Page 42 of Unforgotten
“I’m sorry about yer loss today,” Gavin said after a pause. He’d noted that although Duncan hadn’t been upset about his wife’s death, Drew had been, as had Lady Siusan’s cousin, Ross.
Drew’s grey eyes guttered. “I can’t believe Siusan is gone.” She gave a delicate shudder then. “I am glad I’ve never had to suffer the horror of childbirth.” She reached out, placing a hand on Gavin’s forearm. “It was horrible.”
Gavin went still. The grief in Drew’s eyes had been real, although she’d used it to gain closer proximity to him, hoping that he’d comfort her. Exhaling slowly, he took a deliberate step back so that her hand fell away.
“Aye … it must have been … especially for Lady MacKinnon. Were ye close?”
Drew held his gaze, her mouth compressing slightly as she realized he hadn’t fallen for her ruse. She then nodded. “Siusan was an easy lass to like.” She paused there, favoring him with a wry smile. “Unlike some of us.”
Finally. For the first time since entering his bed-chamber, Drew MacKinnon had said something that hadn’t been carefully thought out beforehand, something that wasn’t designed to ensnare him. Something sincere.
Gavin took a gulp of bramble wine; it was delicious—dark and spiced. “Ye are who ye are, Drew,” he said finally. The use of her first name made her gaze widen. “As am I.” He halted there, letting his words sink in before continuing. “I know ye are looking for a husband, but I’ll save ye the effort now by telling ye that I’m not looking for a wife.”
Drew stiffened, her eyes narrowing. “That’s not what I heard … ye were keen to wed Lady Caitrin last year, were ye not?”
Gavin smiled, not remotely chastised by her shrewish tone. He was used to women like this, having grown up with a mother that made most men run for cover. “I was,” he admitted, “but since then I’ve changed my mind. I’m not wedding again, Lady Drew … ye are wasting yer smiles on me.”
19
Meeting of the Clans
“I HOPE YE have some solutions for us, MacKinnon.” Morgan Fraser’s voice echoed across the Great Hall. There was no mistaking the threatening note. “This better not have been a wasted trip.”
The chieftain of the Frasers of Skye limped across the floor toward the dais. Watching his approach, Gavin noted that Morgan had aged significantly since he’d seen him last. He’d always been a tall, proud man, although his mane of once flame-red hair was now laced with white, and deep grooves cut into his austere face.
As he approached the dais, Fraser’s sharp gaze swept across the table.
Gavin wasn’t surprised to see that it froze upon Malcolm MacLeod.
This was the first time that Fraser had met in peace with MacLeod since his wife, Una, had left him for the MacLeod clan-chief a few years earlier. The look on Malcolm MacLeod’s face wasn’t friendly as he stared his arch-nemesis down.
Gavin shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Fortunately, both men were unarmed; MacKinnon had wisely insisted upon it for the meeting.
He knew all about the bad blood that existed between the Frasers and the MacLeods, and that the last time these two men had seen each other, it had been in battle. Fraser’s rounded posture and limp were the result of a serious wound dealt to him by MacLeod’s claidheamh-mor.
“Aye … although this isn’t my problem alone.” Seated at the head of the table, MacKinnon watched Fraser with a narrow-eyed stare. Gavin had heard that relations between the MacKinnons and the Frasers hadn’t been good either of late—not ideal since they were neighbors. “Take a seat, Fraser.”
Morgan Fraser grunted before climbing up onto the dais and taking a seat between Alasdair MacDonald of Duntulm and Niall MacDonald of Sleat, directly opposite Gavin. He acknowledged the others seated at the table with a brusque nod.
Malcolm MacLeod and Brodie MacQueen flanked Gavin. Both men wore formidable expressions. None of the leaders here liked that MacKinnon presided at the head of the table, lording over them all as if he were king of the isle.
Gavin certainly wasn’t happy about it. It was clear that this meeting wasn’t just about the grievances that MacKinnon wished to air, but about the balance of power upon this isle.
The seven chieftains of Skye rarely met under the same roof. Whether or not the coming years brought war or peace, this meeting would decide it.
The realization put Gavin on edge.
A tense silence settled at the table. The seven men were alone in the Great Hall; even the servants had let them be. Two ewers of wine sat at each end, and seven pewter goblets lined the table.
Fraser poured himself a large goblet of wine and took a gulp. “Come on then,” he growled. “Let’s talk.”
All gazes swiveled to MacKinnon, who was leaning back in his chair, fingers lightly drumming on the table before him. “Did ye all travel here without problems,” he began, his voice low. “No encounters with outlaws on the road?”
This comment brought a snort from MacLeod. “No one would dare attack a clan-chief.”
“That’s not entirely true,” Gavin spoke up. “I’ve been attacked twice of late.” He paused here, his gaze shifting to MacKinnon. “Both times on yer lands.”
This caused a stir at the table. The men seated there exchanged surprised yet wary glances.
