Page 37 of Twelfth Knight’s Bride

Hollowness ached in her stomach. Had she offended him? “Jamie, I’m sor—”

“No matter. Come. We light the Yule log.”

Upon a flick of his finger to a cluster of men at the door, they pushed the door wide. Attached to chains was the Yule log, heaved home the day before by horse and cart. So that was what James had been doing outside before the commotion within had drawn his attention away.

“Gather ’round,” the seneschal exclaimed, “as the laird hoists in the Yule log!”

Cheers rose loudly, and James installed her by the hearth, then dashed across the rushes to the door, taking up a chain alongside his men. The musician’s music kicked up, and this time, as people passed Aileana by or clustered near to her, some regarded her with tentative smiles or uncertain glances.

“Thank ye, mi lady, for yer kindness,” a serving man said, bowing to her as he went by.

She exhaled a shaky breath and nodded to him. The Yule log was supposed to be the spectacle, so why were so many of them still casting her surreptitious glances, making her forever feel like a novelty put on the spot? But the sting she’d seen on James’s face at her remark still bothered her. What if these were her people? They already thought she was here to stay. If their acceptance should grow, would she ever gain their hearts? Would they ever gain hers? Could she abandon them so easily on Twelfth Night and reinforce their negative sentiments toward the Grants?

“This is my favorite part!” twittered Brighde, arriving beside her and clasping her hand in sisterly affection. The lass was older than James, and yet still, girlish whimsy plagued her.

“What is to happen?” Aileana asked.

“’Twas our faither’s job before us and grandfaither’s before him. My brother will crown the Abbot of Unreason for Christmastide, who will then order the Yule log lit, and such is always a surprise, for sometimes he picks a lad, sometimes he picks a guardsman. Last year, he picked the smithy, who ordered the laird bring him a tray each morn to break his fast.”

Aileana laughed, caught off guard, as Brighde giggled beside her at the memory. “And he did it, I wager.”

“Aye, and with good humor,” his sister replied. “He lives for his people. He kens what it’s like to nay be accepted and has always worked to be fair and honorable toward them. Little does the fool man ken that our people have never begrudged him for being born a bastard. Only my mither did. I was a wee bairn when he was born, but I remember much fanfare and feasting the night our faither presented his firstborn son and rightful heir to the great hall. A Yuletide gift, is how we always thought of him.”

The sentiment lingered in Aileana’s thoughts as Brighde prattled on, and the men hoisted the massive log through the hall, up to the hearth—parting the rushes in its wake like waves thrust outward by a boat. What does she mean by Yuletide gift? Is James’s day of birth during the winter season?

The men unchained the log and tipped it beneath the chimney, and James dusted his hands and stood upright, unclasping his fur to reveal his tunic, coming unlaced at the top and exposing part of his pectoral. He didn’t seem to notice, and passed the garment off to his seneschal, in turn, taking from him a crown of woven twigs and berries in hand.

He offered his hand to her now, in spite of the sweat beading his forehead. She furrowed her brow. “Where do we go now?”

“Nowhere. Right here,” he replied.

“Stand with him in ceremony, Aileana,” Brighde encouraged, nudging her closer. “Ye’re his wife. No matter how unexpected, ’tis yer duty to present these festivities alongside him. My mither always stood beside our faither.”

A tick jumped to James’s jaw at mention of his stepmother, but he nodded once in agreement. He leaned down to her ear. “Aye, lass. Until Epiphany, at least, ye’re my wife. For ye to sit aside would nay be customary.”

She took a deep breath and glanced around the expectant faces, so ready to make merry that they would forgive her her birth name for the moment. Aye, she and James had frolicked when they’d thought themselves alone, but to publicly display unity seemed to mean something. His palm was warm, rough. He turned over her palm, running a finger over her calluses. She’d helped her people reap what harvest they could, helped the healer time and again, helped her brother hunt, helped wherever was needed, and her skin wore the telltale signs of the underprivileged life thrust upon them.

“They’re unsightly, are they no,’” she remarked, looking down.

“Sister,” James said, ignoring her.

“Aye, James. What can I do for ye, wee brother?” Brighde replied.

His mouth quirked up at his sister’s teasing. “See to it some of that cream yer maids make for yer hands is delivered to my wife’s chamber tonight.”

Brighde curtsied to her brother. “I’ll see it done immediately.”

Brighde scurried away, then James tucked Aileana’s hand into the crook of his elbow as the folk teemed around them, ready for the season to officially commence.

“What sort of cream?” she asked him.

“Brighde uses it for her hands. To soften them. Ye’re lady-born. Yer fingers should nay be so blemished.”

She opened her mouth to argue that a lady’s hands always looked best when serving her people, regardless of how soft—

“Nay argue, and accept the kindness. And by the way, I told the seamstress to make those gowns whether ye protest or nay,” he admonished. “What sort of husband would I be if I nay provided my woman with the things she needed? Gather ’round!” he called, giving her no chance to reply as she gaped. “The time is nigh to light the Yule log, a blessing for ye all! Ye work hard all year long, and Tioram Castle would nay remain so prosperous without yer efforts to protect its walls and to protect each other from the MacLeods and the Gr—” He cut himself off.

From the Grants.