Chapter Ten
Over the next week, Darach kept his distance from Elle. She didn’t see him keeping watch over her chamber late at night when he gave her regular guard a much-deserved break. Or how he’d spent more time in the kitchens recently than he had his whole life, overseeing the preparation of her trays to keep Nola or any of the other maids from tampering with her food. Bitterness and resentment ran deep in the veins of his kinsmen over her presence. So much so, his sire had arranged a meeting this morn to speak with his captains regarding the lass’s future.
Darach sat to his father’s right at the high table, facing the six men who were considered his clan’s most fierce protectors and closest advisors.
“I am disappointed in all of ye,” his father said. “I might be old, but I’m not deaf. I hear the words ye speak behind the lass’s back—behind my back—against my strict orders to treat the girl with decency. What say ye, Cameron?”
Darach eyed his closest friend with suspicion. Their relationship had suffered since the day Elle was rescued. And the longer she stayed, the further apart they drifted.
Cameron stood. “I mean no disrespect to ye, laird.” He bowed. “I cannot lie about how I feel. Keeping the Norse bitch within these walls endangers every man, woman, and child under yer care.”
Darach curled his hand into a fist, released it, then did the same over and over again—his heart racing with rage. “What are ye saying, man? That my decision to give the lass sanctuary was a selfish one?”
Cameron showed his teeth. “Your words, not mine.”
Darach gazed at his father, seeking his approval to continue questioning the captain. The laird nodded, and Darach stood, then stepped down from the dais. “Explain how one helpless girl can send the lot of ye running like scared little whelps.”
The other men looked none too pleased with his words.
“I’m not running, Darach,” Cameron denied. “I’m standing here with Divine purpose, determined to rid Am Parph of the red witch that threatens to bring the scourge of Orkeneyjar upon us if we don’t return her to her rightful lords.”
Darach took another step toward his friend. No one knew about the evidence of Elle’s birthright, not that it truly existed. She’d made claims well enough, but words didn’t prove anything. Darach had planned on speaking with his father alone, but now, with the captains challenging their laird, he knew he must make the information public. Though he doubted it would silence them completely, it would give Elle more of a right to be here.
“Our women are afraid to walk the grounds at night,” Cavan complained.
Darach frowned at him. “If yer wife wanderers about at night, Cavan, ye aren’t fulfilling yer martial duties.”
The other captains laughed, and Cavan grew quiet—justifiably humiliated. The time for ignorance was over.
“Surely ye do not believe the girl a witch,” Darach said. “Ye are accomplished warriors—battle-hardened and fearless. How can one wee lass wield such power over ye, as if she held a dirk to yer throats?”
“Did ye forget what we saw that day on the longship, Darach? Over a dozen dead men? Norse or not, they breathe the same as us.”
The laird grunted. “Tis the first time I’ve ever heard ye refer to the Norse as anything close to us, Cameron, especially human.”
Again, the men laughed, but Darach still saw the resentment in their eyes. They wanted vengeance—very likely Elle’s blood to be spilled. “And what would ye do if the girl was yer responsibility, Cameron?”
A long moment of silence passed before the captain cleared his throat. “I’d give her a good length of Scot pride,” he answered with a lewd smile, pumping his hips.
“Fook.” Darach came at him, landing a solid blow to his chin, knocking his friend back a couple feet. “Ye speak of rape, yet condemn the Norse for that very thing.”
Cameron rubbed his chin, but didn’t retaliate. “Tis time to deliver a strong message to the lords of Orkeneyjar. For too long we’ve been perceived as their bloody subordinates—let them see with their own eyes what a Scot is capable of—the same violence, the same hatred, the same power.”
“We’re not rapists,” Darach growled, the idea of anyone touching Elle without her consent made him crazy and hungry for violence. “That’s what sets us apart from the heathens—from the beasts of the earth. And ye bloody well better remember it.”
“As ye should remember not to think with yer pikk,” Cameron countered.
“Enough!” The laird slammed his fist on the tabletop. “Cameron is right about one thing, Darach. Tis true we’ve kept the Norse from invading our lands, but they do not respect and fear us. We’re seen as more of an inconvenience than a threat. Our wool is what they want. And until now, I’ve refused.”
Darach spun around, not understanding what his father meant by until now. “What are ye saying, Father?”
The laird scrubbed his bearded chin and sighed. “I sent a missive to Orkeneyjar three days ago.”
“For what purpose?”
“To open negotiations.”
Darach’s body went rigid. Negotiations? For what? Anything of value attached to the Norse was stained with Scot blood. Darach would rather starve then barter with the Godforsaken lords of Orkeneyjar. “What have ye done, Father?”
“Try to understand . . . Darach . . .”
Whenever his sire started a thought with those words it could only mean one thing. “Ye gave in to their baseless fears, didn’t ye?” More rage wrapped around Darach’s heart.
“The lass belongs with her own kind,” the laird said.
“Aye,” Darach growled, then reached inside his tunic and produced the leather bundle that contained Elle’s great grandmother’s brooch. He ripped the bundle open and held up the precious piece of silver. “Proof of Lady Elle’s Scot lineage. The lass’s mother is a MacAlpin—kidnapped and carried across the North Sea. She might be half Norse, but she’s a bloody Scot, too.” He concentrated on each captain, making sure they had a clear view of the brooch. “Ye pass judgment prematurely.”
A loud, feminine cry sounded from across the great hall, and Darach turned just in time to see a flash of fire-red hair and a pale blue skirt flee the chamber. By Christ’s holy name, how long had the lass been eavesdropping on the conversation? Did she overhear Cameron’s damnable words? His sire’s shocking news?
He turned to his father and offered the brooch. “Have whatever scholar or craftsman ye wish confirm the authenticity of this piece. I recognize the mark of a king when I see it. Tis all the proof I need to guarantee the lass’s safety—at least until she’s united with her kin.” Caring little for what anyone thought, he rushed out of the hall, determined to catch and comfort the beauty that had prevailed upon his world.