“The Red Sea is not in England.”
“I ken where the Red Sea is, ye blot!”
The music suddenly swelled again, drowning out their bickering, signaling another set of dances. It was a lively quartet, with a portly gentleman playing the bagpipes, the tune a pleasant jaunt. Men and women began pairing up, readying for the next round of dancing. Smiles were exchanged, and the air became light and fun.
“Ah, perhaps now someone will finally ask you to dance,” Hugo murmured. “You are, after all, dressed well enough.”
Lady Inverhall gave him a cynical look. “You are overly optimistic, Yer Grace. But wait, did ye just compliment me? I ken it was a bit backward, but it sounded like a compliment.”
Hugo shook his head as he ushered her closer to the edge of the dance floor. He watched the men circling about the room as set after set began and ended.
No one approached her. Instead, the men chose other partners, some far plainer than her. Not one offered his hand to her, even the awkward or unfortunate-looking lads. Instead, all she received were stares. Their looks were curious, suspicious, and damning.
Why are they so insistent on avoiding her? What on earth has this woman done to earn their scorn?
This was going to be far more challenging than he had anticipated.
After what felt like an eternity, the music finally died down. The Duke, clearly frustrated beyond measure with her failure to secure a partner, took her arm again. He steered her toward a group of young lairds, clustered near a display of clan weapons in the room adjacent to the Great Hall.
Elspeth could not fathom how he would approach such a group, chalking up his effort to pure desperation.
I am just bein’ paraded around like a prized mare, but aye, he will see how this willnae work the way he imagines it will.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” he greeted as he raised his wine goblet, which a servant quickly refilled as he passed with a tankard of barley wine. “I am the Duke of Arrowfell. You may know my late uncle, the former Marquess of Inverhall.”
“Aye, of course. We were quite sorry to hear of his passin’. I wish ye a good evenin’, Yer Grace. I am Laird MacLeod,” a young lad no more than eighteen said, with a brief dip of his chin. “We were just catchin’ up. This here is Laird Brown and Laird Stewart.”
“A pleasure, gentlemen,” the Duke offered as he drained his glass, far too quickly for Elspeth’s liking. “Did the last harvest treat you well?”
“Aye, the barley was fair enough. And Laird Brown, I trust yer whisky is as potent as ever?” Laird MacLeod asked with a wry smile.
“No complaints from me cellars. Why dinnae ye lads try for yerselves?” Laird Brown pulled out a small flask and poured a few fingers of whisky into each man’s glass.
“Hmm,” Laird Stewart grunted, taking a slow sip from his glass. “Let us make a toast, then. To a good year, for both field and barrel.”
“Aye,” the men called in unison as they clinked their glasses and drained them in one go. “Slainte!”
“Lady Inverhall here is rarely able to leave the hallowed halls of Inverhall. Perhaps you could tell her of some of the local customs she might enjoy or special places she may visit,” the Duke suggested as he turned to Elspeth, his massive height hiding her.
Silence descended as she sheepishly stepped forward. Her expression grew cold, as if a rush of ghostly wind had hit her cheeks. She watched as the lairds shifted uncomfortably, looking anywhere but in her direction. She noted how one cleared his throat, rubbing his hands over his unkempt red beard. Anothersuddenly found his boots fascinating, staring down at the ground and kicking in time with the music in the next room.
Just then, a hulking figure of an older, grim-faced laird stepped out from behind Laird Brown. “I will tell ye what she can enjoy,Sassenach,” he snarled, his voice thick with drink and contempt. “She can enjoy leavin’ these parts. Ye’re nae welcome here, witch.”
The Duke’s eyes narrowed as he turned to face him. “Sir, I find your language to be utterly reprehensible. You will apologize to the lady at once.”
The laird merely sneered, a chorus of murmurs and nods rising from the surrounding men, many of whom seemed to materialize behind the young lairds.
“Apologize? For speakin’ the truth? Ye, an English lord, have no right to foistthat womanon us. We all know what happened to the old Marquess. She cursed him, she did! Drained the life from him with her dark arts. She is yer problem now, nae ours.”
“You will do well to mind your manners, kind sir. I am the Duke of Arrowfell and the new?—”
“I dinnae give a shite who ye are,” the old man hissed. “Ye willnae push thatbana-bhuidseachon us.”
Why is it that men fear us women so much, especially those of us who have abilities they cannae fathom. Why do little people fear what they daenae understand?
Even more men approached, their faces hardened with suspicion and old grudges. They all nodded at the old laird’s words, raising their glasses in agreement.
Elspeth, her face pale but her eyes blazing, stepped forward, directly confronting the burly laird. She put her hands on her hips, mustering her strength.
