Page 38 of The Finest Scottish Fate

“Griogair is a fine, loyal doorward,” Morganna said, coming to the rescue.

“Indeed, he is.” Evie smiled up at the man. “Thank you, Griogair. Please forgive my lapse in memory. I wasn’t feeling well when Drummond mentioned your name earlier, but I’ll remember it from now on. I appreciate your keeping me safe.”

The quiet giant bowed his head. “’Tis indeed good fortune yer health is much improved, m’lady. May it continue to be that way.”

“Thank you.” Uncertain what else to say, she dismissed herself with a pitiful curtsy that she’d tried to master in the tap class that Grandmama had insisted she would love. She hadn’t, and with her two left feet, she had mutilated the art of tap, turning it into glorified, erratic stomping.

“Dinna curtsy to the staff,” Morganna whispered as they entered the stairwell. “They curtsy and bow to ye. Not the other way around.” She caught hold of Evie’s arm and pulled her to a stop just as they stepped through the archway. “Mind the steps. The treads are shallow, and the risers are steep. Ye’ll fall and break yer neck if ye dinna take care. Stone stairways are verra unforgiving.”

“I think I’d be better off if you were a crow perched on my shoulder, whispering all this stuff in my ear.”

“Aye, and then they truly would think ye a witch and burn ye at the stake.”

“Heaven help me.” The cool roughness of the stone wall in the stairwell steadied Evie as she eased down the steps. Between the treacherous stairs, the excessive yardage of her skirts, and those freaking gold cords hanging from her wrists, she wouldn’t have to worry about choosing to stay in this time or not. She’d be dead from a broken neck within a day—two at best. “You know, I never liked to play princess dress-up as a child. I was always more into driving the tractor or helping with the cows. Tomboy stuff and all that.”

“Ye canna do that here, lass. At least, not yet.”

“What do you mean, not yet?”

“Win over the clan’s heart and loyalty, and ye can do anything ye wish. A loyal clan is a generous and forgiving thing.”

“I’m more concerned about walking without falling on my face at the moment.” She breathed easier as she stepped off the last stair and entered a wide hallway. Looking up and down the long, torchlit corridor, she felt as though she’d stepped into a medieval world at a theme park—except this world was real. “Which way now? I haven’t gotten my bearings yet.”

Morganna nodded to the right. “That way. Hear all the clatter? Smell the smoke of a wood fire, and the tang of too many unwashed bodies? That’s a great hall filled with clansmen, I grant ye that.”

Evie rubbed the end of her nose, snorting to clear it. This century’s fragrance did indeed take some getting used to. She listened closely, turning her head in that direction. The low rumbling of voices was distinctly male. “Clansmen. No women?”

“Not this early. The wives and women looking to become wives will not be present until time for the meal. For now, the only lasses will be the servants passing around the ale and getting the tables ready.”

Evie eased closer to the wide archway at the end of the hall. “So, do I need to go in there now or wait? Maybe the visiting clan is unpacking its stuff and getting settled in. Wouldn’t they likely do that?”

“No. Even though the other women are not present, Lady Merelys could already be in there sniffing around Drummond. We canna chance that. He might say something wrong that she could hold him to—legally.”

Evie halted, eyeing the men loitering in the archway who’d, thankfully, not yet noticed her. “I hope I don’t have to mingle. I wasn’t good at small talk in my time.”

“Silent. Aloof. Mysterious.”

“Three words that have never described me,” Evie said under her breath.

Morganna nudged her, gently shoving her toward the meeting area. “Go.”

“Don’t push. I’m going.” Evie held her head high, just like Grandmama had always taught her. She swept into the large, two-storied room as if she owned it. The place swarmed with males dressed in tunics, short pants that just reached their boot tops, jackets, and cloaks, again making her wonder why nobody in this time wore a kilt. Were they not invented yet?

She made a mental note to ask Morganna later. For now, men’s fashion was the least of her worries.

The chatter filling the room evaporated like morning mist chased away by the sun. Their stares burned into her as they shuffled to one side, parting like the Red Sea so she might pass.

“Lady Evie, please join me at my table.” The authoritative boom of Drummond’s voice echoed across the crowd, showing her the way, since her five-foot-one-inch frame seemed even shorter here.

The throng of men closest to the center aisle smiled and nodded as she passed, but Evie wasn’t fooled. There wasn’t a friendly face in this mob. The hawkishness in their eyes gave them away. Except for Murdoch. Thank heavens for big, burly Murdoch, the bear of the Highlands. Compassion and loyalty gleamed in his smile as he elbowed his way forward and offered his arm to her. “Come, Lady Evie. Allow me to escort ye to Lord Blackmorrow.”

“Who?” she whispered through a strained smile as she rested her hand on his arm.

“Yer Drummond, lass,” he whispered back, his bushy beard hiding his words. “He is addressed as the Earl of Blackmorrow—Lord Blackmorrow—since the old chief has yet to turn loose this life and move on to the next.”

“That’s right. I forgot.” She huffed out a sigh and held tighter to him while trying to climb the steps of the raised area at the end of the room where the head table was located. Going down steps in this garb had been difficult enough; going up them was worse. “I’m going to break my freaking neck in this costume,” she muttered.

“Shh!” Morganna flanked her on her other side. “Mind yer tongue. Ears are sharp here.”