A Sword Upon the Rose. Brenda Joyce

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      Duncan of Frendraught was awaiting them. He stood in the center of the hall, hands on his bulky hips, scowling. Like Godfrey, he was blond, blue-eyed and arrogant. Unlike Godfrey, he had spent most of his life fighting for the Comyn family, and was a hardened soldier. He had been awarded command of Elgin last year, as well as several manors and an estate.

      He strode toward her, clad in a dark blue cote, the sleeves tight and fitted, a short brown surcote over it. Rings glinted on his thick hands. He wore his sword, a sign of the war that raged so close by. “What has kept you, mistress?”

      “There was a battle at Boath Manor,” she said, unsmiling. “We had to hide in the woods, even through the night, as the army camped there.”

      “You spent the night in the woods with your grandmother? I am amazed you did not freeze to death.” He reached up and toyed with a tendril of her hair.

      She pushed his hand away.

      Duncan smiled mockingly. “Perhaps you should have allowed a maid to attend you before meeting me, Alana.” He reached out again and tucked the tendril behind her ear, his fingers lingering upon her skin.

      She flinched, furious. Duncan had been toying with her since she was twelve—when he had tried to touch her breasts and thighs in a most lecherous manner. For several years, only her quick wit—and the threat to curse him—had left her unharmed. When she was fifteen, he had assaulted her after a night of heavy drinking. Alana had crashed a pot upon his head, and ever since, he had kept some distance, but his behavior remained rude and suggestive.

      “Still afraid of a man’s touch?” He laughed.

      “Afraid? I am not afraid, I loathe your touch.”

      “Only because you are as cold-blooded as your mother was not.”

      Alana wanted to strike him. But he had referred to her mother as a whore so often that the insult had lost much of its significance. She could control her rage—she had had years of practice doing so. “Perhaps.” She shrugged. “I did not come here to trade old barbs with you.”

      “No, you came because I commanded it.” His stare had turned to ice.

      “Yes, I came upon command, for you are my liege.” She looked at her feet and curtsied. Now they had an uneasy truce. She knew he disliked her as much as she did him.

      “As your liege, I will tell you I am tired of your lies. So do not claim you spent the night on the road in the midst of winter. Lady Eleanor would be dead,” he snapped.

      She lifted her chin and stared. How she felt like taunting him—and telling him that she had succored Iain of Islay. “We spent the night in an abandoned farmhouse, down the road from the manor.”

      He eyed her with suspicion. “If I ever learn that you have lied, Alana, you will pay dearly.”

      She smiled coldly, even as dread formed. “What else could have possibly kept us?”

      “I intend to find out!” He turned his back to her and called to a serving maid. Then he faced her anew. “We heard about the battle,” he then said to her. “I had sent a small force south, and Iain of Islay defeated my men at Boath Manor. Did you see the fighting?”

      “When we heard the battle, we hid in the woods until it was safe to escape to the farmhouse, where we spent the night, waiting for the army to leave.” She would repeat this story until the end of time, if need be.

      “You forget, I know you well, I have known you since you were six or seven.” Duncan had become her guardian when she was six, which was when he had also become castellan—not lord—of Brodie. “You remain as curious as a wild little cat. You did not care to see who was fighting?”

      “This war means little to me.”

      “Yet it means everything to Buchan—your uncle.”

      Alana shrugged.

      “So you never saw Iain of Islay—Iain the Fierce?” The question seemed rhetorical, as he began to reflectively pace. Head down, hands clasped, he said, “He is a cousin to Angus Og, Bruce’s best friend in this war, and Angus has given him an army of savage Highlanders. They have murdered and raped their way across the mountains, burning down both home and field alike.”

      Alana trembled. She did not believe it.

      He stared. “And how is it that I now have your interest and attention?”

      Iain had turned Boath Manor into a pile of ash-strewn rubble. But no one had been murdered or raped—not that she knew of. In fact, she had seen him risk his life to rescue Mistress MacDuff and her two children.

      “He sounds frightening,” she said.

      “He does not take prisoners, and he leaves no enemy alive.”

      Alana bit her lip. She was the enemy and she was very much alive. But of course, she was a woman.

      “How is it, Alana, that he or his watch did not remark you?”

      Alana shook her head. “I told you—we hid in the woods until we thought we could go back down the road to the old farmhouse.” And there had been an abandoned farmhouse on the road, one partly burned, but hopefully, inhabitable. They had just never paused there.

      “Then you are very fortunate. I am fortunate that you were not captured.” He eyed her with continued skepticism. “How fares Godfrey? Brodie?”

      She felt chilled, and she rubbed her arms. “When we left, the castle stood, unharmed. Do you think it will be attacked?”

      “Bruce’s army has made camp to the south of us. He could strike Nairn, Elgin or Brodie, or any number of smaller castles and manors.” He gave her a dark and long look. “We do not know where he will strike next, Alana.” He walked over to her and laid his hand upon her shoulder.

      Alana trembled. Did he expect her to predict where Bruce would next attack? She pulled away from his odious touch.

      Eleanor asked, “Has the Earl of Buchan arrived, my lord?”

      “He is expected at any time. Why do you ask, Eleanor?” He was mocking.

      “I have not seen the earl in a great many years and I am curious.” Eleanor smiled pleasantly.

      “Curious? Come, old woman, we know one another too well. You seek something from the mighty earl—everyone does.”

      “And do you truly care?” Eleanor asked.

      Duncan stared at Alana now, his blue gaze unwavering. “If you think to place Alana under Buchan’s protection, then yes, I care. She is my ward.”

      Alana was stunned and dismayed at once. “You have no care for me,” she began.

      “Shut up,” Duncan said. He now approached tiny Eleanor. “She has always been your sole concern. Will you not appeal to her great-uncle, on her behalf?”

      Eleanor still smiled. “You know me well, Sir Duncan. Alana needs a husband.”

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