Nicholas strode out of the hall and for the briefest of moments, checked his steps as he caught sight of the warrior beside the old man. Clearly her brother had not anticipated his presence and wasn’t pleased.
However, his hesitation lasted only a moment before he continued forward and politely greeted the old man, who—surprisingly—replied in Norman French.
She would never have guessed that a Scot knew their language, or could speak it so well. She wondered if that grim warrior could understand what her brother and his leader were saying, and doubted it. Likely all he knew was fighting.
Nicholas stopped talking and gestured toward his hall. The leader of the Scots dismounted, and so did the rest of his men, who followed her brother to the hall.
Whoever these men were, they weren’t enemies, at least not openly, or Nicholas would never have extended them that courtesy. If these weren’t enemies, but allies or potential allies, Nicholas would also be inviting them to stay the night. Here was a chance to show Nicholas that she deserved to be the wife of a Norman nobleman and chatelaine of a Norman’s castle, not the property of a primitive barbarian on the far edges of the world.
She would have to go to the hall and be in the vicinity of the malevolent Scot, though. That was a daunting prospect, but if the ultimate result was the end of her betrothal to Hamish Mac Glogan, she’d set aside her dread and do what she must.
ADAIR MAC TARAN wanted to torch the place. He yearned to set fire to every piece of scaffolding and tear down the walls being built on the sacred soil of Alba stone by stone. He didn’t care what reason the king of Scotland had for giving land to the Normans; they were foreigners who didn’t belong here, and he hated them all.
“Hark at him,” he muttered in Gaelic to his younger brother, Lachlann, as they followed their father and Sir Nicholas toward the Norman’s hall, the biggest building Adair had seen outside of York. “Bloody arrogant bastard acts like he owns the whole country.”
Adair’s friend and clansman, Roban, nodded as he walked beside them. “Or as if he’s got a sword up his arse.”
“Or as if he’s been in more battles than all o’ us combined,” Lachlann replied, shooting them both a censorious look.
Adair and Roban exchanged knowing smirks. “Aye,” Adair said, making no effort to speak softly. “A Scot would have to be all of twelve years old to beat him.”
“For God’s sake, hold yer tongue, Adair,” Lachlann warned. “Did ye not hear what Father said?”
“Aye, I did, and I’ll make no trouble, but that doesnae mean I care if that bastard knows wha’ I think of him or not,” Adair answered. “And it’s not as if the man can understand a word we say anyway.”
“Aye, it’s no secret what Adair thinks of Normans,” Roban repeated. “Unless Sir Nicholas is deaf or a complete gomeral, he’ll already know.”
“You make that sound like a good thing,” Lachlann snapped. “But it’s never good to let your enemy know your thoughts. You’ve got to learn to guard your tongue, Adair. And whatever happens, don’t lose your temper.”
Adair regarded his slender, dark-haired brother with mock indignation, as if such a thing had never happened before. “Who, me, lose my temper with a lying, thieving Norman knight who comes to Scotland and steals our land by stealth?”
“This land was given to him by Alexander and you ought to remember that before you go charging the man with theft.”
“I’m not going to charge him with theft. That’ll be for Father to do.”
Another man spoke from within the group of Scots. “The Norman’s not the only one thinking he deserves to rule the world.”
Adair didn’t have to guess who it was, and he answered without looking over his shoulder. “Not the world, Cormag. Just our clan, as the heir chosen by my father and our clansmen.”
Cormag didn’t reply, and how could he? That was the truth, and the whole clan knew it. Nobody had ever considered Cormag Mac Taran suitable for taking Seamus Mac Taran’s place as chieftain of the clan and thane of Lochbarr, except Cormag himself.
“I’ll try not to curse the man outright,” Adair said to his brother as they trotted up the steps of the massive stone hall. “Will that content you?”
“I suppose it’ll have to,” Lachlann grudgingly conceded as they followed the Norman and their chieftain toward a dais at the end of the hall, past the central hearth. The chamber was full of people, including several foot soldiers, armed and armored.
There were also large, scarred trestle tables leaning against the walls, with benches in front of them, and rushes sprinkled with rosemary and fleabane covering the stone floor, muffling their footsteps and lightly scenting the air. Hounds skulked about, studying the newcomers warily, just as the soldiers at the gate had.
King Alexander must have paid the Norman with more than land for his services, or else the mercenary Sir Nicholas had come from a more wealthy family than they knew.
“The rest of us will have to stand like servants,” Adair noted under his breath when they reached the dais, where two large and ornately carved chairs stood.
“I feel like one wi’out my claimh mor,” Roban said, rolling his brawny shoulders as if seeking the huge sword’s comfortable weight on his back, where he usually carried it.
“If it comes to a fight, you won’t need it. You could probably take half this lot with your bare hands,” Adair replied, eyeing his friend who was six foot tall, and weighed fifteen stone after a day’s fasting.
“With a dirk, you could likely take them all without breaking a sweat,” Roban replied with a chortle.
“’Twas right to leave our claimh mors at the gate, since we come in peace,” Lachlann said under his breath. “Now be quiet, the pair of you. I want to hear what Father and the Norman say to each other without you muttering in my ear.”
“Welcome to my hall, Seamus Mac Taran,” Sir Nicholas said in French as the chieftain took his seat.
Then the Norman overlord barked out an order for wine. A female servant, young and pretty, with light-brown hair and green eyes and a mole on her right breast, nodded and scurried away like a frightened mouse, clearly terrified of her master.
Sir Nicholas was obviously fast with a blow or a kick if a servant didn’t move quickly enough to suit him, Adair thought, his disgust mounting. And perhaps he used his female servants to serve other needs as well.
The loathsome lout. Any man who forced a woman was no man at all, but a foul beast, and deserved to be treated like one.
“What brings you to call at Beauxville today?”
Adair’s lip curled. His father had been a warrior and clan chieftain for thirty years, yet this Norman addressed him as if he were a child. And this place was Dunkeathe, not Beauxville.
“A dozen cattle are missing from the south meadow of our land,” Seamus said.
And you and your men have stolen them, Adair
