Lion's Lady. Suzanne Barclay

stopped. Men lowered their swords and stared. Others left off their gaming and watched goggle-eyed as Lion led his band to the foot of the main stairway. Then they surged forward, an unkempt tide of shouting males.

      Rowena gasped and recoiled in the saddle.

      “Back!” Lion roared. “All of you.” His command was reinforced by a solid wall of Sutherland targes and swords. “These people are my guests.” Lion’s hard, censorious gaze wandered over the crowd. One after another, the men shrugged and turned back to what they’d been doing.

      Lion appeared beside her. “Rowena, I apologize for these men. They are not under my command and—”

      “They seemed to obey you.” Evading the hands he extended to lift her down, she slid to the ground on her own.

      “Listen to me.” He placed his hands on the saddle, caging her between the horse and himself. “Blantyre is not a safe place. Be on your guard,” he added, thrusting his face close to hers, “lest you find yourself cornered by one of these lechers.”

      “You are the only lecher who impugns me.” She drew in a sharp breath and with it the scent that was uniquely Lion’s. It taunted her, brought her senses vividly alive. The small space between them seemed charged with a life of its own. He felt it, too, his long-lashed eyes going wide, his nostrils flaring. Nay. She did not want this. What had been between them was dead, killed by his desertion. “Let me pass,” she said, wishing she sounded firmer, less desperate.

      “Lion! Lord Lion!” shouted a high, panicked voice.

      Lion turned his head. “Here is Donald Shaw, the steward. Blantyre is crowded, but I will see if I can get him to—”

      “We will make our own arrangements,” Rowena said regally, ducking under Lion’s arm.

      “There’s no room,” Donald exclaimed as he waddled down the main stairway. His round belly heaved before him like a bag full of fighting cats. “No room at all. Neither in the castle nor the outer bailey.” He stopped beside Eneas Gunn, apparently having picked him out as the leader of these newcomers. “Ye’ll have to pitch a tent outside the walls.”

      “The hell you say.” Eneas leaped from the saddle and glowered down at Donald from his considerable height advantage. “I’m Eneas Gunn, and I’ve important business with the earl.”

      Donald crossed his arms over his fine woolen tunic. “Lady Glenda, chatelaine of Blantyre, has graciously allowed the earl to use the castle as his headquarters, but my lady has the running of the castle.” He glared up at Eneas. “I say it would not matter if ye were the king’s own brother. There are no beds to be had. Not even a pallet on the—”

      Eneas grabbed hold of Donald’s tunic and shook him so the poor man’s chins quivered. “Now listen here, you little—”

      “Release him,” Lion said, seizing Eneas’s upper arm.

      Swearing loudly, Eneas let go of Donald and tried to shake off the offending hand. “How dare you presume to touch—”

      “Be glad I don’t break your arm for leaving your brother’s wife to the MacPhersons.” Lion’s voice was low, yet dangerously tight, his eyes nearly black with anger. “Or beat you bloody for abusing Donald, who is only doing his duty.”

      Rowena, who had witnessed a few of Lion’s more passionate outbursts of temper years ago, marveled at this newfound control. Combined with his size and strength, it would make him a formidable opponent.

      Eneas, however, was either too blind or too enraged to sense the danger. Curling his lip, he jerked free to address the nearest man. “Where is the earl?”

      “Out riding.”

      “We will wait, then, to pay our respects and hear what the earl has to say about our accommodations.” Eneas whirled on his own men. “Dismount and stay here.” With a last malevolent glance at Lion, he stomped up the stairs and into the castle.

      The name Donald called Eneas under his breath made Lion chuckle. “I know you’re a mite pressed for space, but we’ve an injured man.” He gestured toward the litter his men had set on the ground.

      “I’d gladly give up my tiny chamber to show my thanks,” Donald said heartily. “But Felis, the herb woman, has a small chamber where she treats the sick.”

      Lion nodded and gave the order to bring Harry. He frowned when Rowena stepped along beside the litter. “There’s no need for you to go. Felis is very skilled.”

      Rowena froze him with a glare. “Harry is one of mine. Even had he not been wounded protecting me, I’d still see to him.” Head high, she marched behind in the wake of the litter. Donald led them through a maze of well-lit corridors to a narrow wall chamber.

      The herb woman answered the door and ordered the bearers to place Harry on a pallet by the small fire. “’Tis a mortal wound he’s taken, my lady,” she said ominously.

      Rowena looked at the blood-soaked pad and grimaced. “Aye, it is severe, but mayhap if it’s stitched shut and a tight compress applied, the bleeding will stop.”

      The old woman nodded. “I think ’tis a waste of time, but feel free to use whatever you need.” She gestured to the chest of medicines in the corner. “I’ve been summoned to the village to help with a birthing. The mother lost her last one, poor thing, so I cannot tarry.”

      “That is all right. I’ve some skill in such things. Thank you again for the use of this room and your supplies.”

      “Aye.” Felis drew on her cloak. “Any friend of Lion’s is deserving of my help,” she said before she left.

      Rowena scowled at him.

      “Is there anything I can do?” Lion asked hopefully.

      “Nay. I need nothing from you.”

      “I’ve a bit of experience with wounds, and I know the sight of blood always made you queasy. I could—”

      “I have overcome my aversion to blood,” she said flatly.

      .Lion’s mouth thinned. “I will stay nonetheless.”

      “I would prefer you did not, but doubt that will sway you.”

      “Nay, it will not. For as long as you are in Blantyre, you must be under my protection.”

      “I do not believe I am in any danger. I think you just want an excuse to—to annoy me,” she finished, unwilling to give voice to the tension that simmered between them.

      “Many of the men who’ve answered the earl’s summons are of the worst sort, the dregs of the Highlands. They are without honor or conscience. Pray forgive me for not wanting you to fall into the clutches of others like the MacPhersons.”

      Rowena stifled a shudder at the reminder of what he’d saved her from. But forgiveness didn’t come easy. “I’ve not the time to argue.” She turned her attention back to Harry. “He has lost a great deal of blood, so I must act quickly.” She peered into the pot beside the fire and found it empty.

      “I sent my squire for hot water and whiskey,” Lion said.

      Rowena gritted her teeth. “I must cut his tunic away from his body.”

      Kneeling, Lion proffered his own dirk to her. “’Tis sharp, so mind what you’re doing, lass.”

      “Around you, always.”

      A fair-haired lad stuck his head into the room. “I’ve got the things you asked for, milord.”

      “Bring them in, Sim. Set the pot on the coals to keep warm and put the whiskey there, beside Lady Rowena.”

      Sim did as he was bid, paling a bit when he glanced at the injured man. “I’ll wait outside in case you need anything else.”

      When she’d sliced away Harry’s shirt, Rowena lifted