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we were talking of Rhys.”
    He chuckled. “I told you he’d be fine.”
    “Don’t be too sure about him. He’s more than passing unpredictable,” she muttered.
    Hugh caught the words. “Worry not. Your son will come to accept.”
    She caught his look. His grin didn’t mask the curiosity that lurked in those eyes.
    Had he guessed that Rhys had decided to despise him? Would he care about the feelings of a five-year-old? She did, but even
     explaining to him that she must marry to protect Wales had not penetrated the ire of Rhys’s factoring. Someone was taking
     his mother from Wales, and he had to leave with her. Not good. She agreed it was wrong to align with a Scot! Safety demanded
     she put her feelings on hold for the good of the Trevelyan heir. Convincing Rhys was a different story since he must be kept
     from the truth. She’d spent much of the journey north on the task of disabusing him of hating all MacKays.
    She was on her way away from her new spouse when the gong sounded and he pulled her back, anchoring her to his side. “Will
     you not gainsay this?” She hissed at him, bringing his laughter to the fore once more.
    “ ’Tis only my deep passion responding to your charms, good wife.”
    Morrigan gasped. “Such barbaric words. Have you no shame?” She said this between her teeth, knowing her overheard words would
     send the scandalous Scots into hilarity.
    “I have. Shame that I had to make bargains to regainwhat was mine. Shame that I have to bow my head to yon monarch whose blood is too thin of good Scot lineage to be the powerful
     liege lord he must be to stand against our enemies.” He grimaced. “I have shame.”
    His hurt was a hurled spear that had her choking on her own ire. That he should be shamed by an alliance with her, no matter
     the reason, shouldn’t have pained. But it did. Her anger flared. She pulled free, gazing up at him.
    He seemed puzzled when he looked down at her, opening his mouth as though he’d query her glower.
    She felt heated, trapped in that look. It whetted her fury even more.
    “The king!” The attendant blasted on a horn after the gong sounded again.
    Morrigan had the sensation that time had stopped, that she and her new spouse had created a world wherein they dwelt alone.
     All because they’d looked into each other’s eyes and couldn’t look away. She couldn’t remember what last they’d said, or how
     long they’d been still and staring. She swallowed. “The king—”
    “I heard,” Hugh said, his face tight. He took her hand and put it on his arm and they turned together to face Edward Baliol,
     who now stood behind a trencher board on a podium, his crest raised by an attendant.
    Most inclined their heads in respectful silence. A few glared or sneered, though they were quiet. Someglanced at MacKay as though he dictated their stance. MacKay stayed close to his wife, looking at the royal.
    “I, Edward Baliol, your king, do pronounce that the Trevelyan holdings in Wales shall be ceded to the regency of Milady Morrigan
     of MacKay, royal of Wales, heir to the Llywelyn holdings and spouse to Hugh, Earl of MacKay, laird to Clan MacKay.”
    The roar of assent far outreached the nays in sound and fury. Some shouted protest at the anglicizing of MacKay’s Gaelic name.
    “You’ve won power, wife.”
    “Not for myself,” she murmured.
    Hugh frowned, not sure he’d heard her right.
    Morrigan rocked with the enormity of it. She’d triumphed, and by royal writ that would be shouted throughout the hills and
     dales of Scotland, England, and Wales. Gwynneth’s son would rule as God and Wales had ordained. She swayed in teary joy, not
     even pulling back when her husband embraced her, though a sense of decorum had her whispering a protest.
    “What, milady?”
    “Scots have little in the way of courtesy, milord, if you think this acceptable.”
    “I do.”
    She looked up at him, not sure what to say. She didn’t mind his touch. She’d begun to like