say so, laird.”
Hector continued to watch her intently. “With so many gifts, what possessed ye to run off with young MacLeod?”
Before Nora could reply, Lennox interjected, “Have ye never heard of love?”
The older man paused in the midst of his first bite of mutton stew. “Aye, but love is fleeting, is it not? Ye will need something even deeper to make a lasting marriage.”
“Speaking of marriage,” Lennox parried, “Did I not meet your wife when I last visited Duart? Where is she today?”
His question hung in the air as more rain-soaked MacLean clansmen filed into the hall, taking their seats on the benches and helping themselves to the communal pot of stew.
“My wife, Mary,” MacLean replied at length, “is in the ground.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Lennox put an arm around her waist before adding, “No doubt ye must miss her very much.”
“Aye. This lass resembles my Mary,” murmured Hector. “And how fares your own clan chief, young MacLeod? Alasdair Crotach must be a very great age by now.”
“He is more than ninety years old,” Lennox said tightly. “Irascible as ever.”
“Did he send ye to Duart for a reason?” The older man used an oatcake to sop up some gravy then stuffed it into his mouth and chewed.
“In truth, I came for a reason of my own.” He glanced around at the countless MacLean clansmen who were eating around them. “Perhaps we might discuss it when the meal is ended.”
“None of these men have any interest in your affairs,” Hector assured him. “And I cannot linger to converse after supper. There are preparations to be made for the return of my other guests, the Earl and Countess of Fairhaven, on the morrow. They were here at Duart recently with Ellen, the dowager countess, before sailing around Mull to the village of Torbermory.”
“Have you known the earl and countess very long?” asked Nora.
“The earl’s mother, Ellen MacLean, is my cousin, and I have known her all my life. Now that she is widowed, she longed to return to Mull to visit her kin. While she reunites with them, the new earl and his bride, Cicely, will return here.” He paused to finish a second cup of wine. “I suggest you tell me now what you have come to say, young MacLeod.”
Nora tried to eat, but she felt slightly nauseous and realized it must be because of the baby. She tried again to turn her thoughts away from the terrible problem she had, telling herself that somehow she would find a way forward, one step at a time.
Next to her, Lennox was making his case to Hector Mór, explaining the story of his mother’s visit to Duart Castle nearly three decades earlier. Nora turned slightly to watch him. Even in the dim, smoky hall, she found him captivating. His tawny-golden hair and bronzed skin seemed to shimmer slightly, and his body was taut with emotion.
After explaining the circumstances of his mother’s visit to Duart Castle, he asked, “Do ye have a memory of that visit?”
The MacLean scratched his head. “I couldn’t have been more than a dozen years old. Too young to have an interest in this episode you recount,” he said with a note of finality. “Mull is a favorite stopping point for travelers who are sailing to and from England, so we always had more visitors than I could count.”
“I believe she was here most of the summer,” Lennox pressed. “With her nurse, Isbeil, and my wee, black-haired brother, Ciaran, who would have been barely able to walk.”
Hector stared into the distance. “Aye, I do have a faint memory of your ma and her bairn. She had raven hair? A rare beauty.”
Nora could feel the tightly-leashed power in Lennox’s body as he nodded, leaning forward. She expected him to continue the tale, explaining all of it to the other man, but instead he skipped over the painful parts. Bringing out the leather pouch from his belt, Lennox opened it and withdrew the painted miniature.
“Do ye know this man? He was here as well, I believe.”
As the other clansmen continued to laugh, drink, and eat their stew, time seemed to stop in the center of the table as Hector Mór plucked the miniature from Lennox’s golden-brown fingers.
He stared at it, squinting. “My eyesight is not the best any longer.”
“This matter is more important than ye can imagine,” urged Lennox. “Was he a friend of your da?”
“It could be. He has the look of a titled Englishman,” mused Hector, turning the oval