Page 27 of The Highlander’s Dangerous Desire (Kilted Kisses #2)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

G ael 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.

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?

Ewan was still watching her with concern, so Grace reached across and patted his hand. “’Tis nothing, Ewan. Only nerves, for the announcement we shall soon be making. I suppose I am still afraid I will embarrass you.”

“Never likely tae happen.” Ewan smiled encouragingly.

The musicians were finished preparing, and Ewan offered her his hand for the first dance. Grace felt her nerves intensify. She was yet unfamiliar with Highland dances, though Niamh had shown her some of the Lowland styles. Moreover, it was a frequent trick that both she and Niamh had employed, to pretend to be unforgivably clumsy on the dance floor.

Ewan smiled and pulled her close. “Just relax. Nae one expects ye tae get the steps o’ a Highland jig or a reel right, so I had Malcolm plan fer a dance where ye’d need tae dae naught but follow me lead.”

That was a relief, though not a complete one. “I might step on your toes.”

“Then ye’ll step on my toes, and I’ll ignore it, an’ we’ll continue dancin’.” Ewan shrugged. “Me braither danced the whole o’ his wedding dance with his bride standin’ on his feet.”

Grace couldn’t help giggling at the image of Niamh, perched on Alistair MacDuff’s boots as they went around the floor. “I shall aim tae perform somewhat better than that, I think.”

“Ye’ll be fine.” Ewan smiled, and Grace basked in the smile and allowed herself to relax.

She did step on Ewan’s toes a few times, in the first measures of the dance, but as the steps repeated, she found herself growing more sure-footed, and more confident in his lead, and by the end of the dance, she thought she might be doing tolerably well.

By the end of the second dance, as Ewan led her back to the High Table for some refreshment and a chance to catch her breath, she could even admit she had enjoyed it, unfamiliar steps and all. Highland dancing was less constrained than English balls, and she rather liked the difference.

As she settled into her seat with a fresh cup of wine, she spotted Elspeth MacTavish dancing with her husband. He looked stiff shouldered and commanding, rather than relaxed, and she looked both uncertain and miserable, though she tried valiantly to hide it behind a strained smile.

Grace felt a pang of sympathy for the woman, and for the child sitting perched on a stool to one side of the hall. She might know little about either of them, but either they were both terrified to be in MacTavish Keep for some reason, or Gael MacTavish was a difficult man to live with. For her part, Grace suspected it was both - unfamiliar circumstances and a master of the house who was both arrogant and perhaps unkind.

The sweets were served - soft scones and sweet pastries, with the choice of honey, fruit preserves, or cream as a topping. Grace took two, one with honey and one with fruit, then sent the maid serving her to bring Gael’s son a plate with two honey cakes and a fruit-topped one. The boy looked startled and far too grateful.

Perhaps MacTavish’s holdings were too small to permit such treats. It was possible. Even so, Grace could not shake the feeling the child had seen too little kindness in his life.

Ewan had watched the whole interaction, and the smile he offered her made her feel warm to her core. “Tha’ was well done.”

“It seemed right.” Grace smiled back, but her happiness was momentary. All too soon, the sense of unease came back, sinking in like stones in her belly, and making her head ache with the force of it.

On another night, she might have begged to be excused, but she held her silence, unwilling to embarrass Ewan by departing early. Instead, she sipped her wine and tried to ignore the feeling to the best of her ability.

Finally, the feast began to wind down. Guests began to trickle away in ones and twos. Warriors returned to the barracks, or left to attend to their duties. Villagers returned to their homes, to prepare for the tasks that would await them the following day. Servants began to clear away the platters and plates and pitchers.

Ewan touched her arm. “I’ve tae stay until the Council disperses, in case there’s business they wish tae talk about. But ye should go. Get some rest. ‘Tis clear ye’re tired from the ride and the events o’ the day.”

Grace nodded, grateful for the dismissal and the excuse. It was hard to believe that just this morning, she’d been preparing to sit down to break her fast with Niamh. So much had happened, she could scarcely remember when she’d experienced such a tumultuous day.

Even so, she felt reluctant to be parted from Ewan. “Will I see you later?”

Ewan smiled. “As soon as duty an’ honor can spare me, Grace. I’ll come tae see ye afore I retire.”

“Then I shall depart, and wish you good evening.” Grace rose, kissed her betrothed on the cheek, then hurried from the room, glad to be away from the Great Hall and Gael MacTavish’s ominous and oppressive presence.

Back in her rooms, Anne helped her undress and put on a warm robe. “Is there aught else I can dae fer ye, m’lady?” The maid frowned in concern. “Ye look fair peaky, as if ye dinnae feel well.”

Grace nodded. “A headache potion, if Megan has such, would be a great benefit. The air in the Hall was too close for comfort tonight, but I did not wish to leave.”

Anne nodded sympathetically. “Aye. It can be tha’ way. But I ken well that Megan will have plenty o’ headache remedy laid in. She always daes, an’ she’ll have brewed more in anticipation o’ a feast.” The maid smiled cajolingly. “She’ll be pleased tae ken that one o’ her potions is goin’ tae a worthy cause, rather than treatin’ some fool’s ale head.”

Grace laughed, then went to the window in her bedroom and opened it, breathing in the night air. It helped somewhat, and the cool breeze soothed some of her fears. She leaned against the stone of the keep and let the cool air calm her, until a knock on the door of her chambers roused her.

“Come in.”

There was no sound of the door creaking open, and Grace frowned. Perhaps whoever it was - Anne or Ewan - hadn’t heard her answer. They might think she had fallen asleep, though that didn’t explain why Anne wouldn’t enter to leave the headache potion for her. But perhaps it was Ewan, reluctant to disturb her rest. Or Devlin or Malcolm, with a message from Ewan instead.

With a sigh, she went to the door and opened it. “You know you are welcome…” Her words died on her lips.

The men outside the door were not anyone she knew. Two grim-faced warriors stood there. Grace felt a flash of alarm sear through her, her earlier trepidation coming back to her tenfold.

She tried to slam the door shut, but it was too late. The brutes forced it open. She tried to run, tried to call out, but it was too late for that too. One man caught her and slapped a hand over her mouth before she could scream. She tried to bite at him, but the other was behind her before she could escape.

Something hard thudded into the back of her head, and stars exploded in her vision. Grace fought to maintain her awareness, but she couldn’t draw a proper breath, and the pain was excruciating.

Her last awareness, before darkness overwhelmed her completely, was a single, terrified thought.

Ewan!