“I have matters to attend to,” he said.
Without looking at her again, he rose and walked to the doorway of their chamber. She didn’t look over her shoulder, as tempted as she was to do so. She was both elated and disheartened by the kiss and resulting reactions.
She stared down at her hands for a long moment, gathering her wildly scattered emotions. She had no experience in matters of the heart. Her one exposure to a potential husband had been disastrous and she’d vowed never to allow herself into a situation such as the one she would have found herself in with Ian McHugh. And the truth of the matter was, she hadn’t had a choice with Graeme, and it could have turned out as bad as or worse than any marriage to Ian. She’d merely been fortunate that Graeme didn’t seem intent on ill-using her and that he showed her kindness instead of vengeance.
Taking a deep breath, she stood, allowing the fur to fall away, and then she walked to the bed where Rorie had laid out a dress for her to change into. She wouldn’t allow anything to spoil today. Not spiteful clan members. Not her own doubts and misgivings or her fears over revealing the truth to Graeme.
She’d enjoyed her first kiss, her first taste of passion, and the stirrings of a desire she wanted to pursue.
Knowing that Rorie would likely be curious as to what prompted Graeme carrying her back to the keep and that she might even be concerned, Eveline headed down the stairs, determined to brave the gauntlet.
She was Graeme’s wife, whether his clan wanted to accept it or not. She’d accepted it, and if she had her way, Graeme would accept it soon as well. In time, his clan would follow suit. She had to believe that.
When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she sucked in a deep breath and rounded the doorway leading into the hall. She hurried toward the far end where the exit into the short corridor that housed the tiny room where Rorie liked to spend so much time was.
But the room was dark, furs drawn over the window, and Rorie was nowhere in sight. With a frown, Eveline returned to the hall, deciding to venture out of the keep where she’d hopefully discover Rorie’s whereabouts.
Where before the hall had been mostly empty save for a few women going back and forth from the kitchen, Eveline came face-to-face with a veritable crowd, or at least it seemed so with so many blocking her pathway to the courtyard.
At the forefront of the group of women—five women Eveline counted—was Kierstan, whose surly expression could only mean that this wasn’t going to be a friendly encounter.
Kierstan’s lip curled. “Whore.”
Eveline blinked in surprise. For one, it wasn’t her usual method of insult. Eveline had truly thought the lass limited in her vocabulary to a single insult.
The other women nodded, their expressions as fierce as Kierstan’s own.
“You’ll not take our laird in with your seductive wiles,” Kierstan continued. “He’s a man, and men can be swayed by a pretty face and a willing body. But you won’t be fooling us. We won’t let him forget who and what you are. You will never be welcome here, Armstrong bitch.”
Fury nearly blinded Eveline. The other women were chiming in with insults no doubt. All agreeing with Kierstan and supporting her statements. But Eveline couldn’t keep up with their mouths. The assembled women blurred in her vision as she was gripped by rage.
Eveline turned to the huge fireplace in the center of the hall. A fireplace where two swords hung over the mantle. They were within reach and she doubted they were battle worthy. They looked to be more ornamental. But at the moment she cared not. One would certainly aid in her cause.
If they wanted madness, she’d give it to them.
She rushed to the fireplace, rose up on tiptoe, and yanked at the sword, praying it would come free and then praying that it didn’t weigh so much that she couldn’t even lift it.
The grip was old and worn and the blade not as thick or as large as the ones her kin carried or even those she’d seen the Montgomery warriors carry.
The sword came away without protest, and anger fueled her strength as she wobbled under the weight. She turned back to the women who now stared at her with unease.
She charged forward, holding the blade high, and bellowed, without worry over how loudly her words came forth. She cared not if the rafters rang with it. The word—the one word—that she was able to articulate billowed from her chest and squeezed out her throat with all the force she could muster.
“O-O-OUT!!”
CHAPTER 20
“Laird, come quickly! She’s gone completely mad! You must stop her before she kills someone!”
Sparring ceased all over the courtyard as the woman ran shrieking toward Graeme. Bowen stood down and Graeme lowered his sword. He held his hand out to stop the panicked babbling so he could understand what on God’s earth she was hollering about.
Murmurs rose from the warriors as in the background, emanating from the keep came an unholy sounding, “OOOUUUTTT!” More shrieks ensued and the woman in front of Graeme started her shrill exclamations all over again.
“Silence!” Graeme roared. “I cannot hear what is about!”
He advanced on the woman before him—Mary?—and tried to keep his voice calm and measured.
“What is amiss? Who are you talking about going mad and killing someone?”
“ ’Tis your wife, Laird! She’s taken a sword to the other women in the hall. You have to come quickly!”
Graeme dropped his sword and ran.
As he rounded the corner, the scene before him made him stop in his tracks.
“Jesu,” Bowen breathed out. “ ’Tis true. She has gone mad!”