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Book: Across a Dark Highland Shore (Hot Highlands Romance Book 2) by Kelly Jameson
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Authors: Kelly Jameson
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see the faint amusement in his eyes turn to anger. He must have a temper. What Scotsman did not? He was used to directing men on the battlefield, used to having his orders on and off the battlefield obeyed without question. She would choose her battles with him wisely.
Even if he did consider her an unappealing peasant, a witch of sorts, at least she had the satisfaction of knowing he did not find her a simpering, fearful one. There was a current of ruthlessness and stubborn determination about him and she felt sure he recognized the same in her. She could not have survived the life she’d lived thus far without it.
“Who gave ye that pendant?” he asked, his eyes narrowing as he gazed at it again.
“My father. He’s dead now.”
“I am sorry to hear it. I know how it feels to lose a father.”
He turned to leave and then stopped to cast an amused glance at her over his shoulder. “Make no mistake. I own that stag’s head, too.”
As he left, Ranulph’s booming voice carried up the stairs from below.
“What’s all the screaming about? Did the witch-child turn poor Maida into a toad?”
8
Despite her exhausting ordeal yesterday, Isobel had risen early.
The castle was astir at daybreak. Roused from their straw pallets, servants lit fires in the kitchens and sculleries and in the great hall. Sleep-tousled men, women, and children began to fill the tables and benches, and Isobel sought seating as far from the others as possible.
She sat in the shadows near the hearth, where a group of hounds lounged and waited for scraps of food. The dogs were much better trained than those of the MacKinnon clan. More than once Isobel had feared being attacked by Bothen’s hounds, for Bothen had treated his animals the way he’d treated his women—savagely. He’d often said cruel things, like there was no difference between a woman and a mangy hound; both would be loyal to their master for scraps of meat and occasional attention.
Isobel had risen, washed, and now wore clothing finer than any she’d ever owned—a soft chemise and hose beneath a full-length, green linen tunic. She’d also been given a decent pair of leather boots. There wasn’t much she could do about her hair until it grew. It was probably just long enough to pull back with a short ribbon, but she was not about to ask for something costly.
She finished her bread and cheese and waited for Leith to appear in the hall. She needed to discuss her duties here. She could not sit around idly day and night simply waiting for visions.
She marveled at how different the great hall of the Macleans was compared to the great hall of the MacKinnons. Here there were oak paneled walls, intricate tapestries with images of men hunting, and silver cups. The great hall was clean and well cared for, the rushes fragrant even in winter. The Macleans had their own minstrel, who played softly during and after meals and thus far had not appeared drunk. The MacKinnon minstrel had only played on special occasions, such as Hogmanay’s, and he was often loud and worse for drink, forgetting tunes halfway through them and having to start over. Sometimes he even fell asleep while he was playing.
‘Twas obvious the Maclean laird prized orderliness and cleanliness. He ran an efficient household. Servants seemed well fed and generally content. Here, the beams were painted, not stained and streaked from years of smoke, and there were torches to light the way to beds covered with warm blankets. They were a proud and fierce clan.
Once her own clan, the MacKinnon, had been so. But ‘twas a long time ago. Isobel thought about the legend surrounding the castle of Dunakin near Kyleakin. The castle was supposedly built by a Norwegian princess known as “Saucy Mary”, who married Findanus, the claimed ancestor of Clan MacKinnon. The princess collected the tolls of ships sailing through the narrows between the castle and the
Even if he did consider her an unappealing peasant, a witch of sorts, at least she had the satisfaction of knowing he did not find her a simpering, fearful one. There was a current of ruthlessness and stubborn determination about him and she felt sure he recognized the same in her. She could not have survived the life she’d lived thus far without it.
“Who gave ye that pendant?” he asked, his eyes narrowing as he gazed at it again.
“My father. He’s dead now.”
“I am sorry to hear it. I know how it feels to lose a father.”
He turned to leave and then stopped to cast an amused glance at her over his shoulder. “Make no mistake. I own that stag’s head, too.”
As he left, Ranulph’s booming voice carried up the stairs from below.
“What’s all the screaming about? Did the witch-child turn poor Maida into a toad?”
8
Despite her exhausting ordeal yesterday, Isobel had risen early.
The castle was astir at daybreak. Roused from their straw pallets, servants lit fires in the kitchens and sculleries and in the great hall. Sleep-tousled men, women, and children began to fill the tables and benches, and Isobel sought seating as far from the others as possible.
She sat in the shadows near the hearth, where a group of hounds lounged and waited for scraps of food. The dogs were much better trained than those of the MacKinnon clan. More than once Isobel had feared being attacked by Bothen’s hounds, for Bothen had treated his animals the way he’d treated his women—savagely. He’d often said cruel things, like there was no difference between a woman and a mangy hound; both would be loyal to their master for scraps of meat and occasional attention.
Isobel had risen, washed, and now wore clothing finer than any she’d ever owned—a soft chemise and hose beneath a full-length, green linen tunic. She’d also been given a decent pair of leather boots. There wasn’t much she could do about her hair until it grew. It was probably just long enough to pull back with a short ribbon, but she was not about to ask for something costly.
She finished her bread and cheese and waited for Leith to appear in the hall. She needed to discuss her duties here. She could not sit around idly day and night simply waiting for visions.
She marveled at how different the great hall of the Macleans was compared to the great hall of the MacKinnons. Here there were oak paneled walls, intricate tapestries with images of men hunting, and silver cups. The great hall was clean and well cared for, the rushes fragrant even in winter. The Macleans had their own minstrel, who played softly during and after meals and thus far had not appeared drunk. The MacKinnon minstrel had only played on special occasions, such as Hogmanay’s, and he was often loud and worse for drink, forgetting tunes halfway through them and having to start over. Sometimes he even fell asleep while he was playing.
‘Twas obvious the Maclean laird prized orderliness and cleanliness. He ran an efficient household. Servants seemed well fed and generally content. Here, the beams were painted, not stained and streaked from years of smoke, and there were torches to light the way to beds covered with warm blankets. They were a proud and fierce clan.
Once her own clan, the MacKinnon, had been so. But ‘twas a long time ago. Isobel thought about the legend surrounding the castle of Dunakin near Kyleakin. The castle was supposedly built by a Norwegian princess known as “Saucy Mary”, who married Findanus, the claimed ancestor of Clan MacKinnon. The princess collected the tolls of ships sailing through the narrows between the castle and the
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