Once Upon a Highland Christmas(55)

“What’s happened?” She hurried forward to clutch Alasdair’s arm, dread churning in her belly. “What’s this about clans being cut down? A battle—”

“Not a true battle.” Alasdair shot a glance at the Lowlander. “A trial by combat—”

“I see no difference.” She raised her chin, not wanting the stranger to see her worry. It was clear he’d brought this madness. That showed in the curl of his lip, a half-sneer that revealed his disdain for Highlanders.

Alasdair noticed, too. She hadn’t missed the muscle jerking in his jaw.

She tightened her grip on him. “If men are to die, what matters the name you cast on their blood?”

Behind her, someone closed the hall door. And somewhere in the smoke-hazed shadows, one of her kinsmen snarled a particularly vile curse. Catriona released her brother’s arm and reached again for her amber necklace. She twirled its length around her fingers, clutching the polished gems as if they might answer her. Her own special talisman, the ambers often comforted her.

Now they didn’t.

Worse, everyone was staring at her. The Lowlander eyed her as if she were the devil’s own spawn. He surely saw her fiery-red hair as the brand of a witch. Almost wishing she was—just so she could fire-blast him—she straightened her back and let her eyes blaze. MacDonald pride beat through her, giving her strength and courage.

She turned to Alasdair. “You needn’t tell me this has to do with the Camerons or the Mackintoshes. I can smell their taint in the air.”

“My sister, Lady Catriona.” He addressed the Lowlander, not her. “She sometimes forgets herself.”

“I but speak the truth. As for my appearance, I was enjoying the day’s brisk wind—a walk in our hills.” She flicked her skirts, righting them. “Had I known we had guests”—she met the man’s hooded gaze—“I would have returned before the tide ran.”

It was the only explanation he’d get from her.

“Lady.” The stranger inclined his head, his dark eyes unblinking. “I greet you.”

She refrained from asking who greeted her. His rich garments and jewels had already marked him as a fat-pursed, well-positioned noble. Not that such loftiness counted here, deep in the Highlands, where a man’s deeds and honor mattered so much more than glitter and gold.

As if he read her mind and knew she was about to say so, her brother cleared his throat. “This, Catriona”—he indicated the Lowlander—“is Sir Walter Lindsay, the King’s man. He’s brought tidings from court. A writ from the King, expressing his royal will.”

Catriona bent a chilly look upon the man. The churning in her stomach became a tight, hard knot.

Somehow she managed to dip in a semblance of a curtsy. “Good sir, welcome to Blackshore Castle.” She couldn’t bring herself to say my lord. “We’ve never before greeted such a noble guest to our glen.”

Sir Walter’s brow lifted. He said nothing, but a slight flaring of his nostrils showed he knew she wished she weren’t forced to greet him now.

“It is because of the glen that he’s here.” Alasdair’s words made her heart go still. “The King wishes that—”

“What does our glen have to do with the King?” She didn’t want to know.

“The crown is greatly interested in this glen, my lady.” Sir Walter rested his hand lightly on the sword at his hip. “Your King would see peace in these hills. He is weary of the endless provocations between your clan and the other two who share this land. I am here to inform you that”—his gaze went to Alasdair—“he orders a trial of combat to ensure his will is met.”

“Highland men keep their own peace,” someone called from near the hearth.

Other voices rose in agreement, and Catriona’s heart leapt. Surely the men of the clan would send Sir Walter on his way, King’s courier or not. But Alasdair only strode to the high table and snatched up a rolled parchment, its red wax seals dangling and broken. When he turned back to the hall, his face was darker than ever, the writ clenched in a tight, white-knuckled grip.

“There are many here, Sir Walter, who would say this”—he raised his hand, shaking the scroll—“has too much blood on it to be worth any peace. We of this glen have our own ways of handling trouble. Even so, you’ll no’ see a single MacDonald refuse the King’s challenge.” Slapping the scroll back onto the table, he dusted his hands, demonstrably. “No’ under the terms set before us.”

The kinsman standing closest to Catriona, a young lad built like a steer and with hair as flame-bright as her own, spat onto the floor rushes. “Threatening to banish us from the glen be no terms!”