“That is a lie, and we both ken it,” Davina quipped.
Kristen tried to glare at her and failed. “Ye are impossible.”
“I am only trying to be helpful.” Davina shrugged. “Come now.”
She linked their arms with the ease of long practice. Her presence steadied Kristen more than any pin or ribbon.
Together they moved to the door. The chamber smelled of soap and clean linen and a tinge of something warm, like cloves.
“Hold,” Davina said and adjusted Kristen’s sleeve with deft fingers. “There. The Queen would envy ye.”
“Stop,” Kristen protested, but her lips quirked up anyway.
They stepped into the dim corridor, where torches flickered along the walls. The stone breathed cool air up the stairs. Voices drifted from below, along with the scrape of benches and the hiss of ladles across iron.
“Whatever ye feel,” Davina murmured as they walked, “let it be yers first. Let the rest come after.”
Kristen swallowed. “Aye.”
They climbed down the stairs, their linked arms swinging once, twice, like a small anchor between them. Just as the door to the hall came into view, the great bell chimed above the arch, calling the castle to table.
Davina squeezed her arm. “’Tis just dinner.”
Kristen drew a breath that did not quite fill her lungs. “Aye, ’tis just dinner,” she echoed, and they made for the door.
15
Neil put his hand on the back of the carved chair and sat in the place that had waited for him for five years. Benches scraped across the floor, and the clansmen rose as one, a brief swell of respect, before they settled.
The eyes in the hall swiveled to him, some bright, some careful, a few hard as flint that had struck too many winters. He remained steady underneath it all. A laird did not fidget.
His gaze swept over the hall to count what must be counted. Breadloaves split in half. Stew thick enough to fill a man’s belly. Children clustered with their mothers near the fireplace. Maggie hovering under a bench in wait for a scrap.
Then he sawher.
Kristen took her seat beside Davina. Her wine-red dress caught every sliver of light and threw it back into the hall. The cut fit herto perfection, neither too ample nor too tight. Her pinned hair accentuated the curve of her neck. When she lifted her cup for a sip, the stones at her ears twinkled.
Murmurs drifted from the benches near her to his ears.
“The lady looks great tonight.”
“Aye. She always did, ye goat.”
Neil forced his attention to the bowl before him and watched the steam rise. He lifted his spoon and ate anyway, trying to push away thoughts of her. The spoon scraped his lip, before he set it down and reached for his cup.
He took another sip, and his eyes drifted back to Kristen. She leaned close to Davina and gave a smile, a neat line that did not say much. Her dress shifted when she turned, and he looked up at the rafters in a bid to distract himself.
A young man, Ewan, Neil suddenly remembered, worked his way through the crowd with a pitcher of watered wine. He was broad in the chest and eager in the eyes. He bowed to Davina, then turned to Kristen, hopeful as a pup.
“Me Lady,” he said softly. “May I fill yer cup?”
Kristen gave a polite smile. “Ye may. Thank ye, Ewan.”
Ewan poured as if her cup were holy.
Neil’s hand tightened around his own. He tried not to glare or speak. Instead, he watched the wine rise in his wife’s cup and tried to ignore the way the lad’s breathing quickened. His shoulders rose a notch. The bench under him felt too narrow for his muscular thighs.
Lachlan leaned in, his voice pitched low. “Ye are crushing yer cup, Neil.”
