Chapter 11 #2
Scarlett’s lips tugged in amusement as she passed, the knot in her chest easing just a fraction.
At the high table, Robert sat already, broad and unyielding, a tankard loose in his hand. He didn’t rise or beckon, but his eyes followed her every step. The weight of it prickled her skin.
Scarlett had the room measured before she reached the center of the hall. She knew where the elders sat, which shadows held the guards, and exactly which bench fell into Robert’s peripheral vision without forcing her to sit beside him.
Then Mack shattered her plan.
The chair next to him scraped back with a shrill, metallic screech that cut through the morning chatter.
"Here, Me Lady!" he called, grinning as he patted the seat. "Sit with me. I’d be honored."
Scarlett froze mid-step, caught between the empty chair Mack offered and the unreadable gaze of her husband. She dared a glance at Robert, only to find him staring at Mack as though he’d gut him for the insult.
Her stomach flipped.
Ah. So the Laird doesnae like to share.
Scarlett’s chin tipped higher. She turned back to Mack with a smile. “Thank ye, Master Little. I’ll gladly sit here.”
The scrape of the bench echoed as she lowered herself beside him. The air seemed to thicken, Robert’s fury rolling across the high table though he never moved. Scarlett bit the inside of her cheek to hide the thrill of it.
Mack leaned toward her at once, eager. “Ye’ll forgive me running on, Me Lady, but I’ve rarely an ear that isnae half drunk. Truth is, me house has seen nothing but misfortune this past year.”
Scarlett tore a piece of bread, schooling her face. “Oh? Misfortune?” “Aye.” Mack launched into it, hands flying. “First, two of our best
cows keeled over from some rot. Then, heavy snow caved in two roofs. And, God save us, me brother’s wife ran off with a tanner from Perth!”
The men near him hooted. Mack only shook his head in disbelief. “A tanner! Can ye credit it?”
Scarlett pressed her lips together to keep from laughing. “That does sound… unfortunate.”
Mack leaned closer, lowering his voice as if confiding some great secret. “And now, me brother’s drunk every waking hour. His bairns run wild. One near set fire to the byre last week.”
“That is unfortunate,” Scarlett agreed, sipping delicately from her cup. Her gaze slid to Robert. His head stayed bent toward his trencher, but the white grip on his tankard betrayed him.
Scarlett let her mouth curve faintly then turned back to Mack. “And what of ye, Master Little? Surely not all’s gone to ruin?”
He grinned sheepishly. “Och, well, I’ve kept me roof standing at least. But I cannae say the same for me luck at dice.”
Laughter rippled again down the table, and Scarlett found herself laughing with them, softly, carefully, though the heat of Robert’s stare burned at her skin like a brand.
“So ye see,” Mack continued, “a man like me, I’ve nae time for jests. Work from dawn till night patching roofs, counting hens, trying to keep the bairns out of the ale barrel. I tell ye, Lady Scarlett, a wife with sense would save me yet.”
Scarlett arched a brow, her fork pausing halfway to her lips. “A wife with sense?”
Mack flushed but chuckled. “Oh, nay meaning ye, Me Lady. Yer taken, clear as day. But one like ye, aye. God above, if I had one with half yer grace, the house would be righted in a fortnight.”
Scarlett tilted her head, lips curving faintly. “I imagine the woman would need more than grace to keep pace with ye, Master Little.”
He laughed, slapping his knee. “Och, aye, she’d need lungs like a piper and patience of a saint!”
Scarlett couldn’t help it; she laughed softly, too, though her glance slid again to Robert. His eyes had lifted at last, meeting hers across the table, dark and dangerous. He hadn’t said a word, but his stare spoke plain enough as if saying enough of this game, lass.
Scarlett bit into her bread, feigning innocence. Inside, though, her pulse skipped. She hadn’t expected the thrill that came from needling him so.
Mack leaned nearer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Tell me the truth, Me Lady. Is it terrible, being wed to the Laird? Folks say he’s colder than a loch in winter.”
Scarlett’s fork stilled again. Her heart jumped, but she schooled her face smooth. “Folk speak too much,” she said softly, lifting her wine. “The Laird minds his duties. That’s enough.”
Mack shrugged, grinning. “Fair. I suppose a wife learns her husband in time.”
Scarlett sipped, heat spreading in her cheeks, not from the wine but from the fact that there seemed to be so many people interested in her marriage with Robert.
She set the cup down, turning to Mack with practiced poise. “And what of ye? Do ye truly mean to find another wife after such misfortunes?”
“Aye, I must. Clan needs it. A man without a good woman’s hand is like a mill without water. Runs dry.”
Scarlett hummed though her thoughts were only half on Mack’s chatter. She could feel Robert’s anger like a storm rolling closer, silent but heavy. The way he hadn’t spoken a word yet made it worse, or better, depending on how one looked at it.
Mack nudged the trencher toward her. “Try the venison, Me Lady. Best I’ve had in months.”
Scarlett obliged, cutting a bite, though her eyes strayed one last time toward her husband. He sat like a carved figure, face stern, and hands clenched around the knife he hadn’t lifted to eat. His silence spoke volumes.
Scarlett let the corner of her mouth twitch.
She ate a piece of the venison with slow, steady calm, her gaze fixed on the table in front of her. She didn't look back at him.
She didn't have to.
She could feel his attention from across the crowded hall. A prickle of heat against her skin, as steady and unmistakable as a physical touch. He was watching her, and they both knew it.
She took a slow sip of her cider, letting him look, letting him wonder what she was thinking.