The great hall doors opened, and my gaze snapped up, drawn as if by some unseen force. Murieall stood in the entrance, the lass’s hands clasped in each of hers. She’d changed from her travel-worn garments into a simple green gown that brought out the rich copper tones in her hair. The firelight caught the strands, making them appear to dance with life. She was speaking to my daughters, her head bent toward them, a gentle smile curving her lips.
A sharp, unexpected pain stirred in my chest. I looked away, refilling my cup with hands that were not quite steady.
James appeared beside Murieall, saying something that made her laugh. The sound carried across the hall to me, bright and genuine. My jaw tightened inexplicably, and I found myself gripping my goblet too firmly.
What was this strange irritation that coursed through me at the sight of James leaning close to Murieall, his hand casually brushing her arm as he guided her into the hall? It made no sense. She meant nothing to me beyond our arrangement. Yet I couldn’t tear my gaze away as they weaved through the crowded tables, the girls still clinging to Murieall’s hands.
James led them toward the lower tables, where I had instructed my daughters to sit since their return. When they were near, the reminders of Isabella were overwhelming.
But halfway across the hall, Murieall stopped abruptly. She said something to James, who shook his head. She shoved her shoulders back and notched up her chin. I recognized a woman’sdefiance well enough. Isabella had once been a very strong woman. Murieall’s gaze fastened on the dais, and a sinking feeling settled in my gut as she altered course, heading directly toward me.
She stopped at the foot of the steps leading up to the high table, her dark eyes meeting mine without a trace of fear or deference. The hall had grown quieter, people turning to watch this unexpected confrontation.
“These are your daughters,” Murieall said, her voice carrying clearly in the suddenly hushed room. “I feel quite certain their mama would have wanted them at their place of honor on the dais by their da.”
A complete silence fell over the hall. Every eye turned toward me, waiting for my response. The girls stood on either side of Murieall, their faces upturned with a hope that cut deeper than any blade. Bess, so small and fair, her eyes wide and uncertain. Guinn’s chin was set in quiet defiance as Isabella had often set hers.
I stared at Murieall, this woman who had been in my home less than a day and already presumed to tell me how to treat my own children. Who dared to invoke Isabella’s memory to challenge me before my entire clan.
And for the first time in two years, I found myself at a loss for what to do next.
My uncle shot to his feet, his face flushing deep red beneath his graying beard. “Ye overstep, woman,” he snarled down at Murieall. “Ye’ve been in this household less than a day, and ye presume to dictate where the laird’s children should sit? Ye do nae have the right to interfere in family matters.” His voice carried the authority of a man used to being obeyed. I watched Bess shrink against Murieall’s skirts, and her fear bothered me.
Murieall didn’t cower, though. She stood straight-backed, one hand dropping to rest protectively on Bess’s shoulder. “Withall due respect, sir, I was merely observing what seemed a strange arrangement. These are the laird’s daughters.”
“And the laird has decided where they belong,” Uncle Gordon retorted. “It is nae yer place to question his judgment, especially before the entire clan.”
“Aye,” my aunt agreed. “Ye are an outsider in this stronghold, daring much.”
I should have sat back and watched my aunt and uncle put this presumptuous woman in her place. It would have reinforced my authority and ended this uncomfortable scene quickly. But Bess, still cowering beside Murieall, drove me to my feet.
“Enough,” I said, my voice cutting through the tension like a blade through water. The words left my mouth before I’d fully considered them, surprising me as much as everyone else.
Uncle Gordon turned to me, confusion and something like betrayal flickering across his weathered face. “Munro, surely ye can nae—”
“Murieall speaks true,” I interrupted, unsure even as I spoke why I was defending her. “The lasses are of my blood. They belong at the high table.” I was shocked that I’d not once considered how my actions would hurt my daughters. Shame heated my face and neck, and I avoided looking at James, knowing I would find satisfaction on his face. Instead, I kept my gaze fixed on Murieall, whose expression had softened with something dangerously close to gratitude. The sight made my chest tighten in a way I refused to examine.
“Thank ye, Munro,” she said, my name on her lips sounding strangely intimate in the crowded hall. Then, with a sweetness that barely concealed the boldness beneath, she added, “Perhaps everyone might move down three spaces? That would allow the lasses and me to sit to your left.”
I should have refused her. Should have ordered her to the end of the table, away from me. But those dark eyes held mine, challenging and hopeful all at once, and I found myself nodding.
“Make room,” I ordered, gesturing to those seated at the high table.
There was a moment of hesitation before the reluctant shuffling began. Uncle Gordon moved last, his mouth set in a tight line of disapproval. Whispers rustled through the hall, and I caught the exchange of meaningful glances among my clansmen. This would be discussed in every corner of the stronghold tonight.
Murieall guided the girls up the steps to the dais with a gentle hand at their backs. Bess looked up at me uncertainly as she passed, her small face a mixture of hope and fear that pierced something long dormant within me. Guinn’s expression was more guarded, as if she’d learned not to expect too much from me. The realization stung more than it should have.
They settled into their seats, Murieall between them, helping Bess arrange her napkin and quietly instructing Guinn on which goblet to use. I tried to ignore them, to focus on the food that servants were now placing before us, but my gaze kept drifting to them of its own accord.
The way Murieall leaned down to whisper something that made Bess giggle. The gentle correction when Guinn reached for the wrong dirk to spear her meat. The patient smile as she guided them through the formalities of dining at the high table. Each action reminded me painfully of Isabella and how she had moved through the world with the same quiet grace, the same instinctive understanding of what the girls needed. This pain was the very reason I’d sent them away, but at what price to the lasses?
I tore my gaze away, reaching for my goblet to drown the memories. I drank just enough to dull the edges of myawareness, though less than had become my habit. Some treacherous part of me wanted to remain alert enough to observe the woman beside me, though I told myself repeatedly that she was temporary. A distraction. Nothing more.
“The lasses seem well-behaved tonight,” James commented, his tone carefully neutral. “Perhaps having a woman’s guidance again suits them.”
“They are my daughters,” I replied stiffly. “They ken how to comport themselves properly.”
“When given the chance,” Murieall added softly, not looking at me.
