Nothing except the fact that her father’s old friend was sitting at the head table, waiting to claim this castle as his own.
“Lady Bryden,” he said to her mother. “And Lady Erica. I am grateful for yer table.”
“We feed those who ride under our gate,” her mother said and sat.
The first bowls went out, and MacGee ate like a man who wished to be seen enjoying what was offered. He spoke to the men onhis left, then to the women across, then back to Erica’s mother in low, smooth lines. Each time Erica swallowed a remark, he grew a shade bolder.
“So,” he said, turning to Erica, “ye keep the accounts yerself.”
“Aye.”
“A heavy task for such a small hand.”
“It holds a quill fine.”
He smiled. “And other tasks. Ye will forgive me, I speak as a practical man. A house like this needs heirs and peace both.”
“Our house needs our Laird to return home,” she said.
“Of course,” he said.
His gaze slid away, assessing, then returned to her with a false warmth.
“Ye are well made for making heirs too,” he went on. “Twice the hips of a regular woman. Childbearing would be easy.”
The words landed like oil on fire as the servants nearby held their breath. Erica felt her restraint falter at the root.
MacGee reached for her face again with the same finger.
She did not think. One minute, she was holding tight to her fork; the next, her mouth had launched itself right onto Laird MacGee’s hand. She clamped her teeth together, biting into skin as hard as she could.
MacGee swore, a bark ripped clean of charm, and the room burst into sound, chairs scraping, spoons skittering. Erica stood and stepped into him with a sharp kick to his shin that sent him back against his chair.
She did not raise her voice.
She did not need to.
“Out,” she said. “Leave me maither’s table and leave our hall.”
His men lurched to their feet and then froze at the sight of every Bryden face turned hard. A pot lad held a ladle like a weapon and blinked, unsure if he dared to breathe. Two maids stared at the rushes, and they widened their stance, like they were ready to fight for Erica. Todiefor her.
MacGee cradled his hand and smiled again, but it showed teeth now.
“As ye wish,” he said. “We will speak again, Erica.”
“Nay,” she said. “We willnae.”
He bowed to her mother with a grace that had gone thin, and to the hall as if it belonged to him. Then he turned and walked out with his men at his heels.
The hall held its breath until the last heel left the stone. Only then did sound return, too quick, too bright, like a laugh after a funeral.
Servants looked at one another and then away, already deciding what they had seen and what to say of it. Erica could see the looks on their faces and was grateful for them.
By evening, the hall was quiet. Erica led her mother to the solar, set a candle on the table, and shut the door.
Her mother stood in the center of the room, and the words came fast. “What will happen now? What will he tell the others? What story will his men carry to the alehouses? How long before another rides in with fewer smiles? How are we meant to live after ye drove out the one laird who still spoke fair?”
“Maither, let me?—”
