Page 64 of The Highlander’s Dangerous Desire

The meat was accompanied by flavorful gravy made from bone broth, seasoned potatoes, fresh spring onions, and roasted vegetables. There was more bread, several varieties, from a light, easy-to-eat sourdough to a dense rye bread that could be used as a base for the meat and gravy. There was more butter, and tureens of a hearty scotch stew, thick with dried meat from winter curing, softened to the point where it nearly melted on the spoon.

Ewan ate steadily, with moderation, as did Grace. He noted that Gael had taken his words to heart, for the man had slowed his drinking considerably, and ate with relish, but also with caution.

He paid no attention to his wife’s comfort, nor his son’s. At least, none that Ewan noted. However, he had to admit, his own attention was often on Grace, rather than Gael. It was possible he had simply missed the interaction, though by the way Elspeth MacTavish picked at her meal and sipped at her wine, he doubted it. Gael’s son ate like a feral hound presented with a beef bone for the first time - hesitant and cautious, eyes darting about as if he expected the plate to be snatched from him at any moment.

He wondered if Gael realized that every move they made was being watched, not only by the Council members arrayed in the seats on either side of them, but also by the folk seated at the lower tables. Village headmen, warriors who were not currently on an assigned task, and local farmers and craftsmen – all of them knew what the feast was for, and they would be watching, making their own judgments.

Speaking of which, Ewan scanned the hall. Within moments, he spotted the cluster of men at the end of one table - warriors he had never met, and who were clearly ill at ease with the rest of the hall’s occupants. They gathered together in a small group, isolating themselves.

Ewan sipped his mead to hide a grim smile. When he had come, he’d made a point of seeing that the men who followed him from MacDuff Castle made an effort to mingle with the warriors of MacTavish Clan. It hadn’t been an easy process - there’d been five challenges to duels, and more arm-wrestling and straight up brawling than he cared to admit in the hall - but in the end, the men had gotten to know and respect each other all the better for it.

Gael MacTavish would have served his own purposes better to have given his men instructions to mingle with the rest of the clan-folk. Not only would it have made his warriors harder to spot, but it would have been an easy way to begin spreading his influence, convincing the folk of MacTavish Keep to support his quest for lairdship.

They were also all warriors.

Fergus MacTavish had been a master at having his people infiltrate clans to achieve his goals. He’d used men, women, and children for his plans, and Ewan could remember a fair few that had worked against MacDuff Clan, like Fergus’s attempt to poison Niamh at the wedding feast. That plan had involved a child, and only a chance remark had saved Alistair’s bride.

“A man could get used tae this.” The idle words from his dining companion drew Ewan’s attention away from his morose contemplations. Gael MacTavish was leaning back in his chair, tankard in hand. “Feastin’ in such manner, I mean.”

“A man could, I suppose. But feasts such as this are rare treats, ye ken. Most meals are smaller.”

“Mayhap.” Gael gave him a sideways look. “But I wonder, is it because the clan is too poor under yer leadership? Or dae ye simply dae naething that is worth feasting? A good laird, I’m thinking, could always feed his people so well.”

“A feast every night is a braw idea, but it doesnae work so well in practice, fer it is a lot of work fer the servants and costly fer the clan. Besides, what would folk look forward tae, if nae a good feast now an’ again?”

Daes the fool nae ken how such a practice would drain the clan’s coffers and resources? Or is he simply tryin’ tae anger me?

Gael shrugged, and Ewan noted he had spilled drops of ale and gravy on his shirt-sleeves. “Mayhap ye’re right. Mayhap nae. But then, perhaps ‘tis an oversight on yer part, Overseer MacDuff. After all, ye didnae even see tae the proper comfort an’ attire o’ yer guests.”

He understood then the trap Gael had tried to lay for him. The slightly disreputable clothing was a deliberate ploy, an attempt to convince the Council that he had given no thought or care to the comfort of those in his walls. He knew how to counter it, but as an attempt to make him appear less than gracious toward rivals or opponents, it was an excellent trick.

Ewan raised an eyebrow, his expression calm, though his thoughts were racing. “Ye kent afore I did the plans that were in motion, Master MacTavish. I would have expected ye tae come better prepared. However, I shall have a word with me Steward on the matter.”

He waved the steward over. “Master MacTavish is concerned with our hospitality, and I own, I was occupied with enough other thoughts that I didnae ask… ye did assign a servant tae see tae his comfort, an’ that o’ his kinfolk?”

Malcolm understood at once. “Aye, but it daes seem that the lad may nae have enough experience - little wonder since we’ve so few guests. I shall make every effort tae rectify the matter, m’laird.”

Malcolm turned smoothly to Gael MacTavish. “Pardon, Master MacTavish. M’laird says ye arenae satisfied with our care.” He stepped closer, taking the serving pitcher from the lad who held it ready to refill MacTavish’s ale. His voice went low and conciliatory.

Ewan grinned. Malcolm was not naturally the obsequious sort, but he could put on a good show. Furthermore, Malcolm would know exactly how well, or poorly, MacTavish had been served. Whether the current situation was a mistake or a ploy on MacTavish’s part, Malcolm would handle it accordingly.

And if MacTavish was only attempting to make trouble and cause the servants to look incompetent and untrained - Ewan did not envy him. He and Alistair had both learned young there were two folks that a man, be he laird or commoner, should never anger. The steward and the healer. A steward could see ye were never happy, and a healer could see ye were never well.

The musicians were claiming their spot in the Hall, in preparation for the entertainment that would precede and accompany the sweet course at the end of the feast. With Gael safely occupied with Malcolm, Ewan turned to Grace.

He could see at once that something was wrong. Grace’s smile was strained at the edges, her shoulders too stiff. It would have taken a man who knew her moods to see it - she was nothing if not composed - but he could tell she felt uneasy, or unwell.

He leaned closer. “Grace? Is aught amiss?”

Grace took a deep breath and tried to relax enough to smile reassuringly in answer to Ewan’s question. “I am all right. Only slightly nervous, I suppose.”

In truth, however, she was more than slightly nervous. Since the beginning of the feast, she had felt uneasy. Gael MacTavish’s presence made her stomach twist and her shoulders tighten, as is bracing for a blow. And the longer the feast went on, the more her unease grew. But she could no more have explained the reasons behind her concerns than she could have taught a man how to breathe.

She was simply aware of some nameless dread that fell over her, a pall that cast shadows over the evening, and seemed bound to the presence of Gael MacTavish.

She wanted to believe that it was simply the fact that he was Ewan’s rival for the lairdship. She did not want Ewan to lose. But the feeling was too strong for that, and besides, she had no real reason to fear he would lose his position. At least, she had no reason she had not been in possession of during the Council, and she had felt no such dread then.

‘Ye have gifts of yer own.’ Sorcha MacBeth had told her as much, but she’d given it no thought. She wondered if her current uncertainty was some warning, but if it was, she could make no sense of it. And what good was a warning she could not understand?