Free Maiden of Inverness by Arnette Lamb Page B

carved, for even as a girl, she would have remembered seeing the daring statement openly displayed. She looked at Revas, so comfortable in his role as benevolent lord, so constant in his bid to keep her. She wished him well in his certain disappointment. Still, she couldn’t quell a sense of happiness at what he, a butcher’s son, had accomplished here in a mere thirteen years.
    The rounded walls were studded with heraldic battle shields. The symbolic Gordon buck stood beside the eagle of Clan Munro. Macpherson’s regal cat shared a space next to the mighty sword of Clan Gunn. And reigning over them all was the rampant lion of Macduff.
    â€œDid you ever think to see such a gathering of Highland goodwill?” he said.
    â€œNo, and I do not expect it to thrive.”
    His smile faded and his eyes grew distant. Her remark had hurt him, and she almost begged his pardon. But encouraging false hopes was surely the poorer service.
    â€œDo you care for ale or herbal wine?” he asked. “Sibeal Montfichet brews a popular drink from weeds and stems and berries.”
    Should she excuse herself? The sight of so much Highland armor hanging about ought to have frightened her. It did the opposite. For the first time since leaving England, Meridene felt safe, and that awful pounding in her chest had ceased.
    Knowing she would soon return to Scarborough, she chose to keep Revas’s company for a time. “I prefer barley water, but if you have none, the wine will do.”
    â€œSee that Montfichet keeps a ready supply of barley water for my lady.”
    â€œAye,” said Sim. “I’ll send the kitchen lad to the granary straightaway.”
    Revas nodded to the steward, who pivoted sharply and marched off, his shoes making little sound on the flagged floor.
    â€œTell me what happened between you and Robert Bruce.”
    â€œWe made peace. He’s anxious to meet you.”
    Would the crowned king of all Scotland condone Revas’s villainy? Probably so, if they were allies. The knowledge was a setback, but Meridene had other options. “Then by all means, summon your sovereign lord.”
    â€œâ€Šâ€™Tis done. He comes at Midsummer’s Eve.”
    Meridene rejoiced. Robert Bruce would go wanting if he sought an audience with Meridene Macgillivray. June would find her knee-deep in good English clover.
    â€œDelightful,” she said, for lack of anything else.
    â€œI know what you’re thinking, Meridene. The answer is yes, he favors your return to the fold.”
    The need to correct him fell prey to the notion of savoring a victory later. “Splendid.”
    He took a chest from a high shelf on the wall. From the box he withdrew a chatelaine’s belt. “For you.”
    Finely worked interlocking chains of gold and silver formed the symbol of feminine authority. Even her mother’s had not been so fine. “I’ll not don it.”
    â€œAye, you will.”
    If he suspected she planned to escape, he could try to prevent it. So she relented, took the chain, and fastened it around her waist. “It has the feel of a chastity belt.”
    â€œWhat know you of chastity belts?”
    Two years ago, a Kentish girl had arrived at the abbey wearing one of the ghastly devices. By separate messenger, the key had been delivered. For amusement, Meridene had borrowed the key, and she and the others had tried on the belt. Later, Sister Margaret had ordered the blacksmith to fashion the contraption into a handsome trivet. “I know enough.”
    From a gaming table near the hearth, he picked up a pair of dice and rolled them in his palm. “Shall I commission you one?”
    â€œDo and I will fling it in your leering face.”
    He tsked in reprimand and let the dice fall back onto the table. “I seldom leer.”
    â€œHow pleasant of you to reveal so much of yourself.”
    â€œDo you often encounter forthright men?”
    â€œOf late, no.