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“ A ll finished, my lady.” Camille, one of the chambermaids who spoke a peasant’s form of English, smoothed the silvery gauze over the dress and stepped back to admire her work. “You look lovely. Such golden hair!”

Emma self-consciously patted the elegant pile atop her head. “Are you sure it’s acceptable to leave it out like this?”

Camille gathered up various things around the chamber. “Aye. Lady Bri dislikes wimples. Laird MacWilliam’s given us the option to wear them or not, as is our preference. Truly, we are blessed to be part of such a happy clan.”

Emma chewed her thumbnail and glanced out the small window again. “All the women in the courtyard are wearing them,” she pointed out nervously.

“Those be the older ones, my lady. If you prefer, I can find you one. It shouldn’t take but a moment.

” She pulled open the door to find Bri, poised to knock.

“Oh, Lady MacWilliam! I was just going to find a wimple for Lady Perkins. Excuse me.” She bobbed a quick curtsy, but Brianagh stayed her with a hand on her arm.

“It’s quite common to wear a wimple only if you wish to,” Bri said, echoing Camille’s statement. “We’re not alone in this practice. It happens more often than you think…or may have read about.”

Emma hesitated, still uncertain. “Well, if you think it best.”

“’Tis such a shame to cover such lovely hair,” Camille said circling back around Emma, her cornflower-blue eyes shining. “Truly, I’ve never seen the like of it, all different shades of honey!”

“That will be all, Camille,” Bri said gently, and the chambermaid dipped another curtsy before taking her leave.

“Highlights?” Bri noted.

“Natural. How does one color her hair in the Middle Ages?”

“One doesn’t,” Bri replied ruefully. “The grays and whites simply come as they do.”

“Turning gray probably doesn’t make such an impression here, I suppose, if it’s all anyone knows.”

“Correct. I do, however, think you’ll make quite an impression tonight,” Bri predicted. “You look lovely.”

Emma’s blue dress was made of a light wool.

Much like her original dress, its empire waist was trimmed with a thin silver thread, twisted into a rope that circled her rib cage.

This dress, however, wasn’t lined; Brianagh specifically had it made without the extra warmth.

Emma would need a cooler fabric, with all the dancing she would be doing after dinner.

“The dress is unlike anything I’ve ever worn.”

“We are lucky to have such talented seamstresses here in the castle.”

“I’m very grateful,” Emma replied, “but, um, I can’t find my shoes. I haven’t been able to find them since I arrived.”

“Oh, right. I have them locked in my trunk. The laces and metal eyelets could be construed as fairy-craft,” Bri said with a wave. “Don’t worry. They’re safe until you need them again. The slippers, if they don’t fit, can be resized. ”

Confused, Emma asked, “Fairy-craft?”

“Mmhmm. The MacWilliams tend to be a very supernatural clan. When strange things happen, they attribute them to the Fates or fairies more than witchcraft or other nonsense.”

Because Fates and fairies were sensical? Emma wondered. Then she tripped over a raised stone in the floor and inwardly rolled her eyes. She traveled back in time. Sense and nonsense were interchangeable at this point in her life.

“Now come, come. I can’t wait to see what you think of the goings-on downstairs. Tonight’s a big night—it’s the start of the matching!”

“The beginning stage of the matchmaking process?” Emma asked, hurrying to follow Bri.

“Yes, the formal part, anyway. We used a similar procedure at Celtic Connections when I was still in the future. For tonight, Monaghan’s son, Shane, selected seven ladies from their answers to my questionnaire.

I’ve invited those seven women and their families, and a few other choices I’d like him to consider.

We have dinner and dancing, and tomorrow, after the tournament, Shane makes his decision.

The next day, the lairds—or fathers, if they’re not clan lairds—make up the betrothal agreement, and the wedding takes place soon after. ”

“Wow. How long is the process from start to finish?” Emma asked, intrigued.

“Five days or less. Remember, life is sometimes short here. People don’t hem and haw like they do in our time. They make their decision and stick by it, no matter what.”

“What happens if the chosen woman doesn’t want to marry Shane?”

“At that point, it’s out of my hands. It’s up to the woman’s father or laird, Monaghan, and Nioclas to come to an amiable solution.

” Brianagh sighed. “It’s only happened a handful of times, when the woman is here against her will.

I know history makes us out to be property, but we have a lot more power than the books ever gave us.

The law states that we are such, but few enforce it.

The Irish are a kind people, who generally love their children and want the best for them. Male or female.”

“What about what’s best for the clan?” Emma was fascinated. She suspected this, but hearing it—seeing it!—firsthand made her almost dizzy with glee.

Bri stopped at the top of the winding stairs. “A laird’s daughter holds much the same value as any other daughter in his clan,” she explained. “Very few men want a child-bride, so to ally themselves, they’ll marry someone else within the other clan.”

“What about handfasting?” Emma asked. The process of declaring to marry at a future date seemed like a good way to sidestep the issue.

Brianagh shook her head vehemently. “Oh, no. It’s done, but not with any clans we know. That opens doors to all sorts of complications.”

“Like what?”

“A rival clan could kidnap the bride-to-be and demand ransom,” Bri said, “or the husband-to-be dies in an accident and the bride is left without full clan protection. It can get messy, so we don’t wait.”

Emma held her remaining questions. She followed Bri down the stairs, where they waited to be announced. Bri clasped her elbow and they walked arm in arm out of the stairwell, into the great hall, which was about half-filled.

“Tonight, you’ll sit with us as a guest of honor,” Bri murmured as they made their way to the raised dais. “I’ll sit to your right, and Aidan to your left.”

A large, slightly overweight man with missing teeth, dressed in a dazzling shade of green, intercepted them before they were halfway across the large room.

He said something to Brianagh, giving her a low bow.

He continued on, shooting looks of interest to Emma.

As he spoke, small drops of spittle flew from his mouth, catching in his silver-and-black beard.

The drops shone in a highly distracting manner; Emma kept sneaking glances at them as he conversed with Bri.

She noticed the bits of food clinging to the beard as well.

She suppressed a shiver of repulsion as he bowed to her, wafting his own special brand of body fragrance in her direction.

She choked, and Brianagh helpfully clapped her on the back, smiling and saying something that sounded explanatory in Gaelic.

She turned to Emma and, in perfect Middle English, said, “Lady Emma, may I present Laird Monaghan, of the illustrious Monaghan clan in the east of our fair isle.”

“A pleasure, my lady. You are the epitome of English beauty. I would be so honored for a dance tonight,” Monaghan said, again in Middle English, the words choppy.

Emma gave a false smile. “Um, that’s, um…”

Brianagh spoke in Gaelic again, and the man grinned. He bowed once more—Emma held her breath this time—and stepped back, so they could continue toward the front of the room.

“I told him you would be likewise honored, and explained that you were a lady of few words who spoke a language we’re not all that familiar with,” Bri said grimly. “Monaghan’s interest in you is not going to sit well with Aidan.”

“Why not? The man is old enough to be my father,” Emma said, unable to keep the distaste from her voice.

“He thinks you’re here as a potential match for his son. But he’s not above searching for a wife of his own.”

Emma choked. “Me?”

“You’re beautiful, you’re of child-bearing age, and you would ally him to our clan,” Brianagh replied tersely. Another man, older than Monaghan, came towards them. “Oh boy. I should’ve seen this coming. ”

The man asked for a dance with the Lady Emma, and Bri granted it.

“Can’t you just tell them I don’t dance or something?” Emma hissed as yet another man gave a bow.

“Negative,” Bri responded through her teeth as she bestowed a smile upon the man before herding Emma onward. “That was a powerful ally. Nioclas would insist upon that even if you were married to Aidan. He is going to be so mad at me.”

“Nioclas?”

“Nope. Aidan.”

Emma felt a fleeting sense of panic. “I’m sure it will be fine. He knows I wouldn’t lead anyone on. Especially not men who are decades older than me and have questionable hygiene practices.”

“What about younger, handsome men who are most definitely looking for a bride and have been guaranteed one by tomorrow evening?” Bri muttered. “Oh, Aidan is going to flip. Out.”

A man about Emma’s age, dressed in the same blazing shade of green Laird Monaghan wore, bent gracefully at the waist. When he stood at full height, he was nearly as tall as Aidan, and he smiled kindly down at Emma, his brown eyes soft.

His face, classically beautiful, rivaled any Hollywood movie star, and his manner was relaxed, fully confident.

He spoke in fluent Middle English, and Emma had no issues understanding him.

Unfortunately.

“Lady Emma, allow me to introduce you to Shane Monaghan, who resides to the east.” Brianagh gave a swift curtsy, and Emma hastily followed.

“My dear Lady Emma, your beauty and rumored wit have captured my attentions. I know you’ve so promised a dance with my father, but he and I have discussed it at length, and he insisted that I also dance with you, so as to see if we may make a life together.”