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Every eye swung back to the seer, palpable expectation and hope permeating the great hall. This shrunken waif of a woman held the entire room in thrall.
“But,” she repeated, her tone softer as she pointed to the second bucket. “I also see tremendous peace, happiness, and prosperity for our people for decades to come.”
“That’s more like it,” Lady Kilpatrick trumpeted approvingly.
Relieved titters and chuckles filled the hall as the men and women looked to each other.
They behaved as if Dolag had awarded them a reprieve from a death sentence.
Camden slapped his brother on the back as he stuffed a chunk of sausage into his mouth, and Berget dimpled prettily at something Graeme whispered in her ear.
“Och, praise the saints and angels too,” Bethea said, releasing her numbing hold on Marjorie’s hand. “I swear my heart stopped for several beats with her first dire prediction. I saw myself and Branwen shriveled up old maids.”
Dolag shambled forward until she stood directly before Keane.
He towered over her shrunken form by well over a foot.
Up close, she appeared even older than Marjorie had first guessed. If this woman were a day under nine decades, she’d forgo breakfast for a week.
She turned those unsettling, penetrating eyes on Marjorie for an unnerving heartbeat and then astounded her by breaking into a gapped-tooth grin.
Marjorie couldn’t prevent the answering smile tipping her mouth. There was something endearing about the old woman that she liked.
Dolag faced Keane once more and patted his arm.
“Laird, ye shall determine which it will be.” She peered up at Keane as if willing him to make the right decision. “Light or dark? Good or evil? Happiness or sorrow?”
“Me?” For the first time Marjorie could recall, he appeared completely nonplussed. “Me?” he repeated, cupping his nape and staring at Dolag intently. “Ye are certain?”
“Aye, laird.” Her gaze veered to Marjorie once more. Then, in front of everyone, she took Marjorie’s hand and placed it in Keane’s, holding their joined hands between her cold, frail palms.
“And this Englishwoman is the only one who can help ye.”
Keane kept his face impassive as he released Marjorie’s hand, then took Dolag’s wrinkled fingers between his. “Thank ye, Dolag. I shall heed yer words.”
She’d been correct on too many occasions for him to callously disregard her prediction. And Odin’s teeth, her public declaration that the fate of his clan and duchy lay entirely in his hands unnerved the bloody hell out of him.
Not to mention having the audacity to put Marjorie’s hand in his.
Marjorie had looked so astounded that he’d feared she might object and unintentionally insult Dolag. Instead, she’d summoned a tranquil smile, though color suffused her cheeks.
He might not believe in superstition, but Dolag most assuredly did, as did many of his people—a great many, truth to tell.
By God, he didn’t have to peruse his guests to know several eyebrows had shied high on foreheads—including the Kennedy brothers—at the gesture. Speculation would run rampant now, and there was naught he could do to dam it.
Dolag had opened the floodgates.
Why wasn’t he annoyed?
Outraged? Incensed?
Quite simply, Keane had decided this morning that Marjorie Kennedy would be part of his future, and Dolag’s predictions had nothing to do with it. The idea had taken root yesterday and had grown stronger and more credible with each passing hour.
Yes, a previous Buchannan had wronged a Kennedy woman, but that didn’t mean Keane would. His intentions were completely honorable when it came to Marjorie. He’d be twenty times a fool not to pursue whatever this burgeoning emotion was.
“Och, I ken ye will.” Affection softened Dolag’s wrinkled visage before she once more focused that acutely penetrating stare on Marjorie. “Ye’ll need the Englishwoman’s help though.”
She wasn’t going to let that particular matter go, was she?
