A flagon was pushed into her hand as everyone around urged her to drink.
“It’s what turns the tale,” said Lady Beitidh. “She drinks, we cheer, and then she finds her man.” She pushed the drink toward Clara’s lips. “Don’t ruin it fer them! This is the reason for the festival, and it was given to you!”
This is why she liked to research things ahead of time. She didn’t know anything about the customs in this part of the world, and she didn’t like having a role when she had no idea what she was to do. Damnation, her home parish still talked about the time she tripped while dancing around the maypole when she was eight.
But there was no help for it now, especially with everyone cheering her on so joyously. So when the next flagon was pushed into her hand, she took a healthy drink. And the next. And the next. It steadied her nerves—if not her feet—and allowed her to cry out as if she truly were a lost bride.
“Where is my husband?” she asked. “I am the bride of… of…” She couldn’t begin to say the word. Fortunately, everyone else could.
“The MacDhubhthaich bride!”
“Over here! Over here!”
When they’d climbed off the cart, it hadn’t seemed too far to the center of the merrymaking. But now that she was walking through the people—many of whom kept trying to get her to drink—she was turned around and pulled in different directions. The pathway seemed five times as long, and when she arrived in the center clearing, the chanting had become a battering of sound.
“The groom! The groom!”
She looked around, trying to get her bearings. Deirdre was nowhere to be seen, but Lady Beitidh had moved to the MacCleal laird’s side. Liam’s father was a big man with a booming voice and—right now—a full grin.
“Welcome, MacDhubhthaich bride!” he bellowed. “Your groom awaits.”
“He does?” Clara asked. “I thought he was dead.”
“Not dead. Your kiss revives him.”
Two men had hold of her. She supposed they were helping her along—she’d been passed from one to another all the way up here—but she found her footing and steadied herself in the center of the clearing. She shook the men off, elbowing one of them when he would not step away.
Damnation. The gown she wore was in tatters. She would definitely have to buy Deirdre another. Meanwhile, she held up her lantern and slowly turned a full circle. Flushed and happy faces surrounded her. Men toasted her with their drink and women smiled slyly at her. So many people all seeking to applaud her role in tonight’s festivities.
She took a breath. Might as well do it for all she was worth.
“Aieeee!” she cried in her best attempt at a ghostly wail. “I have arrived too late at my beloved’s castle. They are all killed.”
A roar of denial followed her statement. Then Lady Beitidh cried, “There he is! Your groom is here!”
She looked where the lady pointed and saw Lord Loughton pushed forward. His expression was dark, and his gaze landed hard on the laird.
“Father!” he snapped. “This is not the way to win a woman.”
“It’s our way!” the man bellowed, to which a chorus of men roared their approval.
“Clara!” someone bellowed, and it sounded like Aaron, but try as she might, Clara could not find him. Too many people crowded around.
“Clara,” Lord Loughton said as he stepped closer. “Don’t…word…”
She peered at him where he was struggling through the crowd. Lord, her head was starting to swim. Whatever he’d just said was lost amidst the sound of his clan cheering.
“I’m the…the MacDub…something bride.”
Lady Beitidh nodded happily as she coaxed Clara on. “Say, you’re here to wed the MacCleal.”
“Right,” Clara said. “I’m here to wed.” Then she shook her head. “But I’m a ghost, right? I die because I find you dead.”
“But he’s here, now,” the lady said. “Kiss him and declare yourself wed.”
Clara looked at the crowd. Of course. That’s what they all wanted to see. A kiss between bride and groom was the end of the tale. She could see that Liam was none too pleased to be in the center of this, but it was only harmless fun.Shewould not be the reason this festival was bad. She would play her part.
So when Liam finally closed the space between them, Clara went willingly. Thankfully, he caught her around the waist and kept her upright. Good heavens, just how much had she drunk? Her legs were like wet paper.
