The great hall was filled with the rumble of masculine voices, all raised in speculation about the Highlanders. At one end of the room stood the soldiers, who swapped stories about their battles with the fearsome Scots warriors. At the other end, in front of a roaring fire, stood Lord Waltham and the English noblemen.
Leonora stood beside her father, awaiting the arrival of their guests. Over Moira’s objections, she had taken great pains with her appearance. Her gown of red velvet had a low, square neckline and fitted bodice. A girdle of lace defined her tiny waist and hips. The voluminous skirt, gathered here and there with clusters of jewels, fell to the tips of kid slippers. The sleeves, inset with ermine, were full to the elbow, then tapered to points at each wrist. At her throat was a delicate filigree of gold interspersed with diamonds and rubies. Matching earrings dangled from her lobes.
The last time Leonora had looked so splendid, she had been in the presence of the king. Though her nurse had argued that such finery was wasted on the savage Highlander, Leonora would not be dissuaded. She would make Dillon Campbell regret that he had rejected her hospitality. When he arrived in his coarse garments, he would find himself surrounded by luxury such as he’d never imagined.
Alger Blakely bowed over her hand. “You look lovely, my lady.”
His father beamed his approval as his son continued to hold Leonora’s hand longer than was necessary. Lord James Blakely was aware of his host’s vast wealth and sprawling estates. The lady’s dowry was rumored to equal that of royalty. And of even more importance was her father’s close friendship with the king. The man who won Leonora Waltham’s hand would inherit great power. His son had all the qualities necessary to win a lady’s heart. Alger was strong of limb and fair of face. It was James’s intention to see that the two become betrothed before his son was sent back into battle.
“Such beauty will surely dazzle the Highlanders in our midst,” James said softly.
Lord Waltham gave his daughter an admiring glance. “Aye. It pleases me that you have taken such pains with your appearance, my dear.” He drew her close and pressed a kiss to her cheek. “I know that these Highlanders frighten you, but it is the wish of our monarch that we establish bonds of friendship. It is imperative that we find a peaceful solution to our differences, or we will find our fair English knights facing them on a field of battle.”
“Aye,” James said. “Including my beloved son Alger.” Leonora shivered at the thought of anyone having to face such giants.
Seeing it, her father nodded. “They would be formidable foes indeed, my dear. It is far better that we offer our hands instead of our swords.”
“Do you truly intend to befriend these buffoons?” The Duke of Essex lifted a goblet of ale to his lips.
“Aye.” Lord Waltham felt a ripple of annoyance at the man’s open display of hostility. “As one who enjoys the king’s friendship, Essex, you know the importance of this meeting.”
“I would as soon put a dagger to their throats as sup with them.”
“Then you should have made your feelings known to the king before you agreed to come here.”
“And miss the opportunity to see for myself what these savages look like?” The duke emptied his goblet and looked around at the others, who chuckled in agreement. “I wonder that Edward would even waste our time on the likes of them. We would do better to put them in a pen with the swine. Mayhap then they could draw up a treaty with those of their own kind.”
Even the bishop couldn’t stifle his laughter at such a remark. “They are indeed a ragged band. I wonder that our monarch would give a care to such beggars.” He turned to Lord Blakely and Alger. “You two have faced their kind in battle. What say you? Are the Highlanders fearsome warriors? Or is it all a myth?”
“It is no myth,” Alger said. “I have never faced more worthy opponents.” Seeing that he had Leonora’s attention, he couldn’t help boasting, “Not that I fear them, your grace. I would welcome the chance to meet the Highlanders in battle again. Mayhap I could teach them a thing or two about handling a sword.”
“But this is not a field of battle.” The duke plucked another goblet from a serving wench’s tray. “Prowess with a sword will not serve them in good stead here. What is needed to draw up a peace treaty is a fine mind, and—” he winked slyly at the others “—judging by the three in our midst, the Highlanders are sadly lacking in that. Could it be that the bigger a man is, the smaller is his brain?”
While the duke and bishop laughed, Lord Waltham said softly, “I would not be so eager to dismiss these strangers. Robert the Bruce could have chosen any number of men to represent him. They may appear rough and crude to us, but I would caution you to treat them with the same respect you would give their leader.”
“This is the only respect I give the Bruce.” The Duke of Essex touched a hand to the sword at his side.
Leonora saw the smiles fade abruptly from the faces of several of the men. She turned to see the three Highlanders standing directly behind her. It would have been impossible for them to avoid overhearing the crude remarks made about them.
How long had they been standing there? How much had they heard?
Dillon’s features showed no emotion. His younger brothers, however, who were not as schooled in diplomacy, wore identical scowls. When Sutton’s hand went to the knife hidden at his waist, Dillon hastily put his hand over his brother’s to still his movements.
“Nay,” he said softly. “Now is not the time.”
“But Dillon, they utter calumny—”
Dillon placed his arm around his brother’s shoulders, effectively pinning the younger man’s arms at his sides. Drawing him close, he murmured, “You must learn to be patient with fools, Sutton.”
His reactions, as well as his words, were not lost on the English, who watched in stunned silence. Only Lord Waltham showed any remorse.
“Forgive us,” he said. “We did not see you enter the hall.”
“That was obvious.” Dillon’s eyes narrowed as he studied each man. Anger seethed within him, but he had learned long ago to give nothing of his thoughts away. The English, in turn, looked away rather than face his accusing stares.
Despite the turmoil he might have felt, Dillon bowed slightly and caught Leonora’s hand in his. “Good even, my lady.”
As his lips grazed her knuckles, she felt the rush of heat and blamed it on the blaze on the hearth. Looking at him through her thick veil of lashes, she prayed he couldn’t detect the color that flooded her cheeks.
He had shaved. Without the ragged growth of beard, his face, despite the scar, was indeed handsome. His brow was firm, his face graced with a straight, even nose, wide firm lips and an angular jaw. He wore a saffron shirt of soft lawn, and on his legs, black hose. Over these be wore a loose garment woven of cloth of blue and green and black that fell to below his knees, with a matching length of fabric tossed rakishly over one shoulder like a cape, and fastened by a clasp of hammered gold. Little droplets of water still glistened like diamonds in his russet hair.
His brothers were dressed in similar fashion.
Though Leonora had never before seen such a manner of dress, she had to grudgingly admit to herself that these Highlanders looked splendid. Tall. Rugged. Earthy. By comparison, the English looked like... The phrase Dillon had tossed at her with such sarcasm rushed to mind. Peacocks.
“Ale, my lords?” A serving wench held a tray of goblets aloft.
“Aye. Thank you.” As the three Highlanders accepted the goblets, Leonora saw the servant’s admiring gaze move slowly over each man, and linger on Dillon’s rugged face.
“That will be all, Verda.” Leonora spoke a little too sharply, and found herself wondering at the sudden flash of feeling. Jealousy? She immediately dismissed such a ridiculous thought. She had never before given a care to the flirtations that passed between the servants and guests in her father’s house. And surely these men meant nothing to her. “You may begin to help serve the meal.”
The servant turned away with a pout.
When Dillon turned to look at her, Leonora felt the flush rise to her cheeks once more. She had the distinct impression that he could read her mind, and that he was laughing at her. This only served to stiffen her spine and deepen her frown.
“I trust your chambers are comfortable,” Lord Waltham asked.
“Most comfortable.” Dillon sipped the ale to give himself time to bank his still-simmering temper. He was well aware that these English had been making sport of him and his brothers. That didn’t bother him nearly as much as the thought that such feelings would spill over to include all his countrymen. That he would never allow. If they were to agree to a peace between them, it must be worked out in an atmosphere of mutual respect.
Respect. He sensed that the Duke of Essex had been deliberately attempting to goad him and his brothers into a fight. The temptation to comply with the duke’s wish had been almost overpowering. Still, Dillon knew that a battle, though the simplest solution, would shatter their fragile attempts at peace.
“Come.” Their host offered his arm to his daughter, relieved that the Highlanders had managed to suppress their anger, at least for the moment. “We will sup.”
With Leonora beside him, Lord Waltham led the way to the head table, which resided on a raised platform at one end of the ball. At this table would sit the bishop, as well as the honored guests from Scotland.
At the next tables sat the nobles, and the local dignitaries from the nearby villages, who had been invited to witness this historic visit between the Scots and English. At the far end of the room sat the soldiers, who had grown unusually quiet since the arrival of their old enemy, the Highlanders.
“Dillon, I would be pleased if you would take the seat of honor beside my daughter.” Lord Waltham indicated a wooden bench that ran the length of the table.
As they were seated, Leonora felt the brush of Dillon’s thigh against hers and reacted as if she’d been burned.
With a look of alarm Lord Waltham turned to her. “Are you in some discomfort, daughter?”
“Nay, Father.” She felt Dillon’s gaze upon her and cursed the heat that flooded her cheeks. “I am merely—” she struggled with her scrambled thoughts “—concerned that this first meal please our guests.”
Looking past her to Dillon and his brothers, Lord Waltham explained, “Since the death of her mother, Leonora has taken charge of my many households and performed admirably. She is becoming a young woman of many accomplishments.”
“Then you are indeed blessed, Lord Waltham.” Dillon pinned her with a look that brought even more color to her cheeks. “A woman of beauty, charm and accomplishment brings honor to her father and joy to her husband.”
Leonora was relieved when the servants began offering the first course. Huge silver trays of salmon were passed among the guests, followed by platters of beef and whole roasted pigs. There were baskets of hot, crusty bread, and silver bowls of thick gruel into which the bread was dipped. With each course, serving wenches kept tankards filled with ale and mead, a sweet, honey-laced brew.
At a signal from their host, musicians, standing on a gallery high above the tables, began to play.
Leonora was uncomfortably aware of the man beside her, who ate with obvious relish. Studying his hands as he broke off a piece of bread, she found herself remembering the feel of those same hands on hers. Such strength. And yet his manner with her had been surprisingly gentle.
“More mead, my lady?” She jumped at the sound of his deep voice beside her.
“Forgive me. I—”
Without waiting for her reply, he filled her goblet, then his own, and handed the empty decanter to a serving wench. “You ate very little, my lady.”
“I find I have no appetite.”
He smiled. “Perhaps it is the company you are forced to keep.”
There was no returning smile in her eyes. “Do you mock me, sir?”
“Nay, my lady.” Though he wiped the smile from his lips, it was there in his eyes, in the warmth of his tone, causing her own anger to deepen. “One need only look at you to see that you are... delighted to serve your king in such a manner.” He allowed his gaze to sweep the crowded hall. “As are all of your guests.”
He studied Alger Blakely, whose gaze was narrowed on him. Even from this distance, Dillon could detect Alger’s scowl. It was obvious the young soldier was smitten by the lady’s charms, and unnerved by the distance that separated them.
“I would die for my king.” Leonora lifted her chin in a defiant gesture.
“Aye, my lady. A noble sentiment. But entertaining the enemy is far less noble, is it not?” His eyes twinkled with amusement. “And far more vexing.”
“It is you who are vex—”
“Sweets, my lord?” Verda, the serving girl, thrust a silver tray between Leonora and Dillon and gazed adoringly into his dark eyes.
“I will let the lady choose first.”
Leonora looked away in disgust. “I desire no sweets.”
“Perhaps you should reconsider, my lady.” Dillon’s voice was laced with humor. “’Tis said they sweeten the disposition.”
Her eyes flashed fire, but with considerable effort she managed to keep her voice low. “It is plain to see that my father will not be dealing with honorable gentlemen.”
“You would prefer the sly humor of the Duke of Essex, perhaps?”
So, he had indeed overheard all of the insults hurled by Essex, and not just the last, uttered with such contempt. She felt ashamed that anyone, even this Highland savage, should be so mistreated in her father’s house.
Knowing he’d hit a nerve, Dillon continued, “Or would you prefer the silly flattery of Alger Blakely, my lady? Are these the Englishmen of honor you would have me imitate?”
“You go too far, sir.”
“Nay. Not nearly far enough. Do not think I am fooled by these—”
“Ale, my lord? Or mead?” Verda, having handed the sweets tray to another, was determined to win the attention of the handsome stranger. She hovered next to him with a flagon in her hand.
“Aye, ale. I have a need to quench the fire that rages within.” When his tankard was full, he lifted it to his lips and drained it, then waited while Verda filled it again.
“I will return soon, my lord, and see that your tankard is never empty.” The serving wench gave him a wink as she strolled away with a sway of hips guaranteed to catch the eye of every man in the room.
Seeing it, Leonora turned away in disgust.
Getting to his feet, Lord Waltham lifted his tankard and called for attention. When the voices had stilled, and all eyes were upon him, he said loudly, “We drink to our guests from across the border. May we find common ground, where battles will cease, and peace prevail.”
For a moment there was an uncomfortable silence. Then, slowly, one by one, the men in the room shuffled to their feet and lifted their tankards aloft. When every Englishman was standing, Dillon and his brothers followed suit. Tankards were drained, and the men began pounding them on the tabletops to get the attention of the serving wenches.
Lord Waltham signaled to the musicians, who began to play once more. A jester stepped up on the platform and began to juggle colored balls, to the amazement of the crowd. When he had finished, and picked up the coins scattered around the floor, more toasts were made, until, replete, warmed by the ale and the blazing fires on the hearths, the men began drifting from the great hall to the upper floors where they would seek their sleeping pallets.
“I trust you have had sufficient food and ale,” Lord Waltham asked his guests as they pushed away from the table.
“Aye.” Dillon was careful not to stand too close to Leonora, lest she bristle at his touch. “My compliments to you, my lady, and you, Lord Waltham. It was a meal that would have pleased even your monarch. And now, my brothers and I bid you a good evening.”
Leonora stood beside her father and watched as the three giants walked away. Those few soldiers who had remained by the fire fell silent and turned to watch them pass. The Highlanders looked neither right nor left, but stared straight ahead as they strode purposefully from the great hall.
“What think you of our guests, Father?”
Lord Waltham continued to watch until the three were out of sight. Then he turned to her.
“I think,” he said softly, “they are not at all what they seem. We would be wise to treat our Scottish neighbors with respect. Our future, our very lives, may be in the hands of this Highlander, Dillon Campbell.”