Helen drew back her fingers and clutched her fist to her chest. “Forgive me. I had a bit of trouble fitting into my gown. The one I wore for my confinement is now too large and this one…” She gestured downward.
He arched a brow and glanced at her breasts. “I reckon a bit of fat on your bones is not a bad thing.”
She pulled her mantle across her open neckline. “I was thinking of asking the tailor to let out one or two gowns to provide a bit more comfort.”
His shoulder shrugged. “Do what you must.”
When he started to turn toward Mary, Helen grasped his arm. “It would be ever so nice if you would pay a visit to Maggie, m’laird. She changes every day.”
Aleck brushed her hand away and gave her a steely glare. “I’ll not be visiting the nursery until there’s a wee lad occupying it. I need a son to inherit my name, not a daughter. You’d best heal fast, wife, for I’ve no option but to visit your bed again soon.”
She preferred not to have this conversation in the hall, but now that he’d mentioned the bedchamber, Helen would have her say. She leaned closer so only he could hear. “And once you return to my bed will you stop keeping company with the widow?”
“Wheesht and mind your own affairs.” He grasped her hand under the table and squeezed. Hard. “I’ll not have any lassie yapping in my ear like a bitch. I need your noble arse to bear my son and that’s the last I’ll hear of it.”
Suddenly not hungry, Helen pulled her hand away and rubbed her fingers. How could her brute of a husband treat her with such disdain? And how in God’s name was she to endure his boorishness for the rest of her life? Yes, her mother had always repeated the words: that which cannot be helped must be endured. But Da had treated Ma with respect, even in the beginning. Though Helen’s parents had an arranged marriage, they’d grown to love each other, and in short order, too. Helen glanced at Aleck’s bald head. She no longer harbored hope of love ever growing between them—tolerance was the best she could hope for.
But I must try harder.
The big oak doors at the far end of the great hall opened with a whoosh. A sentry wearing the king’s surcoat emblazoned with an orange lion rampant stepped inside. “I’ve a missive for Sir Aleck MacIain.”
The Chieftain stood and beckoned him. “Are you blind? Bring it here to the high table.”
Helen huffed. Decorum would never be her husband’s strong suit. Who on earth would not be aware the clan’s chieftain sat at the high table? And flaunting the fact by being rude only served to promote discourse among those who paid fealty to him.
Aleck drummed his fingers while the man strode through the hall and climbed up to the dais with all eyes upon him. The room hummed as people mumbled, clearly impressed that a king’s man had come all the way to Ardnamurchan to deliver a missive to their chieftain. Aleck snatched the velum from the man’s fingertips and sliced his eating knife under the seal. Leaning toward the light of the enormous candelabra, Aleck knit his bushy eyebrows as he read.
Helen craned her neck in a futile attempt to see the writing. “What news, m’laird?”
With a frown, he shoved the missive into his doublet and looked to Grant, completely ignoring Helen’s question. “The king has requested my presence at Stirling Castle. We must leave on the morrow.”
“Stirling?” Helen clapped her hands together. “Oh it would be lovely to purchase some new fabric at the castle fete.”
“Aye, but you will not be accompanying me.”
Helen frowned. It was no use asking if he would bring back a bolt of gold damask. He wouldn’t do it. And making such a request would only give him another opportunity to berate her.
Grant stood and bowed. “I’ll ready the men.” He looked to Aleck. “We’ll take the galley to Dunstaffnage and ride from there as usual?”
“Aye.”
Helen nearly melted when she heard the henchman say Dunstaffnage. She had many fond memories of that castle. It was only a short ride from Dunollie where her sister, Gyllis, lived with her husband, Sean MacDougall. If only she could stow away on Aleck’s galley with Maggie. Helen could visit Gyllis and then travel east to Kilchurn Castle and see her mother. How wonderful such a holiday would be. She hadn’t seen her kin in years.
Alas, Aleck would be in too much of a hurry to take her and Maggie to Dunollie—only four miles south of Dunstaffnage.
However, in her usual mien, Helen chose to see the positive side of this turn of events. Perhaps this journey would take Aleck away for an entire month. She smiled. Indeed, his absence was something she would welcome.
Chapter Two
Eoin MacGregor, Chieftain of Clan Gregor, sat at the king’s table. The gathering was a clandestine assembly, conducted in the king’s antechamber, one doorway from his royal highness’s bedchamber. The room was appointed with landscape tapestries woven with iridescent silk threads. The particularly rich greens made the scenes appear almost lifelike. The table itself was a work of art, hewn from walnut with carved lion’s heads at each corner.
Eoin was flanked by Duncan Campbell, Lord of Glenorchy, and his brother, Sir Iain Campbell, who had recently been granted the title of Chieftain of Lawers.
Across from them, Eoin’s good friends Sir Sean MacDougall and Sir Robert Struan completed this group of nobles who comprised the upper echelon of the king’s enforcers. Each one a fierce warrior adept in weaponry, not even the English could stop their armies when united.
Seated at the head of the table was King James IV who, at the age of twenty, still looked like a lad with his brown shoulder-length tresses curling out from under a gold crown. But Eoin knew better than to underestimate his monarch. The king had risen to power five years earlier, having taken part in the rebellion against his father, the very unpopular King James III. Even though youthful, this James exuded authority with iron-clad confidence, and Eoin respected him as Scotland’s sovereign.
Lord Duncan flicked a speck of lint from his velvet doublet. With a thick head of black hair combined with a neatly cropped beard, the baron could pass for a pirate on a sunny day. “Word has it the MacDonalds are rebelling to the north.”
The king’s eyebrows arched and disappeared beneath his gold crown. “’Tis why I summoned you. Now that I’ve stripped John MacDonald of the Lordship of the Isles, it appears his nephew, Alexander, has taken up his mantle and is raiding the entire west coast.”
“Miserable, spineless dog,” Sean MacDougall said from across the table. He had good reason for concern. His keep, Dunollie, sat on the western seaboard.
“Aye,” the king agreed. “I’ll not tolerate insurrection from any one of my subjects.”
Duncan eyed each of his men—the inner circle of the Highland Enforcers. Though nobles and clan chieftains, each man was a sizeable warrior, every one willing to lay down his life for the other. “Spies report Alexander has made contact with all MacDonald Clans down the coast. He’s planning a rebellion.”
Eoin nodded. “Any idea when…or where?”
King James tapped his lips with his pointer finger. “My guess is he’ll amass his army first.”
Duncan studied the map on the table. It was dotted with red-inked circles and, leaning closer, Eoin realized each marked a MacDonald stronghold. Glenorchy pointed to the Isle of Islay. “They control this entire region. It makes no sense to mount an attack on the crown from the north. I’d wager they’ll be building their forces at Dunyveig or Finlaggan.”