hand remained on her until she’d been firmly planted on the ground. He shot her a disapproving glare, even as he inclined his head to her.
“Your mother waits in the hall. She insisted on coming down to greet you.”
This tension was not new and had been Kensey’s constant companion since coming home. Her mother had been sickly all her life, but never so much as she had been with her husband imprisoned.
Robert, on the other hand, marveled at the large band of warriors around him. Kensey couldn’t blame the lad for his starry eyes. Because their clan was so young—only since her grandfather’s boyhood had they been given the Assynt hills and moved into the Highlands—their numbers were small. Her father’s own war band was almost nonexistent.
Kensey knew of clans who had populated their land for hundreds of years. Since before the foreigners had invaded. These clans had hundreds of warriors, all from common ancestry, and all under one clan leader. But the MacLeods of her father’s family had originally come from an island in the sky, and the first father had not had enough sons to make many warriors yet. That was Robert’s duty, her mother said every time she recounted the story of the MacLeods coming to Assynt. His duty was to have many sons and bring a population of warriors to the MacLeod name that would rival any of his Norse ancestors’ war bands, and any other laird in Scotland. But because they did not have long roots here, their warriors were few, and were often utilized for other tasks.
Robert would do well to learn from the Sinclairs, who had been at Castle St. Claire since before the written record and numbered their ancestors to the time of the first kings of Scotland.
Even if madness had shattered their bonds in recent years. Duncan would see the clan returned to greatness. Surely.
Malcolm dismounted behind her and clasped arms with her father’s steward, Reyf. “We would be most appreciative of food and water for our horses if you can manage it.” He gestured to his leg. “I should redress my wound, and we have food in our packs.”
Robert pulled at the reins of Malcolm’s horse. “Can I help with the feeding and watering, Reyf?”
The stocky steward glanced at Kensey and she sighed. She hadn’t been back long enough to cement in the boy’s head that she was his guardian, not Reyf. She nodded.
“But let the men come inside.” Kensey swept her arms wide and faced her rescuers and new friends. “I’m sure my mother would like to meet the men who saved her daughter’s life.”
They followed without argument, but she heard one of them mutter, “We’d like to lay our hands on the man, as well.” Several of them laughed and Kensey pretended not to have heard, although she had to agree with the sentiment.
Gabrielle MacLeod sat at the head of the long table, dressed in a fine crushed velvet vestment of blue over a white, long-sleeved gown. With her hair back in the French style and a circlet of gold around her forehead, she could have passed for royalty. Even in her and with the dirt of the road on her, Kensey felt like a scar on the beautiful face of her clan.
She sidled up to the table and turned to the men. “Mother, this is Malcolm Sinclair, brother to Duncan.”
Malcolm bowed deep over his wounded leg. “I apologize for the state of our dress, Lady MacLeod. Our desire was to return your daughter with all haste.”
A gracious smile lit Gabrielle’s face and she reached for Kensey’s hand. With a harder squeeze than Kensey anticipated, she received her mother’s attention. Gabrielle’s voice cracked a bit. “You are welcome to share the break of our fast, Malcolm Sinclair, and all the band of your men.”
Ete and Ene, her mother’s twin housekeepers, appeared with bowls full of bread and set them along the table. Gabrielle spread her arms to invite the warriors to sit and Kensey gestured to Malcolm to take the seat next to her.
She’d been waiting for the
“Your mother waits in the hall. She insisted on coming down to greet you.”
This tension was not new and had been Kensey’s constant companion since coming home. Her mother had been sickly all her life, but never so much as she had been with her husband imprisoned.
Robert, on the other hand, marveled at the large band of warriors around him. Kensey couldn’t blame the lad for his starry eyes. Because their clan was so young—only since her grandfather’s boyhood had they been given the Assynt hills and moved into the Highlands—their numbers were small. Her father’s own war band was almost nonexistent.
Kensey knew of clans who had populated their land for hundreds of years. Since before the foreigners had invaded. These clans had hundreds of warriors, all from common ancestry, and all under one clan leader. But the MacLeods of her father’s family had originally come from an island in the sky, and the first father had not had enough sons to make many warriors yet. That was Robert’s duty, her mother said every time she recounted the story of the MacLeods coming to Assynt. His duty was to have many sons and bring a population of warriors to the MacLeod name that would rival any of his Norse ancestors’ war bands, and any other laird in Scotland. But because they did not have long roots here, their warriors were few, and were often utilized for other tasks.
Robert would do well to learn from the Sinclairs, who had been at Castle St. Claire since before the written record and numbered their ancestors to the time of the first kings of Scotland.
Even if madness had shattered their bonds in recent years. Duncan would see the clan returned to greatness. Surely.
Malcolm dismounted behind her and clasped arms with her father’s steward, Reyf. “We would be most appreciative of food and water for our horses if you can manage it.” He gestured to his leg. “I should redress my wound, and we have food in our packs.”
Robert pulled at the reins of Malcolm’s horse. “Can I help with the feeding and watering, Reyf?”
The stocky steward glanced at Kensey and she sighed. She hadn’t been back long enough to cement in the boy’s head that she was his guardian, not Reyf. She nodded.
“But let the men come inside.” Kensey swept her arms wide and faced her rescuers and new friends. “I’m sure my mother would like to meet the men who saved her daughter’s life.”
They followed without argument, but she heard one of them mutter, “We’d like to lay our hands on the man, as well.” Several of them laughed and Kensey pretended not to have heard, although she had to agree with the sentiment.
Gabrielle MacLeod sat at the head of the long table, dressed in a fine crushed velvet vestment of blue over a white, long-sleeved gown. With her hair back in the French style and a circlet of gold around her forehead, she could have passed for royalty. Even in her and with the dirt of the road on her, Kensey felt like a scar on the beautiful face of her clan.
She sidled up to the table and turned to the men. “Mother, this is Malcolm Sinclair, brother to Duncan.”
Malcolm bowed deep over his wounded leg. “I apologize for the state of our dress, Lady MacLeod. Our desire was to return your daughter with all haste.”
A gracious smile lit Gabrielle’s face and she reached for Kensey’s hand. With a harder squeeze than Kensey anticipated, she received her mother’s attention. Gabrielle’s voice cracked a bit. “You are welcome to share the break of our fast, Malcolm Sinclair, and all the band of your men.”
Ete and Ene, her mother’s twin housekeepers, appeared with bowls full of bread and set them along the table. Gabrielle spread her arms to invite the warriors to sit and Kensey gestured to Malcolm to take the seat next to her.
She’d been waiting for the
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