Page 63 of The Highlander’s Dangerous Desire

“Yes…” Grace nodded.

Ewan took a deep breath. “Well, since we’re betrothed…”

Grace pursed her lips and forced herself to focus. “There is a part of me that should like to be married tomorrow. However, for propriety’s sake, it would be best to inform my uncle of my intention to wed, before actually seeking the priest.”

“Aye.” Ewan frowned. “And what will ye dae, if he opposes the match?”

Grace smiled wryly. “You are not a suitor my uncle chose for me, and you are Scottish besides. He shall certainly oppose the match. There is a chance he will even forbid me to wed, and who knows what consequences he shall set if I defy him.”

“An’ ye’re willing tae risk those consequences?”

“Yes. I am. I would rather stay with you, than return to my uncle’s attempts to match me with someone of his choosing.” She hadn’t known, not until Ewan asked, what her choice would be, but now that it was spoken aloud, she could feel the truth, and the rightness of it. “But still, it is courteous to tell him and hear his reply.”

“We’ll send a messenger then, first thing in the morning. Though with the length o’ the journey, ‘tis likely tae be more than a moon afore we receive his answer.”

“Then… perhaps we might plan the marriage to take place in just over a moon?” The idea of setting a date felt equally terrifying, but also enticing.

“If that’s what ye wish.” Ewan tugged her close. Grace reached up for another kiss.

A knock on the door interrupted them, and Ewan stepped back a half-step just as Devlin opened the door. “M’laird, m’lady, supper is served. The Council are taking their seats, and Malcolm has gone tae escort our guests tae the table.”

Food, and the trial of sitting through a formal feast with Gael MacTavish, was the last thing Grace wanted to consider at the moment. Still, she supposed that was part of being a lady, and the betrothed, or wife, of a laird. She took a moment to straighten the slight disarray of her skirt and her bodice, brushed out the slightly mussed state of her hair with her fingers, then took the arm Ewan offered her.

She might not be looking forward to the ordeal, but at least she had the joy of knowing she was truly Ewan’s chosen to sustain her.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Gael MacTavish was already seated, with his wife and child beside him, when Ewan and Grace entered the Great Hall. Ewan studied his opponent as he took his seat. As Overseer, he still claimed the laird’s chair, with MacTavish on his left, and Grace on his right.

Grace. The fact that she’d agreed to wed him filled him with joy, and with pride. He would happily have skipped the meal, but after having secured her agreement, he refused to fail in his efforts to secure the lairdship.

Gael had clearly taken time to wash, but his wife and son looked as if they had not done the same. All three were wearing clean clothing, but it was worn and rough looking, not what Ewan would have expected a man to wear to a feast. Even allowing that Gael might not have a number of formal clothes, he ought to have at least had one outfit, if he intended to seek the lairdship. Failing that, he could have asked for Malcolm to provide him with advice.

Ewan wondered if Malcolm had failed to offer the choice of more fitting attire, or if he had offered and been rebuffed. Either scenario seemed possible, but there were other things that made Ewan think that perhaps Gael had been too prideful to seek better attire. Too prideful, or perhaps too ignorant of what might be expected of a laird.

Though clean, his hair was still somewhat unkempt rather than brushed back into a proper warrior’s tail, his boots caked with mud that five minutes of effort could have removed, and his belt was cracked and rough with wear and weather. He wore sword and dirk openly as Ewan himself did, but made no effort to conceal the second and third blades tucked between his belt and his sash, and into the top of his boot.

All in all, though it was clear he’d made something of an effort, he still looked more like a barbarian warlord posing as a clansman, rather than a proper laird. It was possible he intended to portray himself as a man of the clan-folk, simple and humble, but if so, Ewan knew his attempt would fail him.

Being a laird required more. It required poise and dignity, unless one wanted to become the sort of laird who was only known for strength at arms and brute force. There were lairds like that, men with vicious tempers, hard-earned combat skills, and grim reputations. But Fergus MacTavish had been of that sort, albeit with a dash of cunning and sly, ruthless sneakiness that Gael had not yet displayed. Unless he read the Council wrongly, Ewan did not think the Elders of clan MacTavish wished for another laird of similar ilk.

Ewan set the thought aside, and forced himself to smile politely at his rival. “Fair eventide, Master MacTavish. I welcome ye and yers tae the table.”

“Fair eventide, Overseer MacDuff. We accept yer gracious welcome with gratitude.” Gael bowed slightly, and Ewan returned it with a nod of his head. The man at least knew something of the proper guesting courtesies.

They took their seats, and the servants brought around drinks, baskets of fresh-baked bread, servings of newly-churned butter, and the first portion of the meal, which was a watercress based salad of sorts.

Gael prodded the greens with a definite lack of enthusiasm. “Is MacTavish clan unable tae provide meat fer the table, then?”

“’Tis early yet fer that. The meat will come tae the table in time.” Ewan sipped at his tankard, though he would far rather have drained it. “Have ye nae ever attended a proper feast?”

Gael flashed him a sharp-edged smile, then gulped down his own tankard of ale. “We cannae all be raised in castles, ye ken.”

“Aye. I ken.” Ewan gestured for the servant to refill Gael’s cup. He had no intention of deliberately getting the man drunk, but if Gael chose not to pace himself and wound up full of too much ale and not enough sense, it would be his own fault. Ewan would not allow himself to be seen as a stingy host. “But in proper feasting, the meal is served in stages. Otherwise, we’d nae have room for all o’ it on the tables.”

“Och. I’ll have tae remember that.” Gael smiled again, a smile that was all teeth and barely restrained anger, as if he thought Ewan was mocking him, and took another bite of greens.

After that came a leek and potato soup, with more bread, then the main dishes. Plates of roast mutton and baked moorland quail, the latter served with small clusters of quail eggs. Malcolm must have been watching the nests, or else he’d planned for the feast well in advance and bargained with the village children to collect the eggs, to have so many.