Her thoughts were interrupted by the serving lad bringing her a platter, which he placed on the table in front of her. The platter was piled high with roasted meats, vegetables in various sauces, and a big pile of some kind of flat bread. Jenna stared. She was supposed to eat all this?
“Er… thanks,” she murmured to the serving boy.
He flushed scarlet, gave a sketchy bow, and fled.
Jenna looked around for some cutlery but didn’t see any. “Um. Is there a knife and fork?”
“Here.” Arran reached to his waist and pulled his belt-knife, handing it to her handle-first.
Jenna took it gingerly and looked around, seeing that other people were also using knives to eat with, spearing food on it like a fork. She guessed it was probably an honor to be given the chieftain’s knife to eat with, but she would much rather have a spoon. She speared a piece of beef in gravy and stuffed it into her mouth.
The meat was delicious, falling apart on her tongue like melting butter. Whatever else this place was, lacking in hospitality it was not.
Everyone else was digging into the food, nobody waiting on ceremony or paying her any mind at all. Good. Jenna dived into the meal, allowing the simple act of sharing a meal with others to dispel some of her unease. She might be hundreds of years from home, but no matter where you were, it seemed some things didn’t change.
As she ate, she listened. Arran was in conversation with Mal, discussing deployment of warriors and debating the best way to keep the settlements on the tip of the island in contact with Dun Tabor.
Garrisons? Forts? Relay stations? They sounded like a people at war.
“It’s hardly conversation fit for the dinner table, is it?” Lady Rosaline said suddenly.
Jenna turned to the older woman. “I’m sorry? What?”
Rosaline nodded at Arran. “No matter how many times I tell him, hewillinsist on discussing such things at the most inappropriate times.” She sighed. “I tried to teach him courtly manners. In that, I’m afraid I’ve failed badly.”
Rosaline’s affection for Arran was obvious from the way she looked at him, but her exasperation too. It was, no doubt, the way her aunts looked at her. It seemed the push and pull of familial relationships was another thing that didn’t change, no matter where or when you found yourself.
“Oh, I don’t think you did too badly,” Jenna replied, taking another sip of mead. “He’s been nothing but a gentleman since I arrived.” She remembered the feel of Arran’s hard chest against her back as they’d ridden here and colored slightly.
“Well, I’m glad to hear that,” Rosaline said. “Although I suspect ye are merely being polite.” She swiveled in her seat until she was facing Jenna and took hold of her hand. “I will say this in case my unruly son forgets to: thank ye. I know how ye came to be here and I canna imagine how difficult it must be to leave not only yer home but yer time as well. So, on behalf of Clan MacLeod and everyone on Skye, thank ye.”
Jenna shifted uncomfortably. “I… er… no problem,” she muttered.
Rosaline patted her hand and then returned to her meal. Jenna covered her discomfort by taking another sip of mead. She’d already finished two cups, and the sweet drink was going down very well. A littletoowell, actually. Her thoughts were starting to feel a bit fuzzy and there was a comforting glow burning in her stomach.
As the meal wore on, the people of Dun Tabor seemed to forget her presence—for which she was profoundly grateful—and the racket grew gradually louder until the sound of the musician was almostdrowned out by people talking, shouting, arguing, and laughing.
Jenna looked around as she ate, trying to work out who everyone might be. Closest to the high table where she sat with Arran and Rosaline, the benches were filled with rowdy men who were busy getting drunk, laughing, and making ribald jokes at each other’s expense. From their size and the way they were dressed—the same plaid wrap as Arran and with daggers at their belts—she guessed they were his warriors.
Slightly farther away sat a group of men and women dressed in plain but well-made clothes. A few of them bore silver brooches on their shoulders carved into different designs: a book, a hammer, a set of weighing scales, and Jenna wondered whether these were the household staff and those brooches signified their occupations. She considered asking Arran, but he was still in conversation with Mal, ignoring her entirely.
Farthest away from the high table, the benches were filled with an assortment of people. Men, women, children, young and old, and Jenna guessed these were from the local village or else visiting the castle. The cacophony of sounds and smells—laughing, swearing, singing, wood smoke, food, sweat—was a little intoxicating.
And a little overwhelming. She took another sip of her mead.
“I need the privy,” Mal announced loudly. He climbed to his feet, weaving unsteadily.
Rosaline glared at him. “Malcolm MacLeod! What have I told ye about manners?”
“Oops, my apologies, Aunt.” He gave a shaky bow. “If ye will excuse me, I have… business to attend to.” He wobbled out of the room.
“Sorry about him,” Arran said, turning to Jenna. “But my cousin has resisted all my mother’s attempts to tame him.”
Jenna raised an amused eyebrow. If he thought Mal was bad, he’d clearly never been down to Jenna’s local bar on a Saturday night.
“Oh, I don’t know,” she said, waving a hand. “I think he’s kind of charming.”
Arran snorted. “Charming? Did ye take a whack on the head during the journey here, lass? That isnota word I would associate with my cousin. Loud, aye. Uncouth, aye. But charming? Not so much.”
