Page 25 of Promised to the Forbidden Laird

Color rose at once beneath her skin. Donaldina’s eyes widened with indignation. Roy felt the first dangerous pull of amusement.

“I most certainly dinnae blush.”

“Ye are now.”

“That is anger.”

“Aye,” he grinned playfully. “It appears remarkably similar.”

The distance between them seemed to disappear without either moving. Donaldina’s lips parted, but no reply came. Roy could smell beeswax from the candles and the faint lavender clinging to her gown. He looked at her mouth for one moment too long. Then he forced his attention back to her eyes.

“The King’s answer may take months,” he continued. “By the time it returns, I am certain ye will regret sending that.”

Her voice, when it came, was quieter. “Ye possess a great deal of confidence for a man who has kent me three days.”

“I have survived those three days. Confidence is all I have tae show for it.”

A faint smile almost threatened her composure. Roy quickly stepped back to prevent any mistake, then carefully took the petition from her hand. Donaldina made no effort to stop him. Roy then went to the courtyard, placed the letter in the messenger’s dispatch case, fastened the buckle, and looked at the rider, who was gazing at him expectantly. “Edinburgh,” he ordered. “Place it directly in the King’s hands.”

The messenger mounted and rode beneath the raised gate. Roy watched until horse and rider disappeared beyond the mist.

He had sent Donaldina’s request for freedom. The act ought to have felt honorable. Instead, it felt very much like a wager, and Roy had never before risked so much upon the color of a woman’s cheeks.

The council feast had the cheer of a truce negotiated at sword point. The great hall was restored as quickly as possible. Broken benches were replaced with those from the lesser chambers, the rushes were swept clean, and the worst damage from the fighting was scrubbed from the flagstones.

Yet no quantity of roasted venison, warm bread or spiced ale could disguise the guarded glances passing between the tables. Men who had crossed swords that afternoon now sat within arm’s reach of one another. Some wore fresh bandages beneath their sleeves. Others bore bruises they pretended not to feel. Conversation moved cautiously through the hall, rising and falling whenever a hand reached too suddenly toward a belt or a chair scraped against the floor.

The feast had been ordered to restore the appearance of unity. Donaldina suspected unity would have preferred another evening.

She sat upon the dais beside Roy. The council determined that Clan MacNicol must see its lady and her promised husband seated together before the assembled household. Apparently, reconciliation required placing her close enough to feel the warmth of Roy’s shoulder through two layers of wool.

He occupied his chair as he did every space: watchfully. He appeared to count weapons, exits, and expressions with equal suspicion. Donaldina wondered whether he ever entered a room without first deciding how best to survive it.

“Ye may cease looking for enemies,” she murmured. “Most of them are seated plainly before ye.”

His gaze moved to her. “That is what concerns me.”

She reached for her cup. “Ye have brought a remarkably suspicious nature intae me home.”

“I found the doors barred.”

“Only after arriving beneath a decree compelling me tae marry ye.”

“Aye.”

“And yet ye were surprised the welcome lacked flowers?”

“I would have settled for fewer knives.”

Donaldina glanced at him despite herself. A slight lift of his mouth hinted at a smile, though it wasn't quite one. Roy seemed to reserve such gestures as carefully as a household manages winter grain. The mere hint of a smile was so surprising that she turned toward the hall before her face could reveal her reaction.

Servants moved between the tables with platters of meat, bowls of stewed roots and loaves darkened by rye. The rich scent of venison and rosemary mingled with peat smoke and beeswax. A piper stood near the western hearth, playing a tune slow enough to respect mourning yet lively enough to suggest the clan had not entirely surrendered to it.

Donaldina should have felt comforted by the familiar sounds. Instead, every corner of the hall reminded her of the morning. Lachlan’s bier had stood beneath the banners. Cormac had watched her from among the councilors. Roy had entered through the doors with rain upon his shoulders and years of accusation waiting to meet him. It seemed impossible that all of it happened within one day.

Roy tasted the stew. His brows drew together.

Donaldina noticed before she could stop herself. “Is something wrong?”