had thinned in a way Brenna didn't remember, fined and sharpened by the dangers and privations of months on campaign from Prestonpans to Derby. But Brenna caught a private spark of devilry in his brilliant blue eyes. He was still the handsomest man in the Highlands, and it took all of Brenna's strength not to run to his arms.
She sensed too clearly that any unexpected movement could shatter the stunned tableau around her. As he strode forward, not a Scot in the hall put his hand to the hilt of his sword. Only the four English nobles with the Earl of Stratford reached to draw their weapons. At the opposite end of the great hall with the Earl, Malcolm's skin had gone a milky gray.
"You dare come here?" he choked out, his words thick with rage.
Cam 's voice rang the length of the hall. "I come under the white flag of truce."
"Who let you through my gates?" Malcolm sputtered. Then his voice steadied. "Call the guard."
None of the men around him moved. Cam's gaze slid over them and returned to Malcolm.
"I need no key to your gates. And your guard is occupied."
Brenna breathed again. Iain was among the five men with Cam, despite the bulge of a bandage under the sleeve of his shirt. Though she knew his wound would make it impossible to wield the claymore that swung in its scabbard from his waist, a true Scot would be naked without the heavy double edged broadsword traditional in the Highlands. Iain sent her an encouraging, conspiratorial smile. But how many MacCavans could Cam have brought inside the castle walls? And what had become of the dragoons?
Malcolm's thin control broke, and he clawed clumsily for his sword. "You'll never leave these walls alive."
Drake Seton stepped in front of Malcolm.
"Even for a Rebel, an Englishman honors a flag of truce. What business brings you here?"
"My lord, I'm Cameron MacCavan, chief of Clan MacCavan." Despite his powerful frame, Cam could sketch a graceful bow. "I've come here today to make peace with my old neighbors and to treat with you."
Drake Seton's voice went even more cold. "Then you know you address an emissary of the Crown?"
Cam smiled as if they faced one another at a game of curling or shinty. "I'm mindful of the honor, my lord. And trust in yours."
Brenna saw a flicker of surprise play across Drake Seton's aquiline features. "Do you forswear your allegiance to the Pretender?"
"I come to speak to you of the Prince," Cam responded. "And to mend fences never meant to be broken."
A murmur ran through the room. Brenna heard a woman's whispered question behind her.
"Can Cameron MacCavan be deserting the Prince?"
Brenna knew Cam better, even if Iain hadn't forewarned her. But Iain hadn't mentioned this part of the plan. Still, they were at war. If it was trickery, how else could Cam gain the ears of all their neighbors? She would have thought far less of Cam if he turned coat from Charles Stuart to win Malcolm's consent for their marriage.
Suspicion still lingered in the Earl's face. "To what does the Crown owe this sudden change in sentiment, Lord MacCavan?"
"To much I'd speak to you privately about, with your permission." Cam didn't grovel despite his words. "But first, my lord, I request a dance with my promised bride."
A roar of relief and approval rose around the room, from men who had been his friends until he rode away last August. They loved him still, and Brenna rejoiced that Iain had been right. Not even the Rising could turn them against him.
Cam wheeled toward Brenna, and she could see no one else in the room. Dimly, she heard Malcolm's voice, calling out to forbid it. But at someone's nod the bagpipes struck up their favorite reel. Without a backward glance for Malcolm, Brenna moved to meet Cam at the center of the floor, her fingers sliding up his hard muscled chest to the solid strength of his wide shoulders. He reached out for her, his hands all but
She sensed too clearly that any unexpected movement could shatter the stunned tableau around her. As he strode forward, not a Scot in the hall put his hand to the hilt of his sword. Only the four English nobles with the Earl of Stratford reached to draw their weapons. At the opposite end of the great hall with the Earl, Malcolm's skin had gone a milky gray.
"You dare come here?" he choked out, his words thick with rage.
Cam 's voice rang the length of the hall. "I come under the white flag of truce."
"Who let you through my gates?" Malcolm sputtered. Then his voice steadied. "Call the guard."
None of the men around him moved. Cam's gaze slid over them and returned to Malcolm.
"I need no key to your gates. And your guard is occupied."
Brenna breathed again. Iain was among the five men with Cam, despite the bulge of a bandage under the sleeve of his shirt. Though she knew his wound would make it impossible to wield the claymore that swung in its scabbard from his waist, a true Scot would be naked without the heavy double edged broadsword traditional in the Highlands. Iain sent her an encouraging, conspiratorial smile. But how many MacCavans could Cam have brought inside the castle walls? And what had become of the dragoons?
Malcolm's thin control broke, and he clawed clumsily for his sword. "You'll never leave these walls alive."
Drake Seton stepped in front of Malcolm.
"Even for a Rebel, an Englishman honors a flag of truce. What business brings you here?"
"My lord, I'm Cameron MacCavan, chief of Clan MacCavan." Despite his powerful frame, Cam could sketch a graceful bow. "I've come here today to make peace with my old neighbors and to treat with you."
Drake Seton's voice went even more cold. "Then you know you address an emissary of the Crown?"
Cam smiled as if they faced one another at a game of curling or shinty. "I'm mindful of the honor, my lord. And trust in yours."
Brenna saw a flicker of surprise play across Drake Seton's aquiline features. "Do you forswear your allegiance to the Pretender?"
"I come to speak to you of the Prince," Cam responded. "And to mend fences never meant to be broken."
A murmur ran through the room. Brenna heard a woman's whispered question behind her.
"Can Cameron MacCavan be deserting the Prince?"
Brenna knew Cam better, even if Iain hadn't forewarned her. But Iain hadn't mentioned this part of the plan. Still, they were at war. If it was trickery, how else could Cam gain the ears of all their neighbors? She would have thought far less of Cam if he turned coat from Charles Stuart to win Malcolm's consent for their marriage.
Suspicion still lingered in the Earl's face. "To what does the Crown owe this sudden change in sentiment, Lord MacCavan?"
"To much I'd speak to you privately about, with your permission." Cam didn't grovel despite his words. "But first, my lord, I request a dance with my promised bride."
A roar of relief and approval rose around the room, from men who had been his friends until he rode away last August. They loved him still, and Brenna rejoiced that Iain had been right. Not even the Rising could turn them against him.
Cam wheeled toward Brenna, and she could see no one else in the room. Dimly, she heard Malcolm's voice, calling out to forbid it. But at someone's nod the bagpipes struck up their favorite reel. Without a backward glance for Malcolm, Brenna moved to meet Cam at the center of the floor, her fingers sliding up his hard muscled chest to the solid strength of his wide shoulders. He reached out for her, his hands all but
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