She stole a glance at him as he laughed and talked to Kendric, who sat on his other side. He seemed happier and more relaxed than she had ever seen him. She almost laughed out loud at herself. Known the man but a few days and already an expert on him? Right. Well, as his wife, she supposed she would now be in a position to be just such an expert.
Wife.That called for another hefty sip of wine. She had actually done it. Kept her word and married the man. Last week, if anyone had told her she would be laced up in a silk gown and sitting at her own medieval wedding celebration, she would have ordered an MRI scan of their brain and a complete round of bloodwork.
Resettling herself in the cushioned chair, she slid her glass back to the table. “Slow down, Eves,” she breathed to herself. She needed the alcohol to calm her—not make her toss all caution to the wind and say something she shouldn’t—especially later.
She tucked her fists into her lap and tried to focus on the present, observing the chaos of the overfilled room without drawing too much attention to herself. Dear Heavens. If this was a small clan, she couldn’t imagine a large one. The gathering hall reminded her of a fair-sized auditorium, albeit one fitted with huge columns, flickering torches, and a stone hearth large enough to roast an ox. And the place was packed. Not an empty seat remained on any of the long benches lining the walls and sitting between the rows of tables.
Those finding themselves without a seat either leaned against a column or loitered in the doorways. She glanced up at the gallery. The narrow second floor crowned the room like a halo with sturdy banisters decorated with tartan banners. That was full as well. Where had they all come from? And on such short notice? Surely, they all didn’t live within the protective walls surrounding the keep.
Everyone looked happy and well on their way to inebriated bliss. Well, at least the men did. The women and children laughed and chattered away between stolen looks to size her up. Except for a trio of men in the farthest corner beside the entrance. They appeared almost surly and wore some sort of black leather armor and dark green cloaks, unlike any she had seen any of the other guards wear. Were they some sort of elite force or something?
She tugged on Quinn’s sleeve, interrupting his conversation with Kendric. “Who are those three?”
He looked where she directed, his expression tensing when he spied the men. “Those are the last of Annag’s kin living here at the keep,” he explained. “Fighting men given to Clan MacTaggart as part of her dowry.”
“You mean like slaves?” She didn’t know how dowries worked in the thirteenth century. And making a gift of people?
“Nay, lass.” He emptied his glass and thumped it back to the table. “I told them they could return to Clan Munro anytime they liked. They’re nay prisoners or slaves.” His jaw tightened. “They informed me they could not return home. If they did, Annag’s father would have them killed. So, here they remain. A part of Clan MacTaggart for as long as they wish—barring any grievances.”
Grievances? Maybe that explained why they looked as if someone had stolen their favorite toy. “What sort of grievances?” she asked before he turned back to Kendric.
“It is complicated,” he said, then lifted her hand and kissed it. “Someday, I will explain. But not today. Forgive me for dividing my attention when I should be focused on my bride alone. Today is ours, ye ken?” He brightened and nodded at the archway closest to them. “And now for the feast. I am sure Cook has outdone herself, even with such short notice.”
A seemingly endless string of servants entered, bearing platters and bowls piled high with all manner of food. Evie swallowed hard as they placed large oblong halves of dark bread in front of each guest at the head table. Smaller disks of either bread or wood, she couldn’t tell for certain, were passed out to those at the other tables. Folk without a seat appeared to be waiting their turn, some with longing looks at the platters of food. Others appeared more content with their ale.
Quinn selected an assortment of fruits, cheeses, roasted vegetables, and a steaming hunk of gravy-drenched meat for the platter of bread between them. “Our first shared trencher,” he said as he broke off a small chunk of cheese and held it to her lips.
She needed to eat but really didn’t want to dilute the long-awaited numbness of the overly sweet wine. More from a sense of duty than anything else, she accepted the bite and forced it down. “Thank you.” She followed it with a hefty swig that almost emptied her glass, determined to keep the alcohol to food ratio balanced to optimum buzz level.
He smiled at her and seemed to wait. For what? She hadn’t a clue.
A quick glance at the others in the room revealed everyone waiting. They had stopped eating, drinking, and gone silent. All eyes glued on her. Watching. Was she supposed to feed him, too? She couldn’t very well ask. Not with everyone staring. A juicy chunk of meat caught her eye. There. She would feed him that and pray it was the right thing to do. Without aid of a fork that she promised herself she would introduce at first opportunity, she picked up the gravy slathered bite and lifted it to his mouth.
He took in the bite and held her hand in place as he sucked the juiciness of the morsel off her fingers. She hitched in a quick breath, suddenly overcome with a heat that had nothing to do with alcohol. His thumb stroked across her palm in an intimate caress that made her shiver.
The hall erupted in cheers. Tankards banged on the tables, making her wish she could melt into oblivion. Quinn smiled and leaned in for a kiss. The long, slow tenderness of the connection made her forget the noise. Without realizing what she did, she slipped her arms around his neck and gave herself to this man who had become her anchor. Her safe harbor. Heaven help her. She suddenly realized just how much they each needed the other. Without him, she would be cut adrift in a strange time. Without her, he would continue to focus on the embarrassment of his first wife’s infidelities. Perhaps this odd marriage of sorts wouldn’t be so difficult after all.
“A toast!” Dugan boomed above the cheering. “Hush it now! I wish to make a toast.”
Evie slowly eased her arms down from around Quinn’s neck, hoping her décolletage hadn’t flushed as red as her cheeks felt. Without thinking, she fanned herself. Social graces had always eluded her.
Quinn’s proud look and devilish grin made her even warmer.
“A toast, I say!” Dugan shouted again. He slammed a fist on the table, making everything bounce. “Raise yer glasses to our fine chieftain and his lovely bride.” He faced the two of them and gave a solemn nod. “May the best ye have ever seen be the worst ye ever see.” Lifting his tankard higher, he continued, “To a long life blessed with good health, freedom from sorrow, and the keep ringing with the laughter of yer many children!”
The crowd responded with cheers and the cry for music.
Three musicians emerged from an archway to the left, filling the hall with song. The first beat a drum, a large bodhrán with bright blue dragons painted on its skin. The second drew a bow across the strings of his fiddle, and the last man swaggered forth with cheeks bulging and fingers flying as he coaxed a lively tune from his pipes.
A sense of wonder and eeriness filled Evie. The history books didn’t do the past justice. She never realized the richness of these peoples’ lives. Always before the information had been dry and stale. Names and dates memorized to pass a course. Cold dead pages that meant nothing. But this—
“Are ye ready to retire, m’love?”
The whispered words made her shiver. Such a simple question on the surface and yet so complex. She nodded and took his hand, not trusting herself to speak.
He helped her maneuver her skirts between the heavy chairs and down the steps of the low dais.
“Going down them is easy,” she said as she managed the obstacles without a stumble.
