Mary sighed, smoothing a crease from the silk gown. “I willnae say ye’ve been treated fair, but I’ll say this, he didnae have to wed ye to honor his pact. He could’ve asked for land, for coin. He chose ye. That counts for something, even if it’s something ye daenae yet see.”
Mary came up behind Scarlett to help with her hair. Scarlett sat before the mirror, fingers idly tugging at a stray lock of hair as Mary fussed behind her with pins and ribbons.
“Now, enough talk. Hold still, lass,” Mary scolded, swatting Scarlett’s shoulder lightly. “I’ve near a dozen braids to tame yet, and ye wriggling like a bairn doesnae help.”
Scarlett gave a half-hearted smile. “Why all the fuss? It is only another meal.”
Mary snorted. “Another meal? Och, ye’ve much to learn. A feast at Gundor’s nae about food alone. It is where folks show their best silks, their sharpest tongues, and their worst secrets.”
Scarlett arched a brow in the mirror. “Secrets?”
Mary’s grin was wicked. “Aye. Take Chef Morna for one. She near tripped over her own hem last feast, chasing after young Jamie by the buttery. Claims she was after the pies, but the lad’s been blushing ever since.”
Scarlett bit back a laugh, covering her mouth. “Mary!”
“And then,” Mary continued, weaving another braid tight, “ye’ve Lady Fenna. Sweet as honey to yer face, sharper than a blade behind yer back. At the last ceilidh, she danced with half the men in the hall before her husband could blink. Poor man near wept into his ale.”
Scarlett shook her head though amusement tugged at her lips. “Ye make them sound like a troupe of jesters.”
“That’s half the joy,” Mary said cheerfully. “Folk spend their days with toil and steel. Nights like this, they let the masks slip. Ye’ll see. Some’ll drink too much, some will boast too loud, and by dawn, there’ll be tales enough to last the week.”
Scarlett sighed, tugging at the hem of her sleeve. “And I’m meant to sit there, smile, and pretend I fit among them?”
Mary’s eyes softened in the mirror. “Ye daenae need to pretend, lass. Half of them are waiting to see ye shine. The rest are too busy watching their own backs.” She leaned close, dropping her voice. “Besides, the Laird’s wife is the safest seat in the hall. Folk will clamor for yer favor quicker than a hound to scraps.”
Scarlett groaned, slumping in her chair. “I’d sooner stay here and sketch.”
Mary smacked her gently with the comb. “Ye’ll do nay such thing. Leave the charcoal and smudges for the tomorrow. Tonight, ye’ll braid yer hair, wear the green gown, and let them see ye’re Lady McLaren in truth.”
Scarlett rolled her eyes but could not help a smile. “Ye’re relentless.” “Aye,” Mary said, finishing the last braid and patting Scarlett’s shoulder with satisfaction. “And thank the saints for it. Else ye’d sulk in the dark while the whole clan gossiped without ye.”
Scarlett traced a finger over the carved wood of the mirror, her voice softening. “And if I make a fool of meself?”
Mary winked. “Then ye’ll give them something new to whisper about come morning. Better that than being forgotten.”
Scarlett huffed a laugh, shaking her head. “Saints help me.”
“Saints help us both,” Mary agreed, setting the comb aside. “Now up ye get, lass. Time to face the wolves and look bonny while ye do it.” Mary drew the gown up, holding it against Scarlett’s frame.
“Now, enough brooding. Try this on. Tonight, the whole clan will see ye as their lady. Hold yer head high, and let him see ye’re nae to be dismissed so easy.”
Scarlett swallowed, staring at her reflection with the gown draped over her. Green silk, soft as water, shimmering in the morning light. It looked like it belonged to someone else, someone braver, surer.
She whispered, more to herself than Mary, “I look bonnie.”
Mary’s hand squeezed her shoulder. “Of course, ye do. Nay one will outshine ye tonight.”
Scarlett looked at her reflection a moment longer. Then she set down the brush, stood, and smoothed the gown flat with both palms.
If she was going to be watched tonight, she would give them something worth watching.
The hum of pipes and the thrum of drums rolled down the stairwell before Scarlett even reached the bottom step. Her skirts swished around her ankles, and the soft green silk caught the glow of torchlight. She smoothed a palm over her bodice while steadying her breath.
The great hall opened wide before her, vaulted and alive. Long tables groaned under platters of roasted meat, fresh bread, and wheels of cheese. Candles blazed in iron sconces, and their flames mirrored in the polished flagstones. Men laughed loud, women clapped along to the fiddler’s tune, and children darted between the benches, shrieking with delight.
She had thought she might feel out of place, but instead, the sound that rose when folk noticed her was not curiosity; it was welcome.
A cheer went up from one of the tables, mugs lifted high. “Lady McLaren!”
