7. Guests #2
Catriona bit her lip, nodding. “Thank ye, Sukie. Believe me, I’m not here to make trouble.”
“Trouble may find ye anyway,” the older woman snapped. “Now get out of my kitchen.”
The steward, a harried-looking man with a high forehead and a receding hairline, glanced back along the row of servants and mopped his brow.
“Wine and ale servers, in ye go,” he whispered. “Heads down. No chatter. No whispering. No talking to the guests, no looking too intently at anything. Go.”
Catriona drew in a deep breath and followed the queue of servants into the Great Hall. Heat and light washed over her as she stepped out of the narrow servants’ corridor outside.
She had expected a raucous scene, with drunk men shouting and laughing, throwing food and messily quaffing whatever alcohol they could get.
Instead, she was greeted by silence, and that was much worse.
Not complete silence, of course. The sound of crunching and munching filled the air, and the occasional slurp. The Farrish men kept their eyes on their bread trenchers, eating quickly and efficiently, never once glancing up. The head table, where Laird Farrish and his heir sat, was no different.
Laird MacLeod sat at the head of the table, swathed in furs and blankets.
He stared blankly at his modest bowl of stew, shaking fingers curled around the handle of his spoon.
As she approached, she saw Laird Farrish shoot the old Laird a contemptuous glare and leaned forward pointedly to murmur to Kenneth.
Kenneth seemed all too pleased to talk, smiling ingratiatingly.
Niall sat beside his cousin. He didn’t speak either. Nor did he eat.
The server ahead of her was probably the one supposed to go to the head table, but Catriona put on a burst of speed and overtook the older man. She moved to Laird MacLeod first, but he shook his head and placed a shaking, papery hand over his goblet.
Laird Farrish thrust out his goblet without looking at her. She filled it and moved on to Kenneth next. He watched her with wry disapproval.
She glanced over at Alasdair, who stared at nothing. When she glanced down once more, Kenneth was watching her with narrowed eyes. He’d certainly noticed her look at Alasdair and had probably misinterpreted it.
Uh-oh.
As she moved by, he whispered loudly to his cousin.
“Looks like yer wee pet is straying, Niall. Really, cousin, can ye not even manage a wee lass? They’ll never accept ye as Uncle’s heir now.”
How can I make Alasdair notice me?
I don’t want him to notice me too much. But he must know something about Fiona.
Catriona moved around to Alasdair’s place. He had a plate piled high with food, a respectable amount, but it didn’t seem like he’d eaten any of it. His goblet was empty. Had he been drinking wine? Or had his cup simply not been filled?
Hovering for a moment, she waited for him to notice her, to look up at her. He didn’t, and of course she couldn’t stand there waiting.
Swallowing, she lifted the heavy jug and began to pour into the goblet. Some red wine splashed over the side, sluicing across the rough wooden table and directly onto Alasdair Farrish’s lap.
The man sucked in a breath, eyes widening. Catriona clutched the jug, backing away.
Ye are looking at me now, aren’t ye?
“I’m so sor—” she began but never finished her sentence.
Laird Farrish was on his feet at once. She never saw the blow coming.
The back of his knuckles cracked against her cheekbone, sending her sprawling to the ground. The jug fell, crashing and shattering pieces of pottery and red wine everywhere. The liquid splashed up the walls and soaked into her skirts, vivid as blood.
“Foolish, clumsy lass,” Laird Farrish hissed. “Alasdair, stay where ye are.”
Alasdair, who’d stiffened for all of one second, relaxed again, staring at nothing.
Niall gave a furious cry. Out of the corner of her eye, Catriona saw that he’d risen to his feet, leaning across the table as if he were going to seize Laird Farrish by the collar and drag him over it.
Kenneth gave a squawk, tugging at his cousin’s arm, but Niall shook him off. Laird Farrish bared his teeth at Niall.
Did I just start a war? Catriona thought, horrified and bewildered.
Then Laird MacLeod slowly and shakily rose to his feet.
“Niall. Enough,” he stated, voice deep and firm.
Niall flinched, glancing at his father. “Did ye not see him strike her?” he hissed.
Laird MacLeod blinked slowly. “I did. But much must be forgiven of guests. Laird Farrish, sit down. Ye will meet no harm in this Keep.”
His voice rang heavy with authority. Laird Farrish gradually lowered himself to his seat again, eyeing Niall with open distrust. Beside him, Alasdair might have been made of stone.
Laird MacLeod lifted his eyebrows at his son.
“Sit, Niall. And ye, lassie, go.”
Swallowing, Catriona scrambled to her feet, hurrying towards a narrow doorway that led into a servant’s corridor.
She didn’t have to look over her shoulder to know that all the guests and all the servants were staring at her, horror-struck.
A thud rang out, and she glanced back to see that Niall had pushed back his chair, which now lay on its side, and strode furiously out of the room.
She dived through the doorway, letting out a long, ragged exhale once she was safe.
Or comparatively safe, at least.
Sukie stood behind the door, lips pinched tight, arms folded.
“Oh, very well done, lass,” she said nastily. “Very well done indeed. Did that go as ye planned?”
Catriona’s shoulders sagged. “Nay,” she mumbled. “Nay, it didn’t.”