traced their forebears to the royal house of the Scots—or so they claimed—regardless of any influx of northern blood. They favored only compacts with Scots, and no one else.
As for her father, Seona knew he would unite himself to whoever offered the most profit.
She reached the head table and her fingers trembled as she began to pour the wine into the Welshman’s drinking horn. She bit her lip, trying to gain control of herself, fearful that her father would denounce her clumsiness if she spilled, any of the costly beverage and even more fearful of meeting their guest’s steadfast, unnerving gaze.
“So, I hear that your sister has wed,” her father said to DeLanyea.
Seona couldn’t help listening as their guest responded in his deep, musical voice. “Aye, a year past.”
“To the brother-in-law of Baron Etienne DeGuerre, too,” her father noted. “A fine alliance for your family.”
Seona moved on to her father’s drinking horn.
“There is that, but it was a love match, too.”
“Oh, aye!” her father answered with a sarcastic chuckle. “A love match that joins your family to one of the most powerful men in England!”
Startled by her father’s blunt insolence, Seona jostled the carafe. Some of the wine spilled onto the table. Blushing with embarrassment, she quickly set down the container and wiped the spill with the hem of her skirt.
When she finished, she raised her eyes to see her father glowering at her while Griffydd DeLanyea’s face betrayed absolutely nothing as he raised his drinking horn and drank the strong wine.
Then he set down the vessel and matter-of-factly said, “If Rhiannon was not in love with him, the marriage would not have taken place, even if Frechette were the heir to the throne.”
“Oh, come now, man!” Diarmad protested as Seona hurried away. “Your father would—”
“Never use his child to further his own ambitions,” their guest replied, still in that same prosaic tone, although he directed a pointed glance at Seona, then his host. “Unlike many men.”
Seona flushed with humiliation and her hands clutched the handle of the carafe until her knuckles went white.
She knew what Griffydd DeLanyea was implying and she wanted nothing more than to repeat the same assertions she had made to her father: she would not be used as chattel for his bartering.
Yet while she could find the strength to speak her mind to her father when they were alone, here in the hall, before his men and their guest, she dare not.
Instead, she subdued her embarrassment and shame as best she could, and silently continued to do her duty.
Because there was nothing else to be done.
Griffydd tried not to notice Seona MacMurdoch’s blushing face. It was more important that Diarmad realize Griffydd was aware the man might be trying to use his daughter as bait.
Therefore, Griffydd commanded himself, he would continue to ignore her, as he had been attempting to do since he had been told who she was. He had a responsibility to his father, and that he would fulfil, despite distracting young women.
All this talk of marriage hinted at one of Diarmad’s plans. No doubt he had discovered that Griffydd was not married, or even betrothed. The cunning Gall-Gaidheal was probably hoping to seal any bargain between himself and the DeLanyeas with a wedding.
He would soon realize Griffydd was not easily trapped by feminine lures, no matter how tempting.
With such thoughts in his mind, he was glad he had been unable to see Seona’s limb when she raised her skirt to wipe the tiny slop of wine. Nor had he paid any heed to the way the tip of her tongue touched her lip as she poured his wine. He would take no notice of her coy reluctance to look at him. He would not be drawn in by her alluring tricks, although his blood fired at the sight of her.
Forcing himself to concentrate on his host, Griffydd regarded Diarmad with a pointed look intended to let the chieftain know he felt insulted by his remarks but had magnanimously decided to overlook the insinuations, and for that, Diarmad should be grateful.
“Love and marriage are not something I care to discuss,” he said evenly.
“So we won’t!” Diarmad agreed with a chortle and an answering expression that told Griffydd his underlying meaning had been comprehended.
The chieftain turned his attention to the thick venison stew, redolent of leeks, set before him, swiping at the gravy with a hunk of flat barley bread.
What had prompted his host to scoff at the reason for his sister’s marriage? Griffydd pondered as he, too, sampled the excellent stew.
Perhaps Diarmad was trying to discover how quickly his guest angered.
In which case, he should have learned that Griffydd DeLanyea’s ire was slow to arouse. Very slow, because that anger, once produced, burned long and bright, like the sun high above the desert.
As for other emotions that might be aroused, Griffydd mused, he would regulate them. He was in command of himself. He was not like Dylan, with his lovers and his children and his tempestuous, childish outbursts.
He would concentrate on the task at hand and forget enchanting young women with hair he would like to bury his hands in.
While ostensibly enjoying a drink of the wine, Griffydd’s gaze swept around the crowded room filled with burly, bearded men.
How much did they know of their chieftain’s schemes?
Griffydd could well believe that Diarmad would tell no one exactly what he planned: he was the kind of man to enjoy keeping the power of such secrets to himself. He couldn’t be betrayed that way, either.
What of Seona, whose very name fascinated him?
Undoubtedly it would be better to think of her as a canny conspirator, at least for now. That way, he could control his wayward emotions regarding her.
He must control them.
“1 confess my father was surprised that you seemed so amenable to a trade agreement,” he remarked, determined to speak of other things. “He feared you would not wish to be associated with any save your own people.”
“My own people?” Diarmad asked.
“The Gall-Gaidheal.”
“Why would I set a limit on who I trade with, or whose goods I carry for profit?” Diarmad replied lightly.
“Especially when there is already to be an alliance between your family and the chieftain of Clan Ruari,” Griffydd replied, naming a powerful group of Gall-Gaidheal. “I understand your eldest son is betrothed to his daughter.”
“You seem to know much of my business, young DeLanyea,” his host replied, eyeing Griffydd over his drinking horn.
“I also know that chieftain claims the throne of the king of the Scots.”
“Show me a man, whether Scots or Gall-Gaidheal, who doesn’t think he has a claim on the Scottish throne,” Diarmad answered with another grin.
“I have never heard that said of you,” Griffydd noted. Although your daughter has the dignity of a queen.
Diarmad threw back his head and laughed. “No, I do not make any such claim. My father’s father was a Norse jarl and Haakon, the king of Norway, has dominion over me.”
“Nevertheless, your son’s marriage is not a love match, I take it, and it ties to you an important clan.”
Again Diarmad laughed. “No, it is no love match. Nor is it a threat to you. His bride’s father spends too much time thinking about the throne of the Scots instead of trade, but that’s all he does—think. Set your mind at rest, DeLanyea, and tell your father that my sons