hands bearing a pot of water that sloshed over with each step.
The girl cleared her throat loudly and, to Katherine’s mind, accusingly.
“Beggin’ yer pardon, my lady,” she said with a sniff. “I brought ye what ye asked for. Now what should we do for Lady Margaret?”
Katherine tossed him an apologetic glance. “Will, if ye please—”
“I know, I know. There’s no place for a man at a time like this.” He raised his hands in mock surrender. “I’ll see ye after, wife.”
Ranulf MacNaught refilled the drinking horns of his compatriots—Filib Gordon, Hugh Murray, Ainsley MacTavish, and Lamont Sinclair—and swept an appraising gaze over them. Since they each owed him a debt they couldn’t repay, they were likely enough allies. All of them were minor gentry—landholders who had tenants and kinsmen beholden to them, but not enough to qualify for even a “Sir” before their names.
Not that they weren’t ambitious enough to be working toward it.
His little band didn’t include the heroes he’d hoped to draw to his standard, but they’d do.
The rest of the castle was quiet, all the drinking and revelry of the holiday season burned out for the night, like a guttered candle. Ranulf reckoned there was a fuss going on in Lady Margaret’s bedchamber after the way she’d been carted from the great hall, but that was only the province of women.
Ranulf was more concerned about his men.
They all nursed new wounds and bruises, courtesy of the quick fists of William Douglas. Ranulf tongued the empty place in his gum where an eyetooth used to be and cursed Lord Badenoch afresh.
“Aye, MacNaught, we’re with ye on that point,” Filib Gordon said as he rubbed his purpling jaw. Even outnumbered, Douglas had gotten in several good licks before Gordon had bashed him over the head with that chair. “We all agree the Laird of Badenoch is a misbegotten bastard, but talk willna change a thing. It certainly doesna do your cause any good.”
In England, succession to a title and estate was only a function of bloodlines, as if people were damned livestock, but the folk of Scotland were more practical. All things being equal, the best leader should rule.
And Ranulf was satisfied he was that leader.
Since Lord Glengarry had had that apoplectic fit last winter, Ranulf had been doing all he could to improve his chances of filling the old man’s shoes.
“Dinna fret. Bide your time. Your
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