Chapter Two
The chief slashed and thrust the blade at his sparing opponent as if the man were his worst enemy rather than his own soldier. Staying well out of the way, Anna pressed a hand to her mouth, praying no one would be killed this day.
Several warriors rushed to intervene, grabbing onto his arms and blocking Anna's view. Surely the rumors of the chief's madness were not true. Were they?
"Release me!" he roared. "Do you truly think I would kill my own clansman?" When the other warriors drew back, he threw the practice sword to the cobblestones with a clang and strode toward her. Anna's heart vaulted into her throat, but she remained in place. His eyes, normally icy blue, were now dark, narrowed and unfocused. He bypassed her and headed toward the entrance, fury written clearly on his flushed, sweat-drenched face. Once he'd disappeared inside, she released the breath she'd been holding.
The men's murmurs of concern filled the bailey. An older, white-haired man, large of frame and using a walking stick, followed after the chief. Mayhap the elderly man would calm him down.
A massive guard stopped beside Anna, leaned in and whispered, "Do not concern yourself with the mad laird. I'll protect you from him." He winked.
She frowned, unable to believe the chief's own man would say such a thing about him.
"I'm Farquar." He held out his hand as if he expected her to grasp it.
"Anna Douglas." Ignoring his hand, she gave a brief curtsy.
A girl stopped beside them, her glare shifting between Anna and the guard. "Why are you talking to her?" she demanded of him.
The lass was beautiful, her coloring similar to Anna's—blond hair and green eyes. She was perhaps a couple of years younger than Anna's own twenty-two summers. Her hair was styled to perfection in many lovely small braids and curls, whereas Anna made do with whatever style she could manage on her own. She used to have a lady's maid, too, who'd made her look pretty. But no longer.
"I was only reassuring her she need not fear the chief." Farquar gave a stiff grin.
"Nay, he is my cousin." The lass shrugged. "He's a bit odd, but naught to worry over. I'm Constance Gordon, by the way."
"A pleasure to meet you. I'm Anna Douglas, one of the minstrels."
"I know." After sneering down at Anna's drab, worn clothing, Constance glanced up at the guard, whose gaze remained on Anna. Her mouth tightening, Constance took his arm and led him off.
Glad to be away from those two, Anna hastened up the steps and into the great hall. She had noticed Farquar and a few other men here staring at her from time to time. They were not the first. Many men had complimented her looks, but beauty did not equal happiness. She would not care if she looked like a hag if only that knave Blackburn MacCromar had not destroyed her life and ripped everything she loved from her. The grief, rage and fear crawled its way up from the pit of her stomach as it did any time she thought of the bastard. Tears pricked her eyes but she forced them away. He had bent and mangled her, but she refused to be broken. She would hide from him for the rest of her life, treasuring the only things she possessed—the lovely memories of her first husband and the child they almost had. And her music. Along with the knowledge her dear sister was protected and taken care of.
And if she ever encountered Blackburn, she had a small dagger reserved for him.
Was this MacDonald chief like Blackburn, the new chief of MacCromar? Barbaric, uncivilized and murderous? If so, this was not the right place for her and her fellow minstrels. She'd always heard the clans of the west were ferocious, but she hadn't believed they could be worse than Blackburn. Now, she thought perhaps she'd ventured too far west to this coastal castle. She'd wanted to travel as far as she could get from Blackburn, but was she now putting herself in equal danger?
She gathered three members of her party in a corner of the great hall as they pretended to discuss the evening's entertainment. "I've decided we should leave here," Anna whispered, glancing into the faces of each of them.
"But why?" white-headed Eli asked. He was a brilliant musician who had taught her much. "This is one of the best castles we've visited. We have soft, warm beds to sleep on and plenty of food to eat. The residents are welcoming and they enjoy our music."
"Aye, 'tis true." Anna nodded. "But you have heard the servants' whispers. They say the laird is mad and, after what I just witnessed in the bailey, I believe it. We may not be safe."
"What happened?" Young Jules stared at her wide-eyed.
"During practice, he was possessed of a rage and almost killed his own soldier."
All of them gaped at her.
"Mayhap the man insulted him," Vardon, the tall, lanky piper, said. "There could be any number of reasons he would fly into a rage."
"I am tired of traveling, lass," Eli said with a sigh. "Me old bones ache when I have to sleep outside on the hard ground at night."
Anna chewed her bottom lip, the fear they'd made a mistake in coming here still overwhelming her. But autumn was upon them and they needed to find a warm place before winter, for Eli's sake. "Very well," she said reluctantly. "We'll stay a while longer and see what happens. But if any of us feel unsafe, we may need to leave."
Her fellow musicians nodded. They had no inkling of her past or that she was hiding from a vile man who thought he was her husband. All they knew about her was that singing was her life. She'd lied and told them she was the daughter of a merchant and the widow of a tacksman. In truth, her father had been a chief and so had her husband, both from much further east. No one called her lady anymore, for which she held no regret. This kept her safe. Never could she let anyone know who she truly was.
***
The battle rage which had possessed Neacal a quarter hour earlier, drained by slow degrees. From the ramparts, he gazed out over the loch and drew in deep breaths of the fresh salt air. 'Twas all Sleat's fault. Now, the whole clan saw him as truly mad. "Damnation," he growled.
