Marsali?” he asked softly.
“Of course not, my lord,” she murmured, her lips twitching in a traitorous smile. “It’s a disgrace.”
Duncan banged his fist again, dislodging another spray of arrows. “This is General Duncan MacElgin, Abercrombie, and I will protect you. However, I cannot do so if you continue to cower behind that door.”
Silence again.
Duncan swung around, prepared to take his frustration out on Marsali. This time, however, she was ready for him, shaking her head in sympathetic agreement.
“A shocking disgrace, my lord.”
He got to his feet. “This is your last chance, Abercrombie. I swear to God if you do not let me in right now, I am going to get a ladder and order all those nasty children in the courtyard to climb up after you with their crossbows.”
The threat apparently worked.
The crossbar creaked from within. Duncan managed to jump back a fraction of a moment before the door flew open to reveal the diminutive figure cowering in the chapel.
Disbelieving, he stared down at the Lowland Scot administrator who hid behind a MacElgin medieval shield and whose head of unkempt white hair and suspicious face were overshadowed by the holy basin he wore as a helmet on his head. “You— you’re Abercrombie? The Crown sent you to manage my castle?”
“I am. They did.” The suspicion in the man’s hazel eyes hardened into fearful hostility as he in turn noticed Duncan’s half-nakedness and the dingy MacElgin plaid. “But you’re no distinguished marquess and general—you’re one of them . ”
Panic in eyes, he extended all his puny strength to slam the door in Duncan’s face. On reflex Duncan threw up his arm and sent the door crashing up against the wall, rattling the row of plucked chickens strung from the chapel rafters. Stepping over the threshold, he stared around him in amazement: papers, books, blankets, eating utensils. The chapel was a regular encampment.
“What the hell has been going on here?” he demanded, his voice booming in the confined space.
Abercrombie dropped his shield and grabbed the broadsword that lay across the pew behind him. “One more step and you’re a dead man,” he said in a menacing squeak, a mouse assaulting a lion.
“Put the sword down before you hurt yourself, Abercrombie,” Duncan said calmly, struggling not to laugh. “I am not one of them.”
“You’re dressed—or undressed—like one of them.”
Abercrombie poked his finger at Marsali as she sneaked in behind Duncan. “She’s one of them, to be sure. A wild thing, she is, with that bird of prey that follows her like a shadow and her uncle in league with the Devil. And—” Abercrombie broke off, glancing from Duncan to Marsali, as if suddenly wondering if she were the Devil’s handmaiden and this dark man her master.
“ I am as much a victim of the clan’s anarchy as you are, Abercrombie,” Duncan tried to explain again. “They assaulted me on the moor and took my clothes. How long have you been locked in here, man?”
Abercrombie lowered the sword, tears of self-pity filling his eyes. “Two months, my lord. Two long months of fending off the wicked bastards.”
“You should not have ordered my cousin flogged your first day here,” Marsali interrupted, her eyes flashing. “It made a very bad impression on the others.”
“Hold your tongue, Marsali,” Duncan said, not looking at her. “Obviously this man has been mistreated, and I will see justice served.”
“Liam was only twelve years old,” she continued, her voice rising at the memory. “Twelve years old and flogged unconscious for a minor transgression.”
“What did the lad do?” Duncan asked Abercrombie.
“Threw a glass of goat’s milk in my face, my lord.” Abercrombie glared at Marsali. “An act of sheer defiance if ever I saw it, and this woman should have been whipped alongside him. Stripping grown men and forcing them to wander about that cold desolate moor. It’s an outrage, an insult
“Of course not, my lord,” she murmured, her lips twitching in a traitorous smile. “It’s a disgrace.”
Duncan banged his fist again, dislodging another spray of arrows. “This is General Duncan MacElgin, Abercrombie, and I will protect you. However, I cannot do so if you continue to cower behind that door.”
Silence again.
Duncan swung around, prepared to take his frustration out on Marsali. This time, however, she was ready for him, shaking her head in sympathetic agreement.
“A shocking disgrace, my lord.”
He got to his feet. “This is your last chance, Abercrombie. I swear to God if you do not let me in right now, I am going to get a ladder and order all those nasty children in the courtyard to climb up after you with their crossbows.”
The threat apparently worked.
The crossbar creaked from within. Duncan managed to jump back a fraction of a moment before the door flew open to reveal the diminutive figure cowering in the chapel.
Disbelieving, he stared down at the Lowland Scot administrator who hid behind a MacElgin medieval shield and whose head of unkempt white hair and suspicious face were overshadowed by the holy basin he wore as a helmet on his head. “You— you’re Abercrombie? The Crown sent you to manage my castle?”
“I am. They did.” The suspicion in the man’s hazel eyes hardened into fearful hostility as he in turn noticed Duncan’s half-nakedness and the dingy MacElgin plaid. “But you’re no distinguished marquess and general—you’re one of them . ”
Panic in eyes, he extended all his puny strength to slam the door in Duncan’s face. On reflex Duncan threw up his arm and sent the door crashing up against the wall, rattling the row of plucked chickens strung from the chapel rafters. Stepping over the threshold, he stared around him in amazement: papers, books, blankets, eating utensils. The chapel was a regular encampment.
“What the hell has been going on here?” he demanded, his voice booming in the confined space.
Abercrombie dropped his shield and grabbed the broadsword that lay across the pew behind him. “One more step and you’re a dead man,” he said in a menacing squeak, a mouse assaulting a lion.
“Put the sword down before you hurt yourself, Abercrombie,” Duncan said calmly, struggling not to laugh. “I am not one of them.”
“You’re dressed—or undressed—like one of them.”
Abercrombie poked his finger at Marsali as she sneaked in behind Duncan. “She’s one of them, to be sure. A wild thing, she is, with that bird of prey that follows her like a shadow and her uncle in league with the Devil. And—” Abercrombie broke off, glancing from Duncan to Marsali, as if suddenly wondering if she were the Devil’s handmaiden and this dark man her master.
“ I am as much a victim of the clan’s anarchy as you are, Abercrombie,” Duncan tried to explain again. “They assaulted me on the moor and took my clothes. How long have you been locked in here, man?”
Abercrombie lowered the sword, tears of self-pity filling his eyes. “Two months, my lord. Two long months of fending off the wicked bastards.”
“You should not have ordered my cousin flogged your first day here,” Marsali interrupted, her eyes flashing. “It made a very bad impression on the others.”
“Hold your tongue, Marsali,” Duncan said, not looking at her. “Obviously this man has been mistreated, and I will see justice served.”
“Liam was only twelve years old,” she continued, her voice rising at the memory. “Twelve years old and flogged unconscious for a minor transgression.”
“What did the lad do?” Duncan asked Abercrombie.
“Threw a glass of goat’s milk in my face, my lord.” Abercrombie glared at Marsali. “An act of sheer defiance if ever I saw it, and this woman should have been whipped alongside him. Stripping grown men and forcing them to wander about that cold desolate moor. It’s an outrage, an insult
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