did not like dark corners where assassins might lie in wait. Ten Stewart clansmen, the earl’s personal bodyguards, sat gaming and drinking at one of the trestle tables. The other tables were occupied by leaders of the clans who’d thus far come to serve Alexander: the Keiths, Chisholms, Mackintoshes, Cummings and, of course, the MacPhersons.
As Lion entered beside the earl, Georas MacPherson jumped up, toppling the bench on which he’d been sitting. “Glenshee!” His hand fell to his sword hilt. “I demand satisfaction.”
“Name the time and place,” Lion said coolly.
“What is the meaning of this?” Alexander exclaimed.
Georas snarled, “He attacked me on the trail.”
“Not without provocation.”
“The hell you say. I’d done naught to you,” Georas roared.
“To me, nay, but to the lady—”
“I saw the wench first. You had no right to interfere.”
“What is this? Two of my best men fighting over a wench?” the earl grumbled.
“Not a wench, a lady,” Lion said grimly. “And you are wrong, Georas. I had every right to stop you. The lady Rowena grew up five leagues from my home at Kinduin. I have known her for years. I’d not stand aside and see any lady mistreated, much less one I—”
“Mistreated!” Georas MacPherson’s face turned scarlet “She wanted me. I could tell. She just needed a bit of persuading, same as most females do.”
“Persuading, is it?” Lion asked with a softness his men would have recognized as more dangerous than another’s shouts.
“Aye, and I demand a piece of yer hide to replace the one ye ripped from my hand.”
“Easy, Georas. You’ve forgotten our Lion is more chivalrous than most,” the earl said, clearly hoping to ease things.
Lion knew that Alexander would not discipline Georas, who commanded one hundred of the most ruthless fighters in the Highlands. While others might quibble over being asked to commit murder and wreak havoc, the MacPhersons thrived on it. Likely Georas himself had killed Padruig. Nay, the earl could not afford to alienate the MacPherson chief. But neither would he want to lose the Sutherlands, Lion mused.
His clan was large and prosperous with strategically located land. Alexander had tried without success to woo Lucais, Lion’s father, to his cause. He’d been delighted when the heir to Kinduin had showed up in his camp, never guessing he was welcoming a spy.
“A pox on his damned chivalry,” Georas muttered.
“Nay, nay, Georas, we could learn much from our old friends in France. ’Tis pleased I am we’ve someone who’s spent time in the French court.” The earl winked at Lion.
Coarse himself, Alexander made much of Lion’s courtier ways and was anxious to acquire some himself. Thus Lion spent an hour each day in the hopeless task of trying to coax lyrical French phrases from the earl’s wide Scots mouth. He’d had better luck teaching Alexander and his men to wield the lighter-weight Spanish swords and fight in the manner popular on the Continent.
Georas uttered a crude oath regarding Lion’s parentage and the origins of the French king.
Lion’s face heated. The urge to teach Georas a much-needed lesson, burned hot in his veins. It was his Carmichael blood, the cursed temper inherited from the grandsire for whom he’d been named. Lion cooled it with Sutherland logic. A brawl would ruin his plans. “Name the time,” he repeated calmly.
“We’ll have none of that,” the earl snapped. “I’ve not enough men that I can afford to lose two of the best. Georas, you’ll respect Lion’s right to defend his friends. Lion, you’ll overlook Georas’s rashness. ’Tis just high spirits,” he added, signaling his squire to pour ale for all. “Nigh five hundred fighting men have answered my summons, and here they sit, with naught to do till we’re strong enough to begin.”
On that, Lion could not disagree. Battle-trained men with too much time on their hands were always a liability. He’d seen the same in France. There the leaders had kept their men busy with constant patrols and with jousts. Unfortunately, the patrols here led to just the sort of thing that had happened to Rowena. Innocent farmers and merchants were often attacked by bored warriors out for sport and plunder.
What of jousts? The idea of two bands of Highlanders conducting themselves as did tourney knights was laughable. There were no lances, no trained mounts, but...
“Football,” Lion said.
“Football?” the earl repeated, frowning.
“Aye, well, it does not have to be that Any sport will do, so long as it’ll let the lads test their strength against one another and, mayhap, win a prize or two.”
Alexander’s dark eyes sparkled with understanding. “Aye, that is a grand notion. And it’ll make a suitable display when the MacNabs come calling.” He added, “Aedh MacNab is sending his heir, Robert, to talk about joining us.”
Lion smiled, but his mind was racing. He knew Aedh and Robbie. Neither were the sort to fall in with the earl’s schemes. He had to meet with Robbie before he reached Blantyre, and try to convince him to see this Lion’s way.
Dickie MacPherson ambled into the room, cast a malicious glance in Lion’s direction, then went to whisper in Georas’s ear. Their furtiveness made Lion apprehensive.
Georas grinned, clapped Dickie on the shoulder and approached Alexander. The smugness of his expression made the hair on Lion’s nape prickle.
“Gunn!” the earl roared. “She’s Padruig Gunn’s widow?”
“Aye.” Georas’s smile turned feral. “That she is.”
“Why is she here?” Alexander demanded, spearing first Lion, then Georas with an enraged gaze.
“I do not know,” Lion was forced to admit.
“Yer childhood friend has not confided in ye?” Georas taunted. He must not know why, either.
“There was no time,” Lion said stiffly, alarmed by Alexander’s anger. The earl had an unpredictable temperament, being generous and friendly one moment, petty and vicious the next. Too often of late he would fly into a rage over a small thing. “But rest assured, Your Grace, I will know by morn.”
Alexander muttered a curse and drained his cup.
“It is possible they have come to join you,” Lion added.
“A woman?” Alexander’s black brows rose. “Much as I need men, I’d not take any who’d follow a woman,” he scoffed. His gaze went to Lady Glenda, a woman of great wealth. Kindly but homely, with a long, horsy face and mud-brown hair, she sat at a distant table playing at draughts with Selena MacPherson.
Lady Glenda looked up, caught the earl’s glance and immediately abandoned her game to join him. “You wanted me, my lord?” she said in her soft, lisping voice.
“Nay,” Alexander said absently, oblivious
