At last, the crowd thinned, and she found herself facing down a row of men in Bryden tartan. They stilled, gaping at her.
Dear God, I hope I’m nae too much of a mess,she thought, swallowing back a wince.
Clearing her throat and tossing back her hair, she threw them a wry smile. “I am Lady Skye Brennan. I am here with Laird MacColl. I’d like to speak with Laird Bryden, if I may.”
Silence ensued. The men glanced at each other, baffled.
She bit back a sigh.
Is everybody as stupid as a rock today?
“I’m sure he willnae mind,” she added gently. “We’re about to be betrothed.”
One of the men gulped audibly, turned on his heel, and raced away, presumably to fetch Laird Bryden.
Skye shifted from one foot to another, frowning.
This wasnae how it was meant to be.
No, she was meant to walk in,sailin, with her head held high and a faint smile on her face. Laird Bryden would be instantly captivated by her.
She wouldn’t marry him, of course. Nobody expected the bride swap to end in marriage. It was a bit of a farce, really, done for looks. To prove how much each clan trusted the other.
But if she could make Laird Bryden feel more for her than he should, then perhaps he might make a mistake. Perhaps she might learn something. But for now, this was their first meeting, and she should concentrate on being kind, pleasant, and welcoming.
Lure him in.
The soldier came hurrying back, pale-faced. He jerked his chin, indicating for her to follow him. Frowning at his rough manner, she reluctantly followed.
Passing through the line of soldiers, she spotted a tent pitched at the base of a tree. As they approached, a tall, broad-shouldered man ducked out of it. Straightening up, he stared at her as if looking at a ghost.
The first thing that Skye registered, with distinct discomfort, was that he was more handsome than she’d expected. She wasn’t entirely sure what she’d imagined. Some hulking, slab-faced man with a flat nose and yellow teeth, perhaps.
Firstly, Laird Bryden was younger than she’d expected. He had dark hair hanging around his shoulders and sharp, slanted green eyes, like those of a cat.
His angular face was set in a grim scowl, his thin black eyebrows drawn together. When his gaze fell on her, his eyes widened, and his jaw slackened enough to reveal white teeth, not the yellow ones from her imagination.
“Skye,” he breathed, breaking the silence.
She pursed her lips.
Nae evenLadySkye, eh? He’s too forward.
He looked untidy, too. She let her gaze drag over his wrinkled shirt, tucked haphazardly into a rough wool kilt. Was that aknifehilt poking out of the top of his boot? Weapons were heavily frowned upon at the Leanan Festival. Why would he jeopardize their new arrangement?
He hadn’t shaved, either. Beards were common, naturally, but men generally either wore a beard or kept clean-shaven. Laird Bryden, however, had rough, untidy black stubble coating his cheeks and chin, making him look a little too bedraggled.
Despite the untidiness, he was good-looking, with that strong profile and that thick, glossy dark hair. And those eyes, bright and penetrating, the greenest irises she’d ever seen.
A twinge of familiarity rippled through her, and she frowned, trying to think of where she might have seen him before. Nothing came to mind.
It’s nae about looks,she reminded herself.Besides, this could have been worse.
“Laird Bryden,” she said smoothly, plastering a polite smile on her face. “It is good to meet ye at last.”
He gawped. “What?”
“Have ye met me cousin yet? Laird MacColl will want to see ye, to iron out the details.”
