Page 13 of The Refuge

Margaret rose and turned to the king. “With your leave, My Lord, my ladies and I will retire and find our beds.”

Malcolm took his wife’s hand, kissed it and pulled her down to whisper something in her ear. Margaret blushed, pulled her hand back and, without a word, turned to walk gracefully from the dais.

Matad glanced sharply at Fia and Catrìona, a signal they should depart with the queen. Exhausted after the day’s travel, Catrìona was only too happy to comply. She had a feeling that once the queen was gone from the hall, the atmosphere would degenerate to a masculine swagger of ribald jests from too much wine.

Rising from her seat, Catrìona bid Edgar good eve and stepped from the dais, Fia just behind her. She tossed Domnall a look of regret as she passed him and then hurried to join the other ladies trailing after Margaret like cygnets after a swan.

She felt Domnall’s gaze follow her as she and the ladies crossed the hall. When she reached the stairs, Catrìona looked back, seeing many heads turned in their direction. Among the men whose eyes flickered with interest were the blond warrior and the Welsh bard.

* * *

Domnall’s gaze never left Catrìona as she and her cousin followed the queen from the hall, her long auburn plaits hanging below her narrow waist. A fetching woman, but not as attractive to him as she had once been now that she was without her rich dowry and her father’s lucrative trade with Leinster.

In his message telling her he would be at Malcolm’s court, he had not mentioned that his grandsire, the King of Leinster, had recently died.

There would be more than one man in Ireland who desired to reign in his grandsire’s stead.

Domnall was one of them.

No longer could he afford to seek the hand of the woman who made him the envy of other men. Now he must marry for wealth and position. But that did not end his lust for the comely redhead. He still wanted Catrìona in his bed.