Glenna took one with a murmur of thanks and brought it to her lips. The wine was warm and rich and delicious, and as she drank, she glimpsed Tavish Cameron standing beneath the old portrait before the hearth, talking in earnest with a trio of men that included Captain Muir. She held her head high as she weaved her way through the sea of strangers; no one moved aside for her here, and few paid her any more heed than a passing glance.
She did notice a young, finely dressed man appraising her with a pleased expression, and when his gaze at last met Glenna’s she nodded at him.
“Welcome to Tower Roscraig,” she said.
The man’s eyebrows rose for an instant before closing into an offended frown, and he turned away. Glenna’s stomach clenched at the blatant snub, and the tiniest spark of fear began to smolder once more as if to try to warn her.
She ignored it as nothing more than nerves.
At last she came upon the group of men. Tavish Cameron caught her gaze and looked away and then looked back at once, realizing it was her.
But it was Muir who spoke first, and with a short bow. “Good evening, Miss Douglas.”
The other two men followed suit, murmuring their greeting and then turning toward each other in a return to conversation and drifting away from the hearth.
“Captain Muir,” Glenna said. Then she looked up at Tavish Cameron, who—although he had been staring at her the entire time—had yet to speak a word.
Muir cleared his throat. “If you’ll excuse me, I believe I see someone I know.”
Glenna didn’t watch the captain depart; she couldn’t take her eyes from the tall man standing before her with chalice in hand, his hair slicked back from his forehead, his fine, light-colored linen tunic adorned with a dark, silken shawl and wide, embossed belt. She could detect his scent—the same fragrance that had taken over her chamber.
He looked her up and down blatantly, and a slight frown creased his forehead as he gave her a confused look.
Glenna let a small smile play over her lips. He was pleased.
“Good evening, Master Cameron,” she said, her confidence letting her grant a bit of leniency to their heretofore tense interactions. She felt good this evening, hoping that perhaps there was yet chance that the misfortune that had haunted not only Glenna but all of Roscraig—crowned by the arrival of the merchant before her—could be concluded happily. “I am ready to play hostess as you requested, although your feast seems to already be a success.”
His frown deepened. “What are you wearing?”
She blinked and glanced down at her dress quickly. “I—what?”
“I said,” he growled through his teeth, “what are you wearing? I instructed you to dress appropriately.”
Glenna swallowed, feeling her cheeks begin to tingle. She opened her mouth—to say what, she didn’t know—but was interrupted by a gay hailing from behind.
“There you are, laird,” a woman’s voice called, and Glenna knew it was Audrey Keane. She reluctantly turned. And gasped under her breath.
The woman was bedecked in such a costume as to seem fantastical. Her gown was purest white, the kirtle so finely woven that it shimmered in the candlelight, the sleeves of her underdress glistened, and Glenna knew in a moment that they must both be silk. Audrey Keane wore two long strands of pearls, one nearly to her waist, and each boasted an oval ruby the size of one of Roscraig’s pigeon eggs. Her red hair had been combed out and plaited into what appeared to be a hundred tiny ropes and then gathered into a swag within a white-corded snood, fastened to her crown with a tiny silver-spiked crest. Her pale skin was translucent in the glow, her lips perfectly shaped and darkened with wine. It was like looking at a field of winter snow where an angel had strewn red rose petals.
Audrey Keane was accompanied by two young women wearing glittering brocades and striped silks, their necks and ears dripping with gold and polished gems; their cheeks rouged, their faces powdered white beneath severely plucked eyebrows.
Glenna couldn’t help but glance down at her own gown, nearly a score of years old, made for a girl and patched with her own hand. Glenna thought she could feel her careful seams pulling beneath her arms with every strangled breath, as if the kirtle would fall apart at any moment. She may as well have been a peasant woman, just come into the hall from the fields.
“Why, Miss Douglas,” Audrey Keane said with a sly smile. “How quaint. The quintessential country lass. If only for want of a crook, one might take you for a shepherdess.”
The two companions twittered.
“How rude of me,” Audrey continued, when it was clear that Glenna was not going to respond to her comments. “Allow me to introduce my friends. This is Miss Conner and Miss Haversham, from Edinburgh. Girls, this is Miss Douglas.Her fatherclaimed to be laird of Roscraig, before Laird Cameron rightfully inherited the hold from his father.An English baron,” she emphasized.
Beneath the heat in her face, Glenna felt the rage burning like a hidden oven in her chest.
“What’s she still doing here then?” one of the girls asked as she looked Glenna up and down with a smirk.
“My fatheris stillthe laird of Roscraig, until the king says otherwise,” Glenna said, being sure to meet Audrey Keane’s gaze. “And unless that day arrives, you will address me as Lady Glenna, if address me you must.”
Audrey Keane’s two companions gasped and looked to their friend with twin expressions of anticipation, while the pale woman’s powdered cheeks bloomed with pink contempt.
“Her father is still alive?” one of the women whispered salaciously. It was a glorious playing out of outrageous gossip.
