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Authors: The Scoundrel
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conclusion he might have made.
Or what suspicions he might have. Surely I had played their game well? The monks’ chanting grew in volume as I grew uneasy, and the chapel doors swung open once again.
“The laird Fergus,” whispered Tarsuinn with either awe or reverence as the entire company turned. A cold gust of air swirled around my ankles, though my shiver halted when I saw the woman whose hand rested upon the laird’s elbow.
Evangeline.
* * *
But not Evangeline. This woman looked sufficiently like Evangeline to be her twin, but was so lifeless that she could not have been the Evangeline I knew.
This woman did not radiate confidence, she did not glow or swagger, her eyes did not sparkle. There was no flush in her cheeks and no swing to her hips. She was demure, her complexion pale, her eyes downcast. Her hair, which I knew to be dark and wild, was tightly secured beneath a veil and demurely fastened with a circlet.
She looked so severe and bloodless that she might have been wrought of ice. Her gaze was fixed upon the floor before her feet and even when peasants bowed before her, she did not smile. Still, that curious awareness tingled within me, the same that had made me note her entry into the alehouse.
I knew a moment’s doubt. Was this my Evangeline? Did she have a sister? A twin? Or had I seen a side of her she preferred to hide from others? I was doubly intrigued.
There was, of course, only one way to be certain of the lady’s identity. I awaited my chance.
The laird was far older than I had expected, given that he had held his position for only five years. His hair was grey, his features careworn. He was not a handsome man and never had been. He was solidly wrought and so richly dressed that he seemed to have stolen the garb of another, more noble, man. The tightness of his lips and the rapid flicking of his gaze revealed his uncertainties all too well.
He wore a falconer’s glove upon his right hand and surrendered the hooded bird to a servant at the chapel door with evident reluctance. He was momentarily uncertain what to do with his hand then, until Evangeline gently laid his right hand atop her own. He nodded before beginning their procession down the aisle.
As he walked, he looked neither to the left nor to the right. Here was a man who knew he was challenged by his followers. Here was a man who knew this night to be the test of his suzerainty. Here was a man who was not the leader his predecessor had hoped he might be.
I looked to the lady, then back to the laird, and supposed that there was something noble about showing loyalty to one’s own father. I had done it myself, for all the good that had come of it. If this was my Evangeline, I could appreciate that she had fetched the relic that might make her father’s title more secure.
Three men who were younger than the laird yet showed some resemblance to him in their features strode behind him, their countenances as hard as stone. Their hair was ruddy, their faces tanned, their eyes narrowed. Two were men fully, while one was yet a youth. These, clearly, were his relatives and allies, perhaps Evangeline’s brothers.
But Fergus was out-numbered and he knew as much. His color rose with every step. His gaze was fixed upon the altar ahead as if all his woes would cease once he reached that haven. More than one warrior shifted his weight, flicked his glance away from his laird or murmured his greeting so low as to be inaudible. Niall turned slightly away as his lord drew alongside, checking the buckle of his scabbard with undue care so that he would not have to even incline his head.
The laird’s daughter stood steadfast beside him, her spine as straight as a well-wrought blade. I noticed that she squeezed his fingers once, a subtle sign of support that none would have noted who were not watching her as avidly as I. The laird seemed to lean upon his straight and determined daughter, a woman who resembled my Evangeline only in her
Or what suspicions he might have. Surely I had played their game well? The monks’ chanting grew in volume as I grew uneasy, and the chapel doors swung open once again.
“The laird Fergus,” whispered Tarsuinn with either awe or reverence as the entire company turned. A cold gust of air swirled around my ankles, though my shiver halted when I saw the woman whose hand rested upon the laird’s elbow.
Evangeline.
* * *
But not Evangeline. This woman looked sufficiently like Evangeline to be her twin, but was so lifeless that she could not have been the Evangeline I knew.
This woman did not radiate confidence, she did not glow or swagger, her eyes did not sparkle. There was no flush in her cheeks and no swing to her hips. She was demure, her complexion pale, her eyes downcast. Her hair, which I knew to be dark and wild, was tightly secured beneath a veil and demurely fastened with a circlet.
She looked so severe and bloodless that she might have been wrought of ice. Her gaze was fixed upon the floor before her feet and even when peasants bowed before her, she did not smile. Still, that curious awareness tingled within me, the same that had made me note her entry into the alehouse.
I knew a moment’s doubt. Was this my Evangeline? Did she have a sister? A twin? Or had I seen a side of her she preferred to hide from others? I was doubly intrigued.
There was, of course, only one way to be certain of the lady’s identity. I awaited my chance.
The laird was far older than I had expected, given that he had held his position for only five years. His hair was grey, his features careworn. He was not a handsome man and never had been. He was solidly wrought and so richly dressed that he seemed to have stolen the garb of another, more noble, man. The tightness of his lips and the rapid flicking of his gaze revealed his uncertainties all too well.
He wore a falconer’s glove upon his right hand and surrendered the hooded bird to a servant at the chapel door with evident reluctance. He was momentarily uncertain what to do with his hand then, until Evangeline gently laid his right hand atop her own. He nodded before beginning their procession down the aisle.
As he walked, he looked neither to the left nor to the right. Here was a man who knew he was challenged by his followers. Here was a man who knew this night to be the test of his suzerainty. Here was a man who was not the leader his predecessor had hoped he might be.
I looked to the lady, then back to the laird, and supposed that there was something noble about showing loyalty to one’s own father. I had done it myself, for all the good that had come of it. If this was my Evangeline, I could appreciate that she had fetched the relic that might make her father’s title more secure.
Three men who were younger than the laird yet showed some resemblance to him in their features strode behind him, their countenances as hard as stone. Their hair was ruddy, their faces tanned, their eyes narrowed. Two were men fully, while one was yet a youth. These, clearly, were his relatives and allies, perhaps Evangeline’s brothers.
But Fergus was out-numbered and he knew as much. His color rose with every step. His gaze was fixed upon the altar ahead as if all his woes would cease once he reached that haven. More than one warrior shifted his weight, flicked his glance away from his laird or murmured his greeting so low as to be inaudible. Niall turned slightly away as his lord drew alongside, checking the buckle of his scabbard with undue care so that he would not have to even incline his head.
The laird’s daughter stood steadfast beside him, her spine as straight as a well-wrought blade. I noticed that she squeezed his fingers once, a subtle sign of support that none would have noted who were not watching her as avidly as I. The laird seemed to lean upon his straight and determined daughter, a woman who resembled my Evangeline only in her
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