Margaret Mallory - The Sinner

Glynis turned and bolted out of the keep.

* * *

“How did Connor convince us to visit Shaggy Maclean?” Alex eyed Duart Castle looming ahead of them on a rock cliff.

Duncan was playing his whistle and didn’t trouble himself to respond. It was a sad tune, of course.

“I hope the accommodations are better than on our previous visit,” Alex said. The last time they were at Shaggy Maclean’s castle, they were prisoners in his dungeon.

Duncan tucked his whistle inside his shirt. “Then keep your distance from Shaggy’s wife this time.”

“Ye can’t blame that on me,” Alex said. “She took advantage of me when I was weak from the beating they gave me. I hadn’t the strength to resist her.”

“Ye never have the strength to resist a willing lass.”

“Willing? I thought the woman would eat the meat off my bones,” Alex said. “And ye owe me thanks, for she did help us escape Shaggy’s dungeon.”

“We would have found another way out,” Duncan said. “We always do.”

“Shaggy’s wife is a Campbell,” Alex said to annoy Duncan. “I should do my part to bring us closer to such a powerful clan.”

Shaggy had wed the Campbell chieftain’s sister in a bid to bring peace between their clans. The two hated each other, however, which just went to show that marriage was a poor basis for forming an alliance.

That made Alex think of Glynis MacNeil’s disastrous marriage. In truth, he thought of Glynis surprisingly often. She was a damned intriguing woman, though not his sort at all. He liked women with easy natures—and easier virtue.

“Why don’t ye just get a mistress like a normal man?” Duncan asked.

Alex made a face. “Ach, no. A mistress can become too much like a wife.”

He had seen that happen too many times. As a lad, it was always his shoulder they wept on when his father sent them away. Alex used to warn the women, but it was no use. After a few months, they always expected a permanent arrangement of one kind or another.

“At least I like the women I bed. I even talk to them—something ye might try,” Alex said. “Do ye ever speak to your mistress, other than to say ‘pass the fish’ and ‘take your clothes off’?”

“Time to lower the sails, lads,” Duncan called out to the other men. “Take an oar.”

Unfortunately, they couldn’t arrive at Shaggy’s in the boat they stole from him, so they were sailing one of the war galleys. Though it was large enough to carry fifty warriors, Connor had been able to spare only the eighteen needed to man the oars.

“I expect Rhona believes that behind all that silence you’re thinking deep thoughts about her,” Alex said, as he leaned on the rudder. “You’ve had her in your bed for months, and yet ye wouldn’t care if she left tomorrow, would ye?”

“I don’t mind her.” Duncan shrugged. “We meet each other’s needs, and she doesn’t cause a fuss like your women do.”

“ Meet each other’s needs. ” Alex snorted. “That sounds like a fine time.”

“Rest your oars,” Duncan called out, and they glided into shore below the castle.

* * *

Alex was already bored listening to the men who were gathered in the castle courtyard. As always, there was a lot of pointless talk about returning to the glory days when half the Highlands answered to the Lord of the Isles, rather than to the King of Scotland.

For a hundred and fifty years, the Lord of the Isles had been the leader of all the branches of the Clan MacDonald and their vassals, which had included the Macleans, the MacLeods, the MacNeils, and the rest. Under the Lordship, the clans had followed old Celtic law and customs. That part had not changed much—they still ignored Scottish law and directives from the church in Rome, except when convenient.

But it had been more than twenty years since the Lord of the Isles had been forced to submit to the crown. Without a single leader, the clans fought among themselves all the time. That did not, however, keep them from rising against the Crown again and again.

“We’ll burn Inverness!” one young man shouted, clenching his fist in the air.

“Not again.” Alex sighed and turned to Duncan. “How many times has Inverness been burned?”

“Some men are practicing in the field behind the castle,” Duncan said. “Since we may fight these rebels one day, let’s see how good they are.”

As Alex and Duncan entered the field, the men halted their practice. Twenty pairs of hostile eyes fixed upon them.

“What are the MacDonalds of Sleat doing here?” one man said loud enough for all to hear. He was a MacLeod warrior with a long scar down the side of his face.

“We’re not your enemies,” Alex said.

“Then why has your clan not joined the rebellion?” another man asked.

“Because we’re just brimming with goodwill to all,” Alex said, spreading his arms out.

Most of the men laughed and that might have been an end to it, if not for a young man with a weedy beard and weasel eyes.

“I say the MacDonalds of Sleat refuse to join us because they are poor fighters.” The man paused, then added, “Or else they are just cowards.”

“That’s it,” Duncan said, as he unsheathed his claymore. “Who’s first?”

“I’ll fight ye,” the same fool said, and stepped forward to meet Duncan.

“Who’s next?” Alex whipped out his sword—he couldn’t let Duncan defend the honor of the clan alone. “How about you with the ugly face?”

As Alex fought the MacLeod warrior, he watched the other fight out of the corner of his eye. Duncan fought with his usual cool control. His opponent was red-faced and cursing as he fell back, again and again, under the pounding assault of Duncan’s claymore. In no time, the man was flat on his back with Duncan’s foot on his chest and the point of Duncan’s sword just beneath his weedy beard.

After Alex and Duncan defeated three or four opponents each, tempers cooled, and the other men resumed their practice as if nothing had occurred.

“That felt good,” Alex said, as he and Duncan rested against the castle wall. They watched the others, commenting in low voices on their skill or lack of it.

But then Alex’s attention was caught by a woman who came out of the castle gate. She made an abrupt turn and walked toward them at a furious pace with her head down.

“Is that Glynis MacNeil?” Duncan asked.

“Aye. What in the hell is she doing out here alone?” There were other women at the gathering, but they had the sense to stay inside the keep or stick close to their men.

Alex caught her arm as she charged past him.

“Ye can’t go—” The words dried in his mouth. He’d forgotten what an impact her face had on him. He tried telling himself that she wasn’t any more beautiful than a hundred women he knew—but there was something about her that stole his thoughts away.

Glynis was staring right back at him with her luminous gray eyes. Though he knew it was a mistake, he let his gaze drop to her mouth. Her lips were parted. The memory of that kiss on the beach sang through his body, bringing everything to full attention.

Alex gave himself a mental shake. He couldn’t let that happen again.

“You look upset,” Alex said. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” But then she glanced back toward the gate, and the color drained from her face.

A heavily muscled warrior with a full black beard and black eyes to match had just come into the field. He had his claymore strapped to his back and looked as if he meant to join the practice. But when his gaze fell on Glynis, he stopped in place. The tension running between the two of them was as palpable as a taut rope holding a sail in a storm.

“Who is he?” Alex asked.