Carousers too deep in their cups to notice when her brave champion and his stalwarts took their leave.
Or, as evident in some of the hall’s murkier corners, too lost in wanton pursuits to care.
Peering past the rows of tables, Caterine’s gaze sought and found Rhona. Like many of the ale-headed celebrants, her friend and James had indulged in amorous tanglings most of the evening. But now the secluded alcove where they’d entertained their passion loomed empty.
Save for Rhona.
She leaned against the stone tracery of the alcove’s lancet window, half-hidden in the shadows, strumming her lute and singing a love song. But when Caterine caught her eye, she set the lute on the window seat, a signal meant for Caterine alone.
Confirmation that James had left her side to meet Sir John in the darkest corner of the bailey where they’d wait with saddled horses until the other men joined them.
The time had come.
Every last dragon.
The words, and the dragon slayer’s hand sliding over hers where it rested on the table, gave her strength to continue the game.
“My husband…” she began, smiling at him.
He looked at her, returned the smile. “Aye, my sweet?”
“Mercy,” she said, pushing back the trencher they’d shared, speaking the rehearsed words. “If I eat another bite of roasted seabird, I shall fly away.”
Sir Marmaduke’s fingers, so strong and warm, gave hers a reassuring squeeze.
His man, the bearded Gowan, glanced at her, and inclined his head. Then, pushing to his feet, he strode off through the smoke-hazed hall, and vanished.
Soon the others would rise as well and, one by one, disappear.
Playing their parts, as had she for the last hour or so, plying her new husband with all the dubious delicacies Dunlaidir’s depleted stores could offer. Imbibing more braised sea-tangle and bannocks than her stomach could bear.
And smiling all the while.
In true wedding feast custom, she’d also sipped hippocras from the same cup as her groom and indulged the onlookers’ glee by letting him kiss droplets of the heady spiced wine from her lips. He’d even caught one or two from her chin with his tongue.
That, the watching throng had loved.
And so had she, boldly wondering how many dragons his wickedly rousing tongue could banish.
But for now, such delights spun unheeded on the farthest edges of her mind, banished there by the departure of another MacKenzie. Sir Ross, a large man of no particular grace, had slipped away as quietly as if he’d never been there at all.
And he’d taken Sir Alec with him, for that veteran knight’s place at the end of the high table stood vacant as well. One moment he’d been there. The next, he was gone.
Only Sir Lachlan remained, and would.
His part, to loudly declare that Sir Marmaduke Strongbow had taken his bride to bed, should any possess the wits to notice their absence.
Or the daring to comment if they did.
“My lady, it is time for us to go.” The words, murmured just above her ear, startled her. Without realizing she’d moved, she was on her feet, the iron strength of her champion’s arm firm around her waist.
No one in the hall objected.
Not a soul called out.
Only he hesitated, looking at her with such intensity, his gaze seared a path of heat clear to her heart. Before she could gulp or even blink, he took her elbow and began guiding her from the hall, but he stopped short after just a few paces.
“Hellfire and damnation,” he snarled, catching her beneath the knees and sweeping her into his arms, holding her tight against his mail-clad chest as he carried her from the hall and up a winding stair.
