Scarlett startled then flushed as another voice joined, “A bonnie bride for a bonnie night!”
Laughter rippled through the crowd. Two women brushed past her, one clasping her hand briefly. “Blessings on ye, Me Lady. Ye look radiant.”
Scarlett smiled, murmuring her thanks as another man dipped his head, grinning wide. “Laird McLaren’s a lucky one. We’re glad to have ye here.”
Her cheeks burned hotter though her chest eased. These were not cautious stares or whispers behind tankards; these were open faces, glad and eager, voices raised in honest cheer.
From her left, a lad no older than twelve darted by with a sticky tart in hand, skidding to a halt just long enough to bow dramatically. “Ye look like a queen, Me Lady.” Then he bolted off, earning laughter from his kin at the table.
She looked around the hall then her gaze caught him.
Robert stood at the head of the long table, the dark plaid heavy across his shoulder. He was speaking to an older man, his voice low and blunt. He didn't look up when she entered. He didn't even shift his weight.
That was what made her stomach twist.
He knew she was there. She could see it in the rigid line of his jaw and the way his fingers tapped a slow, steady rhythm against the wood of the table. He was choosing to ignore her, and the deliberate coldness of it hit harder than a shout.
Flutters… damnable, traitorous flutters swarmed in her belly. She clenched her fists at her sides, furious at her own body for betraying her.
“Saints, Me Lady, ye’ll put the rest of us to shame.”
Scarlett startled as Katie swept up beside her, a grin stretched across her face. The healer’s hair was braided back, and her gown was plain but clean.
Scarlett gave a half laugh, shaking her head. “If ye’re the one I’ve to compete with, I’ve lost already.”
Katie waved the words away. “Nonsense. Look at ye. Green suits ye—makes yer eyes sharp as emeralds. Half the men will choke on their ale seeing ye like this.”
Scarlett’s cheeks warmed though she rolled her eyes. “I doubt that.” “Aye, ye’ll see. Tonight’s the wedding party ye never had, the ceilidh for the clan to welcome ye proper. Songs, dancing, and food enough to burst. If ye’re lucky, a toast or two in yer honor.” Katie’s voice dipped into a conspiratorial whisper. “And if ye’re unlucky, a speech from Laird McLaren. He’s nae much for words, is he?”
Scarlett’s lips twitched despite herself. “I’m only here for the good food.”
Katie barked a laugh. “Och, I like ye better every time ye open yer mouth. Come then, let’s see what they’ve laid out for us. If we’re quick, we’ll get the best of the honey cakes before the bairns snatch them all.”
Scarlett let herself be drawn forward, still painfully aware of Robert at the edge of the long table, his shadow stretching long across the stone.
The hall was a storm of laughter, pipes shrieking, and mugs slamming against the tables. Robert sat at the high table, his place claimed by right, yet for the first time in years, his thoughts were not on the clan but on the woman seated to his right.
Scarlett.
Her gown shimmered green in the firelight, gold threads catching each flicker, and her hair gleamed black as a raven’s wing. Her cheeks flushed with wine and warmth though her smile seemed tentative, as if she was still learning how to wear it.
She looks like she belongs, even if she doesnae believe it yet.
He reached for his cup. Left it untouched.
At his left, Leon leaned in, voice pitched low enough not to carry. “Ye’ll need to say something, Robert. Folks are staring holes in ye waiting for it. A toast at least. Show them their Laird’s pleased.”
Robert grunted, eyes still on Scarlett. “I’m nay man for speeches.” Leon smirked, swirling the ale in his cup. “Aye, but ye’re the leader, and that means they’ll take even a grunt from ye as gospel. Keep it short. Thank them, raise the cup, be done with it.”
Robert stiffened. He hated being goaded into displays, but Leon was right; too much silence would sour the night. He tore his gaze from Scarlett and lifted his cup.
“To all gathered, me thanks. Gundor stands stronger for yer loyalty, and I ask ye to welcome the Lady McLaren into yer hearts as ye’ve welcomed her into this hall.”
The cheer that followed rattled the rafters. Scarlett stiffened slightly beside him, but when the crowd looked her way, she inclined her head with composure.
Then Mack Little, broad, bearded, and always a touch too bold, rose from his bench, tankard raised high. “To a bairn soon, Laird and Lady McLaren!”
The hall erupted with laughter, a chorus of ayes and bawdy whistles.
