"She is going to throw it at her husband." Gay's eyes widened slightly with surprise when Fraser chuckled. "She is verra angry."
"So she should be. To present her with this brood without a word of explanation was badly done. Twas unkind and, I think, meant to insult her. A slap in the face, it was. The fool deserves whatever she does to him."
"She truly is his handfast wife," Gay said.
Fraser nodded. "I ken it. Dinnae need to be seeing any papers, either. There is no deception in that lass." Fraser shook her head. "Unfortunately, our laird sees deception at every turn at the moment. He has some right to be wary, but, I believe his loss of memory makes him even more so. When the lass has calmed herself, I will tell her a few things that fool lad should have told her before he had his wits rattled."
"Will that help?" Gay was not comforted when Fraser's only answer was a shrug of her shoulders.
Diarmot scowled at the Camerons. With the assistance of his family, he had told them of his injuries and loss of memory. He suspected it was only Gillyanne's presence and her word that held back their outrage and fury. The Camerons were not openly calling him a liar, but their expressions said it loudly enough. They obviously suspected him of lying to his family.
That was fine, he thought crossly, for he did not believe them, either. For one thing, he did not believe he would ever be fool enough to marry a woman with eight large brothers, ones who possessed every shade of red hair imaginable and the temper rumored to go with it. Despite Gillyanne's belief that the Camerons told the truth, for the first time since he had known her, Diarmot did not accept her word on it. He did not want to.
In what he recognized as a somewhat childish reaction, Diarmot wanted them all to go away. He wanted his meek, calm, easy-to-ignore bride back. It had only taken one glimpse of Ilsa to know that copper-haired beauty would never be meek or calm, nor would she tolerate being ignored. Nor would the Camerons shake his hand, praise the new alliance, then stay away, he thought as he studied Ilsa's brothers and half a dozen of her cousins. It appeared that, if his wife chose to, she could call up an army big enough to grind Clachthrom into the dust, and with only asking her close relations. Even more dangerous, he felt certain there was a strong bond amongst these Camerons, a true affection for each other. That explained the anger that still lingered even though he had married Ilsa as they had demanded.
"Diarmot."
Slowly, Diarmot looked toward the doors of his great hall, wondering how one sharp calling of his name could so effectively silence a whole room. He caught his breath at the sharp bite of lust he felt when he looked at Ilsa. It was obvious she was angry. In truth, he did not think he had ever seen a woman so furious. Diarmot wondered why that should arouse him, and, even more curious, why it should make him want to smile. The way Ilsa had said his name had held enough quiet but deep rage that a smart man would start running.
"Bastard," she hissed. "Lying, lecherous bastard. Ye are fouler than the slime at the bottom of a midden heap."
"Duck," said one of the Camerons.
Diarmot heard the shifting of everyone at his table, indicating that they had heeded that warning. He watched somewhat dazed as Ilsa raised the heavy jug she held. It occurred to him that she intended to throw it even as she did so.
Suddenly, Connor grabbed him by the arm and yanked him to the side. Diarmot heard the jug lightly scrape the top of his chair, then winced as it shattered on the floor behind him. When he sat up straight and looked toward the doors, Ilsa was gone. He thought it highly unfair when the Camerons all glared at him.
After all, he was not the one cursing and hurling ewers.
"She must have become irritated upon meeting my children," Diarmot said and took a drink of his ale to hide his unease.
"What children?" demanded Sigimor.
"My daughter Alice, the only child my late wife gave me, and five others."
"Five others? Five bastards?"
"I am nay fond of that word."
"Isnae that a pity. I suggest ye gain a tolerance for it, because I suspicion ye are about to hear it a lot and nay directed at your bairns. Ye ne'er told my sister ye were wed before nor about your habit of breeding women like some cocksure stallion set loose in a field of mares in season."
Diarmot was annoyed at the way his brothers snickered, but ignored them to reply to Sigimor's insult. "Why do ye assume I ne'er told your sister? Mayhap she ne'er told ye."
"She would have told Tait."
"And what makes him so blessed?"
"He is her twin."
It just kept getting worse, Diarmot mused, and inwardly cursed. "That doesnae mean she will tell him every little secret."