In the bright torchlight, she would swear that she saw moisture glinting in his eyes, and she felt some welling in her own as she took a sip of red wine with trembling fingers…some of the tart liquid dripping down her chin.
At once Errol reached out to wipe the wine away with his thumb, his touch making her start and set down the cup for fear of spilling any more.
“Forgive me, lass,” he murmured, a flicker of dismay across his face as if she had found offense at his caring gesture.
She hadn’t, but she could say nothing now as the enthusiastic clamor grew more deafening until at last, Cora raised her hand and the great hall fell silent.
Tira amazed by the deep respect shown to their laird’s wife as Cora bade Father Ezekiel to offer a prayer of thanks, and then she urged everyone to eat—benches scraping upon the stonefloor as everyone sat down and set about the task with gusto while Tira’s appetite seemed to have fled altogether.
Even when her plate was heaped full by servants and her cup near overflowing, she could but pick at the steaming slices of roast venison and buttered root vegetables accompanied by fresh-baked bread to sop up the juices.
She could sense Cora watching her from one side and Errol from the other, but neither said anything to her…for which Tira was grateful, and undeniably touched by their understanding.
Only the antics of Cora’s twins, a giggling, red-headed Maud and Sinclair, his hair as raven-black as his mother’s, brought a smile to Tira’s lips. The two of them stealing food from each other’s plates and bickering playfully, which eased for a few moments her mounting trepidation about the wedding night ahead.
Would Isobel and Monroe one day spar so happily with each other? Tira hoped so, glancing at Errol’s plate to see that he hadn’t eaten much, either, though he had emptied his wine cup—ah God, no, a maidservant rushing forward to pour him some more.
Tira squeezed her eyes shut as awful memories flooded her of Thorgren drinking himself into drunkenness nearly every night…ale spilling from his mug and soaking the front of his tunic, which had made him bellow with laughter.
Wretched nights that had usually ended with him lunging from his chair to toss her roughly over his shoulder and carry her weeping to bed?—
“No more wine,” came Errol’s voice to snap Tira from her terrible reverie, and she glanced over to find he had covered his cup with his hand, the maidservant bobbing her head and moving away.
His gaze meeting Tira’s as if he had sensed what must have distressed her, her face afire and her heart slamming against herbreast. Without a word, he reached out to clasp her hand and then rose from his chair, drawing her up with him.
“Lady Cora, if you dinna mind, my bride and I will retire now.”
Tira heard Cora draw in a startled breath even as Tira felt she might collapse into a quivering heap upon the floor, so great was her dread that made her knees wobble.
She had scarcely drawn a breath herself when Errol swept her up into his arms as the great hall erupted in raucous cheers, and this time, Cora didn’t raise a hand to quell them. Instead, she appeared hesitant for a moment until she nodded at Errol, who gave her a deferential bow of the head before carrying Tira away from the table.
His strides long and purposeful, he said nothing to her until they had left the still thundering great hall, and only then did he press the lightest of kisses against her burning cheek.
“You’ve walked enough for one day, lass, you must still take care that you dinna strain yourself.”
Stunned, Tira could only stare at him as he lunged with her up the steps as if her weight was no burden to him at all, Errol holding her close.
So close she could feel his strong heartbeat thudding against her arm that pressed against his chest, her cheeks flaring all the hotter.
Within another few moments, he had carried Tira into her bedchamber—och, nowtheirbedchamber—and shut the door with his foot. The heavy thud had made her gasp, Errol setting her down gently into one of two chairs placed by the warming fire.
Two? There had only been one before, Tira glancing around her in astonishment at the room that had clearly been made comfortable for them.
The fireplace ablaze with freshly stoked logs, a bedspread of dark blue damask gracing the four-poster bed instead of the plainer woolen one, four goose down pillows now instead of two, and a carved chest brought in for Errol’s belongings?—
“I told Lady Cora it wasna needed, I’ve very few garments with me and these fine ones are borrowed from Gavin,” Errol said with a chuckle, which made Tira glance up at him in surprise.
She hadn’t heard him laugh since years ago in her family’s garden when she was twelve and he was fourteen, and he had pulled her long braid to make her spin around and spout off at him. In truth, she hadn’t been angry at all and loved Errol then as surely as she did now…och, heaven help her.
Tears filling her eyes, Tira couldn’t have forced them away if she had tried as she lowered her gaze, her anguish so great at everything that had happened in those intervening years.
Years spent dreaming of Errol until he had arrived at her mother’s funeral, their promise made to each other to wed before she had been wrested away from him, and the suffering she had endured through nightmarish months with Thorgren.
The miracle of her rescue and childbirth, and now at last their wedding—yet she should have been joyful instead of stricken with fear and sickened that Errol hadn’t been the first man to hold her, touch her, claim her?—
“Tira, look at me.”
CHAPTER 11
