Page 3 of Highland Seduction

“That was the last time I remember yer cheeks flushing over a man.”

“My cheeks”—she resisted the urge to feel them—“are no’ flushing.” Except, she could feel them warming even now. Ainsley’d had a wee peek at the man and had caught him looking her way. Again.

“They are,” the impertinent maid insisted.

That was enough. “That man,” she said, this time without looking, “accused my clan of being responsible for a woman’s murder.”

“His brother the laird accused the Shaws, aye.”

“’Tis all the same. He, his brother, every one of them, are despicable, lying, thieving bastards. So nay, my cheeks are no’ flushed like some silly maiden who’s never seen a man before.”

Greer’s laugh caught the attention of those around them. Unfortunately it caught the attention of him as well. Ainsley was about to spin around to present the scoundrel with her back when a shout from the hall’s entrance caught her attention.

Another shout coupled with the first. And then the one thing Ainsley had hoped no’ to hear this day. The one thing her brother had warned against. At first, she thought perhaps her ears deceived her. Surely, after the firm warning Broden had given, and according to Catlin, a similar one issued to the MacRob clansmen by their laird—not to mention the king of Scotland’s presence—that was not the sound of a fight.

Except, it was.

Every man in the hall, it seemed, rushed through the entranceway of the hall toward the shouts. Giric, their clan’s second-in-command, nearly toppled both her and Greer running past them. The MacRob laird, and his brother, were nowhere to be found. A moment ago they’d been standing not far from the musicians, their backs to the wall. And now, they were gone.

Pandemonium reigned. Though fights were not uncommon in the least, her clansmen had enough sense to keep them out of the hall. And this, of course, was no mere fight.

They’d been warned.

Her brother nearly married against his will.

She was afraid to look, and probably should not have done so. The king stood, raised on his toes, looking toward the hall’s entrance. His face was blotted with red spots. Enraged, he shouted something to his own men standing guard, and they rushed into the fray.

“This is bad, Greer,” she said, stating the obvious.

“Aye, my lady. ’Tis very, very bad.”

Chapter 3

Tor’s only consolation for the throbbing pain in his cheek was that the man who’d done the damage was now lying at his feet. He was at least a head taller than him, and Tor was no small man. The man groaned, his bright red beard covered in blood.

Tor was suddenly pulled back by both arms. It wasn’t until he’d wrenched himself free and punched one of the two men who had grabbed him that he spied the tunic of the man he’d hit. Closing his eyes, Tor raised his arms, groaning. They were immediately recaptured, but this time, he allowed it.

Shite.

He’d hit one of the king’s men. Lying beside the bearded, redheaded bastard of a Shaw, the guard was, at least, still alive. Tor watched as if the events unfolded somewhere else. To some other man.

His brother shouting orders.

The injured attempting to stand.

The king’s guard grabbing Giric, whose face looked like Tor’s felt. And then the sound that made Tor’s stomach turn.

“Bring them here.”

The king.

When Alexander had first laid down his decree, neither Tor nor Royce was worried. Aye, he might have been annoyed by their clan’s feud, but the Shaws and MacRobs had been fighting for many years. Perhaps it had not been the best idea to write to the king asking for his intervention, but after Marta had gone missing, Tor’s clansmen had wanted blood.

As did he. Thankfully Royce was laird and not he. Tor would have likely entered them into a bloody battle, and as his brother always reminded him, a dead man could not seek vengeance.

Tor was not stupid enough to resist now, though, as he was roughly led to the dais. The empty groom and bride’s seats reminded him they were, indeed, at a wedding feast. His sister would be furious to learn what happened here. With luck, she and the Shaw laird would no’ be apprised of this until morn.

“Who began this bloody fray?” the king bellowed.