Chapter 11

The ribald laughter was fine. The laughter he could guarantee. Bask in it too when he knew the Brotherhood would always back him. That the ale jug might be in danger of being ripped from his hand and smacked over his head, and what would happen if it did, he could guarantee too. She could do with taming.

The image that flashed in his head wasn't exactly what he had in mind. Well, certainly not here in front of everyone. And not just that. Look at her staring as if he were a brute. Look at the pangs he was suffering that she did. And look at how for five years, he hadn't been able to afford not to be, or let people think otherwise. His breath shortened. Perhaps they should just leave? After all, if she had been trying to run away earlier, perhaps the kindness would have been to let her?

"Fine, fine." He set the jug down on the table.

Anyway there was sure to be a rejoinder. Christ only knew what they taught in Edinburgh, but the baggage seemed even less familiar with the concept of a woman's place than he was himself. It was only a case of waiting.

He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. "Come here."

"I beg your—"

He quickly beckoned Fallon, before the chit thought he meant her and got even awkwarder. As if he'd lift her onto the table. Anyway why should he hurry away from Fallon just because Miss High-and-Mighty couldn't contain herself? As it was he was lucky to call by once a week. It might change with this marriage. That remained to be seen. He still had his doubts. Certainly if she tried speaking to the turd like this, flaunting herself in that scrappy damned dress too, Lochalpin would have another war on its hands in two seconds flat. Another mess for him to sort out.

He pointed at his cheek. "Put it there. Missy has a kiss for her favorite sweetheart, doesn't she?"

Fallon shrieked with laughter, cups and cutlery flying as she tried rolling away across the tabletop. As always he grabbed hold of her ankles. Still no rejoinder, except a stern one from Meg when the jug went over, ale frothing everywhere. He couldn't quite fathom it. Was she even looking? He pulled Fallon down onto his knee, wrapped his arms around her.

"No, Daddy." Fallon's laughter was deafening. Certainly in his ears.

"What's this you're meaning, No, Daddy?"

"Dinnae tickle. Dinnae tickle me."

"Is there some other sweetheart you're giving your kisses to? Hmm? Because I'll find out. I'm warning you. And then, then I'm going—"

"Please, sir, if you don't mind, can we please just go? Unless you expect me to go on my own?"

He jerked his chin up. She hadn't said, If you're finished making a total idiot of yourself with that child, that is, but she might as well. Her voice still cut like a blade all the way across the bustling room, silencing the chatter, silencing Fallon. Him too, to some extent. Go? On her own? Over his dead body.

They'd go. But once again she told him what to do?Well, he wasn't having it. Or her thinking she could face him up as she had yesterday. Hard as a pair of crisp new leather boots. Hard as … he tried not to dishonor Morven's memory thinking what else the damned piece had been hard as.

If only he hadn't opened his big mouth about the half hour there. Just gone along with her, been out in the courtyard saddled up, ready to get underway. But he hadn't, had he? So, now that he hadn't, in front of his men too …He was going to have to take this back. He nodded across the table at the Murdies.

"Daddy's got to go, sweetheart. Take the pretty lady to see Uncle … " He hesitated over the word Turdypus. That would be to bring further complaint from Meg down on his head in an already difficult situation. A situation where he was going to have to take the chit to Turdypus. "… Ewen up at the castle. You be good. No more swearing. You promise me? Hmm?"

Fallon wrapped her arms around his neck. "Me? Daddy?"

"Because, sweetheart, if you're not—"

He ruffled her soft fair hair and stood. His boots seemed to echo for an eternity across the flagstones, past the stag heads watching dully from their mounts on the draped walls, the pewter shining on the dresser.

The thing was, despite all he'd said he hadn't expected her to march in here and call him out in front of his men. So now he had no choice but to saddle Satan, did he? So then, tonight, if not before, she and Ewen … Turdypus…

Christ, what the hell was wrong with him? He could hardly bear to think it, his heart haunting his hollow ribcage with fast beats, when he should be swinging from the candelabra.

It all went back to that apology she'd leeched from him. Him, who never gave such a thing. Not even before God. When she'd locked Dug up.His first thought should have been what she was doing out there. Meeting someone? Trying to escape?

That was why in determining he was now going to saddle Satan, he equally determined to stop this. Whatever the reason, he didn't trust her. He couldn't explain it. He just didn't. As for these shrewish Edinburgh manners of hers? Oh, the five damn years of pure enjoyment that must have been, partying and dancing every night on the graves of so many of his clan. His own wife's included.

"Thank you," she murmured as he reached the door.

No. He wasn't about to be fooled by the lowered eye-lashes. If she now regretted her rash demand to take her to the castle, it was no odds to him.

The door screeched on its hinges as he dragged it fully open. "My pleasure."

She brushed past him but he clasped her arm. The way his pulse tripped was unfortunate. It was however something he would quell if it was the last thing he did.

"But let me tell you something, Princess, just so we're clear. Next time you talk to me like that before my men I'll kill you. Do you understand?"

Her glance held daggers for all its cool regard. "Perfectly. Now can we go?"