Read Online Beneath a Dark Highland Sky: Book #3 by Kelly Jameson - Free Book Online
Authors: Kelly Jameson
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army and fought valiantly against the English, earning the title of Duchy of Touraine. But he was killed at the Battle of Verneuil in 1424. Then there were the women of the clan, no less courageous. Maybe even more so. They braved childbirth, raised children, managed estates, cleaned and treated battle wounds, defended their castles when the men were away, and sometimes even disguised themselves as men to carry messages to the fighters. Sorcha had even done it herself once, though no one had ever known it.
While she could not see the future like the Maclean could, she would not give up trying to shape it. She would face it bravely because she was a Douglas. As far as she was concerned, her future did not include being beholden to a Highlander’s every wish and whim. She took one more backward glance at the dark-haired man with the challenging amber eyes, at his strong, proud silhouette upon the hill, and was thankful he was not the Maclean.
7
Stable hands saw to their horses as Malcolm and his men were led into the keep and up a winding turnpike stair, to the first-floor hall, where a fire crackled brightly in a wide hearth.
Servants scurried about, faultless and industrious, the great hall clearly prepared for a banquet and many guests though Malcolm had arrived earlier than expected. Great clouds of smoke rose from the kitchens where various foods were being prepared. Tall iron candelabras held a myriad of flickering candles, giving the cavernous hall a pleasant glow.
Underfoot the rushes were clean and fragrant, with herbs and white flowers strewn among them. When he was a small boy, Malcolm’s mother Isobel had explained the little white flowers were used for protection and good luck. They were called Wind Flowers because they would not open until the wind blew on them.
Douglas clan members greeted clan Maclean politely if cautiously. Even the hounds sprawled by the hearth were well-behaved. Fine tapestries lined the walls and the pine tables looked clean. Swords hung above the great hearth along with the Douglas family crest—a salamander surrounded by flames—and the family motto: Never Behind .
Malcolm’s gaze followed Nathair’s to a second stairway as a petite, beautiful woman with a long, blonde braid descended the stairs. Her slender figure was adorned in a white gown with gold trim and she held a small bell in her hands. When she reached the great hall, she stopped and studied the throng of Maclean men gaping at her.
She cleared her throat and rang the bell loudly and awkwardly, startling the crowd. The maid they’d met outside, the one who’d been sitting in the tree with bow and arrow at the ready, appeared.
“Nessa, bring refreshments for these men,” she said. “Whisky. And bring our finest.” The maid scurried off to do her bidding and Malcolm found himself watching her rather than the blonde woman, who must obviously be Sorcha Douglas, lady of the keep. The maid was extremely efficient, returning posthaste with the drinks while other servants also emerged to offer drinks and oat cakes to his men.
There were murmurs as Nessa and her clan waited for the laird to present himself. Wee, rosy cheeked children clutched their mothers’ hands for assurance, not sure about the giant Highland strangers in their midst. Douglas men crossed their arms over their brawny chests.
The crowd parted and a tall, dark-haired man stepped from the throng. He gently took Nessa’s hand. “Sorcha Douglas?” he said. “I am Malcolm Maclean.” It was so quiet the wind howling about the corners of stone, buffeting the towers and rattling the shutters, was all that was heard. And then there was the sharp clattering of a goblet smacking the stone floor.
Malcolm turned to see the maid Nessa murmuring apologies and staring at him, then at the lady of the keep. “My sincere
While she could not see the future like the Maclean could, she would not give up trying to shape it. She would face it bravely because she was a Douglas. As far as she was concerned, her future did not include being beholden to a Highlander’s every wish and whim. She took one more backward glance at the dark-haired man with the challenging amber eyes, at his strong, proud silhouette upon the hill, and was thankful he was not the Maclean.
7
Stable hands saw to their horses as Malcolm and his men were led into the keep and up a winding turnpike stair, to the first-floor hall, where a fire crackled brightly in a wide hearth.
Servants scurried about, faultless and industrious, the great hall clearly prepared for a banquet and many guests though Malcolm had arrived earlier than expected. Great clouds of smoke rose from the kitchens where various foods were being prepared. Tall iron candelabras held a myriad of flickering candles, giving the cavernous hall a pleasant glow.
Underfoot the rushes were clean and fragrant, with herbs and white flowers strewn among them. When he was a small boy, Malcolm’s mother Isobel had explained the little white flowers were used for protection and good luck. They were called Wind Flowers because they would not open until the wind blew on them.
Douglas clan members greeted clan Maclean politely if cautiously. Even the hounds sprawled by the hearth were well-behaved. Fine tapestries lined the walls and the pine tables looked clean. Swords hung above the great hearth along with the Douglas family crest—a salamander surrounded by flames—and the family motto: Never Behind .
Malcolm’s gaze followed Nathair’s to a second stairway as a petite, beautiful woman with a long, blonde braid descended the stairs. Her slender figure was adorned in a white gown with gold trim and she held a small bell in her hands. When she reached the great hall, she stopped and studied the throng of Maclean men gaping at her.
She cleared her throat and rang the bell loudly and awkwardly, startling the crowd. The maid they’d met outside, the one who’d been sitting in the tree with bow and arrow at the ready, appeared.
“Nessa, bring refreshments for these men,” she said. “Whisky. And bring our finest.” The maid scurried off to do her bidding and Malcolm found himself watching her rather than the blonde woman, who must obviously be Sorcha Douglas, lady of the keep. The maid was extremely efficient, returning posthaste with the drinks while other servants also emerged to offer drinks and oat cakes to his men.
There were murmurs as Nessa and her clan waited for the laird to present himself. Wee, rosy cheeked children clutched their mothers’ hands for assurance, not sure about the giant Highland strangers in their midst. Douglas men crossed their arms over their brawny chests.
The crowd parted and a tall, dark-haired man stepped from the throng. He gently took Nessa’s hand. “Sorcha Douglas?” he said. “I am Malcolm Maclean.” It was so quiet the wind howling about the corners of stone, buffeting the towers and rattling the shutters, was all that was heard. And then there was the sharp clattering of a goblet smacking the stone floor.
Malcolm turned to see the maid Nessa murmuring apologies and staring at him, then at the lady of the keep. “My sincere
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