Page 54 of The Splendor of Fire
Eoghan’s brow furrowed. “What? Who?”
“Moira. She’s not Father Allen’s daughter. He told me as he lay dying. Made me promise to help her get away from Niall, to find her family. And…to love her.” Guilt clenched his stomach. No matter how he felt about Niall and Moira, he had promised her father that he would help her. Perhaps if Moira heard the dying words of love Father Allen wanted to give her she would remember where her loyalties should lie.
Eoghan blew out a breath. “Does she know she’s not his?”
He frowned. “I don’t know.”
“Whose is she, then?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. He didn’t have a lot of time to fill in the gaps, Eoghan.”
Eoghan made a face. “Fair enough. So you have a responsibility to him then? She’s yours to care for. It’s settled.”
Léo’s heart twisted. Like it or not, he wasn’t done with Moira Allen.
Chapter 16
DUN RINGILL CASTLE - JULY 4, 1385
The first heat wave of the season had descended over Dun Ringill. Moira shifted uncomfortably in the dense gown that buttoned all the way to her throat, and wished with all her heart she was home on Breacais in a simple linen leine, or better yet, soaring the lofty branches of the pines surrounding Loch na Beiste in her sleeveless tunic and hose, preparing to sketch.
Isobel wrapped a plait around the back of Moira’s head and pinned it in place, then patted the icy blue silk at her shoulder. “You look lovely, dearie. This color does bring out your eyes.”
A color that she had once loved and now loathed. It was the only color Niall allowed her to wear when important guests were expected, as if she were an object he got out to flaunt in front of slimy men.
Niall barged in without bothering to knock, sweating in an absurd, too-small velvet doublet. “You look beautiful as always, my dear.” He held out a box.
Mentally, she became his demure leman, gave him an encouraging smile, and trained her eyes to look as empty as they could. With a flourish he opened the ornate wooden box, revealing a jeweled circlet with fleurs-de-lis rising in points all the way around. Without Niall having to say whom it had belonged to, or what it symbolized, she knew.This was the coronet of Blanche d’Audrehem, Léo’s mother—and just as Blanche had been forced to wear a symbol of her ownership, Moira would now be forced to wear it.
It fit as if it were made for her, crowning her, chaining her, as he pushed it over her forehead. “Aye. Just as I thought. It suits you, my jewel.”
Suited her like leg irons.
He held out his arm. “Come dear, there is someone I’d like to show you off to.”
Isobel fanned out Moira’s long skirt, and Niall led her from her chamber like a mismatched king and his jester. Lifting a silent prayer to the Lord, she asked for him to make her mind sharp, her flesh obedient, and her memory astute. Every bit of information she could gather could be weaponized against Niall. She raised her head and squared her shoulders, taking a confident step into the solar.
Malvina’s voice lifted with unusual cheer as they entered. “Ah, here he is.”
Her breath shuddered to a stop and she wavered, struggling not to gasp. There, standing before the hearth was a fully restored, and nearly unrecognizable, Léo.
She wobbled as Niall’s hand came to her elbow in a show of care and ownership. Tears sprang into her vision and she blinked them away, mindful of Malvina’s intense stare over her appearance.
“You remember Mistress Moira Allen.”
He was wearing the same blue tunic she had sewn over many weeks, the same russet color trews. Only the tunic now clung to thickened biceps and chest, and the trews to powerfully muscled legs. A long beard covered his chin and chest, but his eyes were the same. Her stomach flipped. Those honey brown eyes. Their parting kisses. Mindful of Malvina’s eyes upon her she restrained her urge to smile, but oh how she wanted to.
Léo walked toward her, a hardness in his expression as his eyes roved from her toes up to her head. His eyes narrowed on the coronet and her heart broke at his expression. This was why Niall had made her wear it. She was the leman of Laird MacKinnon, the heir to his mother’s position, the physical reminder of Léo’s place in the MacKinnon family.Chest heaving, she longed to yell out that it wasn’t what he thought, she hadn’t allowed Niall to touch her, that she was on Léo’s side alone.
Léo’s roughened hand took hers and he pressed his soft lips to the back of her hand, causing gooseflesh to rise on her arm. “Mademoiselle Allen.”
The hardness in his voice matched the hardness in his eyes. He dropped her hand.
Had he forgotten her? If only she could get his attention, perhaps she could give him a sign, a gesture, to let him know how much she had longed for him.
Dropping back to Niall’s side, she let him guide her to their bench. As she had for weeks, she behaved as the perfect leman, curling beside Niall on the seat and putting her hand in his, angling into him and smoothing her hand over his arm and along his neck. Despite her disgust with his merciless cruelty to his brother, he must be at his most pliable.
Shame built in her chest. For weeks she had been able to perform without thinking about what she was doing, but now she could see herself and her sins mirrored in Léo’s sharp expression.
