Read Online Fairy Tale by Jillian Hunter - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jillian Hunter
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Abercrombie, aren’t you the resourceful one? But what did you drink, man, those two long months?”
Abercrombie puffed his chest out like a pigeon. “Eucharist wine, my lord. What else?”
“Why, you crafty old fox. I’ll not turn my back on you.” Duncan chuckled dryly and clapped the little man on the shoulder, practically driving him to his knees as a hammer would a nail. Abercrombie staggered but pretended to laugh too, and the pair of them headed toward the door, the sound of their shared amusement grating in Marsali’s ears, excluding her.
She trailed slowly after them, a troubled frown creasing her forehead. Had she misjudged the MacElgin then? For certain he had failed a crucial test: He should have tossed the miserable little traitor out the window when she’d told him about the flogging of a child. As chieftain, Duncan should have displayed deep anger toward Abercrombie, compassion for his victim, and then at the very least he should have put the pompous Scot into the finger pillory for a fortnight to be pelted with rotten produce.
She stared down the shadows of the spiral tower stairs at Duncan’s big receding figure, disappointment weighing like a stone in her chest. Perhaps she was too impressed by the man’s air of authority to perceive his deeper flaws. Perhaps she was blinded by the beauty of a man who looked like a medieval knight commissioned by the saints to save his people. She wanted to believe he had been sent as an answer to her prayers because she was heartsick with burying brothers and cousins, not to mention a father.
Someone had to take the clan under control. But was the cost of salvation a pact with the Devil? Someone had to show the chieftain fealty. Why did it have to be her? She sighed, shaking her head as she hurried to catch up with them, not wanting to miss one moment of this exciting day.
She would give Duncan one more chance, although it concerned her that he had failed a very critical test of his character. It concerned her almost as much as the fact that she wanted to believe in him for reasons she suspected had nothing whatsoever to do with the clan.
B y nightfall the news of Duncan’s arrival had penetrated every nook and cranny of the castle. His presence had cast a somber pall over the usua l nightly activities. The much- enjoyed running naked in and out of the great hall had been canceled, as had the dropping of young frogs into drunken clansmens’ trews at dinner.
Duncan had not exactly won friends with the curt demands he had barked out during his “tour.” His most dramatic run-in had come when he and Cook had butted heads during supper. They had never shared a warm relationship, even in their earlier years, and Duncan had not further endeared himself to the woman by summoning her to the hall to criticize her supper as he handed her a list of suggested French menus with a purse of coins to buy more palatable supplies.
“I do not ever want to lay eyes upon, let alone eat, another one of your stringy overcooked chickens again,” he announced over the woman’s spluttering protests.
Cook’s face empurpled like an eggplant. No one had ever dared to complain about her cooking within her earshot. Several clansmen even ducked under the massive table for fear a violent battle would ensue.
Marsali was aghast at Duncan’s tactless tyranny, challenging the heretofore most important woman, if not person, in the entire castle. And he’d done it publicly. At the table. Reduced to acting as serving maid as part of her punishment, Marsali had been severely tempted to empty a flagon of wine over his insensitive head. In fact, the force of her anger had driven her to storm out of the hall, defying him to stop her.
Which he did.
She had just reached the door when he’d half-risen from his massive Jacobean chair on its bulbous lion’s-claw feet to summon her back.
“I do not remember giving you permission to leave, Marsali.”
Hell’s bells, the man had
Abercrombie puffed his chest out like a pigeon. “Eucharist wine, my lord. What else?”
“Why, you crafty old fox. I’ll not turn my back on you.” Duncan chuckled dryly and clapped the little man on the shoulder, practically driving him to his knees as a hammer would a nail. Abercrombie staggered but pretended to laugh too, and the pair of them headed toward the door, the sound of their shared amusement grating in Marsali’s ears, excluding her.
She trailed slowly after them, a troubled frown creasing her forehead. Had she misjudged the MacElgin then? For certain he had failed a crucial test: He should have tossed the miserable little traitor out the window when she’d told him about the flogging of a child. As chieftain, Duncan should have displayed deep anger toward Abercrombie, compassion for his victim, and then at the very least he should have put the pompous Scot into the finger pillory for a fortnight to be pelted with rotten produce.
She stared down the shadows of the spiral tower stairs at Duncan’s big receding figure, disappointment weighing like a stone in her chest. Perhaps she was too impressed by the man’s air of authority to perceive his deeper flaws. Perhaps she was blinded by the beauty of a man who looked like a medieval knight commissioned by the saints to save his people. She wanted to believe he had been sent as an answer to her prayers because she was heartsick with burying brothers and cousins, not to mention a father.
Someone had to take the clan under control. But was the cost of salvation a pact with the Devil? Someone had to show the chieftain fealty. Why did it have to be her? She sighed, shaking her head as she hurried to catch up with them, not wanting to miss one moment of this exciting day.
She would give Duncan one more chance, although it concerned her that he had failed a very critical test of his character. It concerned her almost as much as the fact that she wanted to believe in him for reasons she suspected had nothing whatsoever to do with the clan.
B y nightfall the news of Duncan’s arrival had penetrated every nook and cranny of the castle. His presence had cast a somber pall over the usua l nightly activities. The much- enjoyed running naked in and out of the great hall had been canceled, as had the dropping of young frogs into drunken clansmens’ trews at dinner.
Duncan had not exactly won friends with the curt demands he had barked out during his “tour.” His most dramatic run-in had come when he and Cook had butted heads during supper. They had never shared a warm relationship, even in their earlier years, and Duncan had not further endeared himself to the woman by summoning her to the hall to criticize her supper as he handed her a list of suggested French menus with a purse of coins to buy more palatable supplies.
“I do not ever want to lay eyes upon, let alone eat, another one of your stringy overcooked chickens again,” he announced over the woman’s spluttering protests.
Cook’s face empurpled like an eggplant. No one had ever dared to complain about her cooking within her earshot. Several clansmen even ducked under the massive table for fear a violent battle would ensue.
Marsali was aghast at Duncan’s tactless tyranny, challenging the heretofore most important woman, if not person, in the entire castle. And he’d done it publicly. At the table. Reduced to acting as serving maid as part of her punishment, Marsali had been severely tempted to empty a flagon of wine over his insensitive head. In fact, the force of her anger had driven her to storm out of the hall, defying him to stop her.
Which he did.
She had just reached the door when he’d half-risen from his massive Jacobean chair on its bulbous lion’s-claw feet to summon her back.
“I do not remember giving you permission to leave, Marsali.”
Hell’s bells, the man had
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