Chapter Eight
The next morn, Darach joined his family in the great hall to break his fast. The room was quieter than usual, and as he walked toward the high table, many pointed and whispered. He knew why they were wagging their ungrateful tongues. Several loyal servants had shared the gossip with him. No doubt started by Cameron, a man with a deep hatred for the Norse—even for a helpless lass like Elle.
“Father,” Darach greeted his sire as he claimed his rightful place next to him. “I see our loyal kinsmen have wasted no time targeting Lady Elle.”
“Aye,” the laird sighed. “She’s a beautiful woman, Darach, sweet and intelligent. But I fear her presence will cause much unrest. There’s nothing to be done about it. So long as no one harms her, I am of a mind to let the talk run its course.”
Darach helped himself to a generous portion of meat and bread. “One of the women told me they are calling her the bringer of plague. A red witch.”
“Is it true?” Lili asked. “She arrived on a ship full of corpses?”
“Bite yer tongue, lass,” the laird ordered. “I may have no control over what the commoners think and say, but my own daughter will conduct herself in a respectable manner. Ye are too old to believe such nonsense. Are ye not?”
Lili averted her eyes. “I am sorry, Father. But how can ye expect me not to be curious about the woman?”
“Ye have a fertile mind, girl,” her sire continued. “Use some of that intelligence to figure out a way to stop the vicious lies instead of adding to them.”
Lili gazed at Darach then, and he nodded in agreeance. “Aye, she was the only survivor on the longship. There was no evidence of murder or catching sickness on those dead men. We inspected the bodies. It matters little now, they’re in God’s hands. And I trust what the lass told me.”
“Trust or lust?” Aiden chided.
Darach dropped his piece of bread on his trencher and reached for his brother’s wrist. He’d like to snap it to teach the lad a valuable lesson about when to shut his bloody mouth.
“Darach,” his sire growled. “Leave it be, lad.”
Out of respect for his father, Darach sucked in a frustrated breath and turned away from his youngest brother. It was times like these he regretted that his other brother, Gannon, was away. He and Darach had been inseparable growing up. “I’ve lost my appetite,” he said, then excused himself from the table.
He made his way to the kitchens to find out what chamber Elle was staying in. The women stopped working as soon as he entered. Nola eyed him with distaste, likely knowing why he was there.
“Where did ye put the lass?”
She set the ladle she was holding aside, then wiped her hands on a cloth before she answered. “The red witch?”
Superstitious fools—he expected that kind of behavior from closed-minded women, who’d never stepped foot off clan lands. But Nola was well-traveled, smarter than most of his father’s servants. “Ye have no right to insult her.”
“I have every right—she’s a Godforsaken heathen.”
Darach growled and took a step closer, hoping to intimidate the older woman with his superior size. She chuckled.
“Ye little whelp of a man,” she said, unimpressed. “I’ve known ye since ye were wiping snot on the back of yer hands.”
“Much time has passed since those days, Nola. I am the future laird, and ye will respect my position, and the woman.”
“Respect is earned,” she offered. “And that lass…”
“Where is she?”
“I’ve not seen or talked with her since last night.”
“Did ye offer her a bath? Fresh clothes?’
Nola shifted uneasily on her feet. “I couldn’t spare any hands.”
“Ye’re a bitter one,” he said unhappily. But what could he do? Punish her? Ridicule her in front of the younger servants, which would only earn Nola their sympathy? “Put an end to the gossip, Nola. If I overhear another lie, I will personally take a strap to yer back.” An empty threat, but he hoped it proved an important point.
“Kyla will show ye where to go, she’s taken a liking to the red witch.”
Darach grabbed two buckets of hot water and linens, then followed Kyla out of the kitchens and to Elle’s chamber.
A lone guard stood outside her chamber. Darach waved him off. “Go break yer fast, I’ll watch over the lass.”
“Thank ye,” the soldier said, then departed.
“Do ye wish me to attend her?’ Kyla asked.
“Nay,” he said. “I will see to her needs.”
Kyla raised an eyebrow. “Alone?”
Darach set the buckets on the floor. “Are ye concerned with the lass’s virtue? After everything I’ve heard, she could be the Virgin Mary and it would still not make a difference. She is perfectly safe with me.”
“As ye wish.” Kyla scooted down the passageway, turning back to look at him.
Finally alone, he rapped on the door.
“Enter,” Elle called.
Darach opened the door, then reached for the buckets.
Stunned by his presence, Elle jumped out of her chair, only wearing her shift. Once again Darach found himself admiring her flawless skin and the generous size and shape of her breasts, her dusky nipples visible through the white material.
“I—I wasn’t expecting you,” she said, hugging herself, doing her best to cover her chest.
“I apologize for the unannounced visit, lady.” He set the buckets down, then closed the door. “Under the circumstances, if I didn’t deliver the water and linens myself, there’d be no way for ye to bathe. The women in this house aren’t pleased by yer arrival. It will take some time.”
“Time I don’t have.”
“Are ye expected somewhere?”
Darach couldn’t take his eyes off her, though he didn’t want to make her uncomfortable. Admittedly, it seemed he always caught the lass in a state of undress, and he liked it too much.
She lowered her arms to her sides. “Thank you for bringing the water and linens. Did my trunk arrive?”
“Aye.” He reached inside the folds of his leine and produced two small bundles of leather. Elle rushed forward, looking desperate to inspect her possessions, but Darach stepped back. “Wait.” He unfolded the material on the first bundle, revealing the silver brooch with rubies. “It is as ye said, lass. And this . . .” He pointed to one of the distinct designs etched into the valuable metal. “Is a footprint, one that binds ye to the ancient kings of Scotia.”
“K-Kings?” she asked, moving closer.
Darach lowered the brooch so she could inspect it. “Kenneth MacAlpin, the first king of the Picts and Scots used many symbols to represent his right to rule and clan—I believe he is yer kinsman.”
“I never knew.”
“Now ye do, lass.” He offered her the treasure, and she took it with a sad smile. He opened the second bundle, revealing four, finely carved oval stones. Smooth on both sides and along the edges, strange shapes carved into their faces. “I cannot decipher the runic symbols, but I recognize the scrawl for what it is.”
“Scrawl?” She scrunched her face.
Damn his tongue—he’d insulted her. Darach wanted to forget about her Norse lineage. “Even I know how to use the quill and ink, lass. For everything yer father’s people have accomplished, I don’t understand why yer chieftains don’t write things down properly.”
She snatched the stones. “But we do,” she said. “These are name stones, proof of my noble birth and home. Meant to show to the lords of Orkeneyjar.”
“There will be no need.” He plucked them out of her hand, gripping them angrily in his fist. To Hades with the lords of Orkeneyjar, even though the bloody bastards had attempted to establish trading rights with his clan many times, he still wished them dead. “Ye won’t be going anywhere, Elle. Not without me.”