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No reason for this irritation, he scolded himself. Rational as the argument sounded, it made nothing better. A repeat of the churning in his stomach from the church feast day manifested, and he found himself incapable of neutralizing it.
The two of them carried their congeniality to the drawing room while Taran buried himself in his study in search of a modicum of self-control in his ledgers. With low success in the endeavour.
~.~.~
Samhain evening came crisp but rather pleasant, with wisps of clouds caressing a crescent moon sided by stars. A cheering mood took Aileen over as she approached the feast spot and the enormous bonfire sending its intense glow towards the sky.
Villagers, tenants and chieftains milled on the grounds. Children ran everywhere, sometimes almost knocking the adults in their way.
Careful with her attire, she dressed a fine underdress hemmed with lace and embroidery and the McDougal plaid spencer. On the arm of her husband—an unsmiling one—she approached the crowd who became her people now.
Alistair did not shed his breeches, shirt, cravat and coat, albeit making it a point to wear the McKendrick headdress.
But Taran made up another tale entirely. In full formal tartan, tall, midnight hair ruffled by the breeze, green eyes flashing with the light from the fire, certainly the most gorgeous man on Samhain. Aileen felt proud of him and the way the folk around looked up to him and did not hide it.
As soon as they neared the bonfire, the women claimed her company, and she must leave the men by themselves.
Not far, Shannon stood with a group of village women, keeping her distance. Seamus and Gracie passed by and greeted her affably.
Whisky and ale flowed liberally, and the food prepared by each house lay in long wooden tables, feeding the general merriment. Laugher sprouted here and there, louder as they consumed more drink.
The games started as the bonfire blazed its brightness in the night. Boys lay by the it and others jumped over them. Divinatory games surrounded the place, too. Aileen was particularly eager for the apple bobbing, a dear childhood memory.
When it set to start, Alistair took her by the hand and pulled her to it. She did not intend to participate, in fact. What harm would it do, anyway? Allowing her cousin to convince her, they entered it.
From afar, Taran stared in her direction, as many gathered to watch and laugh. Naturally, she did not want to foresee if she would marry by New Year, like the other girls. At that time, the game started being more of a children’s play.
Hands tied back, the participants placed themselves as the dangling apple hung from a tree branch. Someone bobbed the apple and everyone in the circle sought it.
Many tried and failed, many succeeded, revellers brought new apples and Aileen concluded she did not have so much fun in a long while.
Until she and Alistair came to the apple at the same time and their heads bumped once. They insisted in disputing the prize and their heads bumped again. In between laughs, Aileen gave it another try, colliding with her cousin anew.
Something stirred behind her, the crowd moving aside.
And then it looked like an army of Celts crashed the game. But no. It was only her husband storming in the middle of the circle, grabbing Alistair by his collar to punch him ferociously.
Aileen froze. Together with the whole of the people in the feast. Her eyes not believing what they saw.
The bonfire popped still blazing the night.
Jerking herself into action, she paced into the circle, untying her hands.
Alistair lay on the grass moaning. Taran stood legs braced over him, fists tight by his sides.
“What do you think you are doing?” She hissed, which sounded as a yell in the cavernous silence of stunned participants.
He did not utter a word as she knelt beside her cousin to measure the damage the troglodyte did.
She wanted to shout. She wanted to stomp her foot until the Earth cracked. She wanted to thrash this man who she married. To a pulp.
None of it she did. Stupid to add one scandal to another. To attack someone on Samhain and a member of a clan which had been a rival for more than a hundred years would be recounted for centuries ahead. From here to Dover. Not to mention the nefarious consequences it might bring.
Mahogany ogle fulminated the green ones. Fierce like a goddess’.
Her rage threatened to explode and overflow. Her attention turned to Alistair, and she ignored it.
Fortunately, the damage proved to be a lesser evil. Alistair had a swelling, blackening eye, but his dignity seemed more bruised than his body.
