THE PERFECT TEN (Boxed Set)

heart comparing his parents’ loveless marriage to his own.
    Why had that all too familiar steely look returned to Beth’s eyes as she coolly thanked him for the lemon tree? ‘Twas certainly not what he’d expected. Indeed, ‘twas far from it. Could he have been mistaken thinking her expression had softened as he spoke? Been mistaken thinking he saw a warmth in her eyes, a slight turning up of her full lips as she touched his chest? Nay. It had been there, truly, if only for a few precious moments before it vanished. So what in the bloody hell had he done or said wrong to make that softness, her interest, fade? Ack!
    “Remembering old times, Duncan?”
    Startled, Duncan frowned at his advisor. “Aye.”
    “Some things are best forgotten, my friend.” Isaac held out his hand for the heavy gold broach that had once belonged to the long dead Robert the Bruce. He turned it over in his palm. “Melting this down could solve some of yer financial woes, friend.”
    “Give it here, ye heathen.” The broach, named by a predecessor for the land surrounding him and the Firth of Lorne, had been in MacDougall hands for generations. According to family lore, Ewin MacDougall married Red Comyn’s daughter. When Robert the Bruce later murdered her father in 1306, the MacDougall and Bruce clans became sworn enemies. Years later, Robert—after a hasty crowning at Scone—-had been forced to retreat before the victorious English into Argyll where he had hopes of reaching his Campbell allies, but he’d been surprised by the MacDougalls at Dalrigh near Tyndrum. Robert escaped, but on his discarded cloak was found the magnificent broach Duncan now held in his hand.
    As always happens, political power and alliances between clan chiefs shifted back and forth over the years—to the point of Robert the Bruce’s granddaughter marrying Duncan’s grandfather, but this generation now had a new score to settle.
    Hearing a trumpet’s blare signaling the Bruce’s launch from shore he placed the broach into its temporary hiding place beneath his diary. When he had use of the solar again, he would return the broach to its proper hiding place in the headboard. None besides his intimates knew he held it.
    “Come Isaac, we need meet our guests.”
    ~#~
    Duncan greeted the Bruce in the bailey. John was nearly as tall as he and well turned out in a gold collar, tall hat, ridiculously long-toed shoes, and a rabbit furred houppelande—-a short fur-lined tunic—all clear indications of his status and income. By law, none with a yearly income of less than a thousand pounds sterling could don such finery. Duncan again silently thanked God for Beth’s labors within the keep and was pleased she would wear what fur he owned. He wore his simple best; the blue brocade jerkin over a close fitting red tunic and high leather boots. He despised hats of any style and so greeted his guest bareheaded.
    “Good eve, John. I hope ye found the way easy.”
    “Aye, ‘twas fine weather.” The Bruce looked about the bailey. “Ye’ve made fine improvements in these five years past, I see.”
    As they walked to the keep entrance, the Bruce’s gaze roamed as much over the castle battlements as it did over the stables, kirk, and workshops. Duncan grinned. Many of his keep’s nastier defenses like the nags—the catapults that threw fire bombs at enemy ships—and the machicolation, which allowed him to pour boiling oil onto enemy heads, were all hidden behind the innocent interior parapet walls.
    Inside the keep, Duncan felt renewed pride watching the Bruce’s stunned reaction to Beth’s idea of a well-turned-out hall. Even he had to admit it looked like the home of a wealthy man, filled with the rich glow of candlelight, tapestries and flowers on every surface. At each place at every table lay a woven reed mat, a trencher, a two tined fork and a carefully folded napkin, so it appeared a fleet of swans floated on seventy wee green ponds. The head table overflowed with bouquets and the colorful tableware he’d brought back from Italy. The keep even smelled rich, the fresh air wafting in through uncovered windows infused with a delightful mix of beeswax, flowers and roasting meat.
    Beth entered the hall. As she glided toward him wrapped in a new aura of confidence, Duncan’s mouth gaped. Not only had she transformed the hall, she’d transformed herself.
    He snapped his jaw closed as she dropped in a deep curtsey before him.
    “Good eve, my lord