That evening, there were those at Ceinn-beithe less content with their lot than Esmeraude and Bayard. Eglantine did not sleep, though she imagined that Duncan did. She tossed and turned restlessly, unable to think of anything beyond her youngest daughter virtually alone in the wild.
There had been little consolation in realizing that Esmeraude had fled to the King of the Isles. She had always had a faith in that man’s goodwill toward her. Eglantine knew that he cared only for his own advantage and feared the worst.
She sighed and rolled over again, trying to be silent yet unable to be still.
“There is naught to be achieved by fretting,” Duncan murmured, his words too clear for him to have been sleeping.
Eglantine propped herself up on her elbows and stared down at him. Though their cha
