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When Gillian took a sip from the mug he’d given her, her reaction was immediate.

She promptly stuck out her tongue. “Ugh, ’tis awful.”

Malcolm pushed the mug back toward her. “Try again, my lady. It gets better each time.”

Graeme laughed so hard at her expression that his stomach hurt. The others joined him as Gillian lifted the mug again and took the daintiest of sips.

“Not true, Malcolm. ’Tis still awful.”

“Drink it down,” another yelled, and before long each of the men were chanting.

“Drink. Drink. Drink.”

Gillian took a deep breath, raised the mug, and did just that. She drank until the others did the same, all in support of this wee slip of a woman whom he adored.

Careful, Graeme.

He reminded himself of Catrina. And Emma. And the fact that Gillian had been forced to marry him. If not for that, she would likely have spurned him too.

When they pounded their empty mugs on the table, Gillian did the same. Splashes of it escaped her mug because it still contained ale. She seemed to think that quite funny, and soon she was laughing just as hard as the rest of them.

“Enough,” he said, waving for their food. “Keep drinking like that, woman, and you’ll not feel up to riding back home.”

She smiled and Graeme did the same until someone called Graeme’s name so loudly from the entrance that all turned to stare.

“Reid,” her husband said, turning toward the voice. “You always did enjoy an entrance.”

* * *

Gillian only knew about the Kerr brothers from reputation. Though her thoughts were hazy from the ale, she remembered that Graeme and the Kerrs had once been bitter enemies but were now allies.

It was because of that enmity that Toren, the clan chief and eldest brother, had refused to honor Graeme’s betrothal to Catrina. She’d been afraid to discuss Catrina with her husband, but the end result was that she knew little of her family. Why was the youngest brother so angry?

Gillian raised her arm into the air. She needed another ale.

“Are we ever to meet in Scotland, my friend?” her husband welcomed Reid Kerr, even though the man continued to scowl.

A slight bit shorter than Graeme but just as well built, the newcomer would have been good-looking if not for his smug expression. His face was twisted into a scowl even though his lips curled up on one side. The smirk made him look arrogant and smug, as if he thought quite highly about himself.

“It appears not.” He stood before her, waiting for an introduction.

“Reid, this is my wife, Lady Gillian, daughter of John Bowman, Lord Lyndwood.”

When she moved to stand, the newcomer indicated she should remain seated.

“Gillian, Reid Kerr, youngest brother of Toren, chief of Clan Kerr.”

The newcomer bowed, took her hand, and pressed it to his lips.

Graeme frowned. “I’d ask you to sit, but as you can see, the bench is full.”

He sat between them, an obvious insult. “It appears there is plenty of room, de Sowlis.”

Ignoring the glares of Graeme’s men, the impertinent gentleman . . . if he could be called that . . . turned to her husband. “I heard you were married. Congratulations to you both.”

When Gillian’s ale arrived, Reid asked for one as well. “And some of that soup.”

“Eat,” he said to everyone. “Do not starve on account of my arrival.”