THE PERFECT TEN (Boxed Set)

woman.
    Having seen her fair share of bar brawls, Beth worried her lower lip as she surveyed the hall and the men Duncan approached. Picturing all her hard work turned to ruin as more agitated men came to their feet, she glanced at the Bruce. He was smirking.
    The bastard hoped they’d come to blows! Not bothering to wonder why, and not caring if Duncan approved or not—-her only goal being to defuse the situation before the entire clan became involved—-she grabbed an empty tankard and clanged it hard and repeatedly against the table.
      The hall went quiet. Not tomb quiet but enough so she could be heard. In as loud and dramatic a voice as she could muster, she shouted, “Hark!” As worried faces turned in confusion to see what she was about, she continued with as much dramatic emphasis as her limited talents allowed, “Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary...”
      She hunched her shoulders like a crone and walked down the center isle. Eyes squinting, she beckoned those that would follow with a crooked finger, “...over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore...”
    She saw Kari’s face light in understanding and heard her exclaim, “Listen! Our lady tells a troubadour’s tale.”
    Beth slowly spun, her voice imitating a conspirator’s stage whisper, “While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,” she rapped on a nearby table, “as of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.”
    She almost sighed seeing many wide eyes following her every move. Too many, however, still looked torn between hearing her tale and joining the fray. She again beckoned them to follow. “‘Tis some visitor, I muttered, tapping at my chamber door, only this and nothing more.” To her relief, they could tell that it was in fact more, and many began following her away from Duncan and the bully-boys to the far end of the hall.
    “Ah, distinctly,” she confided, “I remember ‘twas in the bleak December, and each separate dying ember wrought its ghosts upon the floor.”
    Finally standing before the sitting area with most in the hall settled in rapt silence before her, she hoped Poe wouldn’t mind her changing The Raven up a bit so they could better understand. “Eagerly I lusted the morrow; vainly I had sought to borrow from my books surcease of sorrow—-sorrow for the lost Lenore—-for the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore.”
    An excited murmur suddenly swept the group before her. Daring to believe she had them captivated with the tale of lost love, she glanced toward Duncan to see how he fared. All appeared calm, though two men still stood with fisted hands on hips in heated conversation.
    She silently thanked her tenth grade teacher for forcing her to memorize the eighteen stanzas as punishment for nodding off in class before continuing, “...and the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purpure curtain thrilled me—-filled me with fantastic terrors never kenned before...”
    By the time she came to an end, Duncan and the Bruce had disappeared along with Isaac. Flora and Rachel had joined the crowd before her. Seeing Flora wipe a tear away, Beth wondered at it. She wasn’t that great a storyteller.
    “Another, my lady!” someone called.
    “Aye, another,” somebody else agreed, “but this be it a tale of great joy, my lady.”
    Great joy? Good Lord. Her mind flashed through the movies she’d seen only to discard them, one after the other, due to their very twenty-first century plots. Then Snow White came to mind and she smiled. The children present would enjoy it, at least.
    Thinking how her own life now mimicked a fairy tale she began, “Once upon a time in a land far away...”
    ~#~
    Flora studied the Black’s wife as she rambled on about silly dwarves and a poisoned apple. Aye, she could use one of those.
    Nay, for surely she’d be as dead as yesterday’s fish if not for Lady MacDougall grabbing her about her chest and squeezing. And she did understand the pain of lost love, if her tale of the raven were true. Even a fool could see her mistress’s face couldna hold a man’s attention past a fortnight. Mayhap she did ken more than most the pain of dreadful angst and grieving. Aye, she’d not have the lady killed. She owed the woman that, but no more.
     
     
     
    Chapter 20
     
    Sitting across from the Bruce in the library, Duncan tried hard to mask his anger at his enemy’s impertinence, caring naught for what