Chapter Ten
What a whirlwind the last few hours had been!
Maud and Agnes had worked themselves into a tizzy over the idea of feeding guests—something more substantial and impressive than the usual fare of stew and bread. There had been a frantic clanging of pots and hurried discussions about what could be salvaged from the dwindling stores. Dried apples had been soaked to make a pudding, and Maud had even unearthed a small wheel of cheese left over from Yule.
“A feast it is,” Maud muttered under her breath as she tested a broth simmering over the fire, "though we’ll be eating naught but oats for a month after this."
It had been mostly left up to Ailis and Emmy to find something for her to wear. They’d scoured chambers, trunks, and wardrobes, finally discovering a deep wine-colored wool léine with long sleeves and a fitted waist that Ailis thought might have once belonged to Brody’s sister, Elizabeth.
“She was tall, as ye are,” Ailis had said. “I might guess if she cared for it, she’d have taken it with her.”
“Where is his sister?” Emmy had asked.
“England,” Ailis informed her, grimacing as if she’d said Elizabeth was in the pit of hell.
“Why?”
“Married a lord,” she was told. “Against James’s wishes.”
“Who is James?”
“The laird’s brother,” Ailis replied, and then added in a whisper, “the one who died last spring.”
“Oh.”
“He was laird, ye see—the oldest,” Ailis explained. “?Twas naught anything like Sir Brody—least back then. James was born to it—expecting to be chief one day, and raised as such. He was...stern, verra somber. Now Sir Brody, raised with fewer responsibilities, was always smiling—back then anyhow. He’s just like his brother now that he’s laird, unsmiling, grim. Maud says it seems James took his brother’s spirit with him to the grave.”
Emmy absorbed the words, her chest tightening at the somber revelation. She tried to imagine the Brody MacIntyre she knew—hard-edged and perpetually serious—wearing a carefree smile, laughing easily. It seemed impossible. Yet, the memory of that fleeting laugh in the woods the other day niggled at her. She’d caught a glimpse of something then, hadn’t she? A glimpse of who he might have been before war and grief and duty carved him into the man he was now.
Little time had she to dwell on that news, though.
Maud had wanted her to wear a wimple, some bizarre headdress that was described in such a way that Emmy was sure would have made her look like one of those nuns in the beginning of The Sound of Music .
She’d flatly refused. Nope, not happening.
“But any lady of good stock would don the wimple, lass,” Maud had insisted.
Ailis countered in Emmy’s favor. “But she’s nae wed, nae a widow. An unmarried lady would nae wear one.”
“There you have it,” Emmy latched onto that. “I’m not married, never have been.”
“But ye’re so...of an age that ye should have been.”
“Thanks for that, Maud,” Emmy chuckled. “For calling me a spinster. I’m only twenty-four, by the way.”
Agnes gasped. “Four and twenty? And nae ever wed?”
Emmy turned a mild glare on Agnes. “I told you this an hour ago. It’s different where I come from. Women don’t marry so young.”
“But why do they wait?” Ailis wanted to know.
Emmy smirked at her. “Waiting for men our age to catch up to us in maturity.” She waved her hands. “Focus, ladies. We’ve got to turn me into a credible medieval woman with a solid backstory.”
Maud tipped her head impertinently. “I ken catching fish in the loch during the storm might be more easily accomplished.”
Emmy was nearly offended.
Agnes seemed to concur with Maud. “She dinna look like us, nae at all.”
Emmy didn’t point out that they were more than twice her age.
“Dinna speak or walk or even move like us.”
Emmy sighed at their drama, making much more of this than need be. “Ailis and I found a suitable gown. I can handle the rest—or certainly, I can fake my way through it. But while we’re throwing together a respectable dinner for guests, let’s work on a bit of history for me. Bro—the laird hinted that the actual truth would not be well-received.”
Somehow they pulled it all together. Emmy thought she’d actually been some help in the kitchen for a while—Maud had tasked her with preparing the garlic she was planning to add to some fresh loaves of bread.
“Ye can chop garlic, can ye nae?” Maud had felt it necessary to ask.
“Yes, Maud,” Emmy had replied, grinning, “I can chop garlic.”
Just before they were set to serve, Emmy floated down the stairs into the hall. Brody’s sister was certainly taller than her mother, but not as tall as Emmy apparently. The léine fit well in the waist and flowed just right when she moved, but the hem barely brushed her ankles. Emmy pasted on a wide smile, hoping to distract any notice of the too-short gown. Her smile was like wearing brighter lipstick that you hoped would distract from a blemish on your chin.
Ailis had helped fasten her hair back with a silver pin they’d found in the same trunk as the léine, leaving soft tendrils loose to frame her face. For the first time in days, she felt like herself again, like the Emmy who used to attend dinner parties in designer dresses and carry on conversations with celebrities, politicians, and sports stars.
As she reached the bottom of the stairs, the warmth of the great hall wrapped around her, courtesy of the larger-than-usual fire crackling in the hearth. A few dozen of Dunmara’s own—many of them soldiers—sat at the lower tables, their conversations dipping as they turned to watch her descent. Near the hearth, Brody stood with his guests, their heads turning in unison.
For a heartbeat, the room seemed to still.
But Emmy wasn’t a stranger to this kind of attention. She’d walked a few runways for charity events and lesser-known designers, had posed for fashion shoots in Elle and once for Vogue. So while this wasn’t quite the same, the weight of so many eyes wasn’t new or particularly unsettling.
She didn’t exactly strut, but she descended with confidence, head high, her steps measured, aiming for casual indifference.
Hugh MacBain’s eyes lit with approval, his broad face breaking into a smile. Ross’s gaze swept over her with open admiration. Even the young daughter, Maeve, stared at Emmy with wide eyes.
But it was Brody’s reaction Emmy sought. His eyes met hers, calm and unreadable as always, though his gaze lingered.
Well, at least he noticed, Emmy thought, lifting her chin as she walked toward him.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” she said and then turned a smile onto Maeve, “and to you, Lady Maeve.” Maud had informed her that Hugh MacBain was an earl and thus could be addressed as Sir Hugh or Lord or Laird MacBain. Ross, as his son, would be Sir Ross, and the MacBain daughter, though very young, was Lady Maeve.
“Is Brody an earl as well?” Emmy had wondered earlier.
“Nae an earl, but a knight—proud and noble,” Maud had informed her, her own pride evident in her tone, “dubbed by William Wallace hisself, was he nae.”
"You’re a vision, Mistress," Ross said now, his tone light and easy. "I’d wager the entire keep feels brighter with ye in it."
"That’s very kind of you, Sir Ross," Emmy replied confidently, even as she thought the compliment was nearly cringe-y. Certainly no modern-day man would ever gush so openly. Even a man in love might only say, You look hot . Ross MacBain’s charm was effortless, if a little overdone, but it was a welcome contrast to Brody MacIntyre’s brooding silence.
He led her to the head table, in the wake of Brody and his father. While Brody stood behind a large but simply carved chair, Emmy caught the faint twitch of his jaw as Ross MacBain pulled out the chair beside him for her. She settled into her seat, seated between Brody and the MacBain son, offering Ross a polite smile as he took the chair on her other side.
Though Emmy had helped a bit with the supper preparations, even she was surprised by the spread that appeared. Maud and Agnes helped Ailis to serve tonight, carrying in large platters of roasted venison, its crispy skin glistening in the firelight. The scent of garlic overtook her when thick slices of fresh bread were set before her. There was more—a pudding made from the dried apples they’d discovered in the storeroom, spiced with nutmeg, its golden crust still warm from the hearth. Maud had even produced a rich herring paté topped with a scattering of fresh herbs that seemed to have appeared from nowhere—and that Emmy planned to refuse, having lost any interest in even trying it, having witnessed the preparation of the long-ago salted fish.
Still, her stomach growled at the sight of it all, and she had to admire the kitchen women’s ingenuity. They’d turned a dwindling pantry into something almost elegant—a meal fit for a banquet.
Emmy’s crash course from Maud and Agnes helped her navigate the meal. She waited with her hands in her lap while Ross MacBain, essentially her dinner partner, served her from the communal platters.
Agnes had even given her an eating knife—a slim blade with an ivory handle worn smooth with age. It was attached discreetly to her rope belt in a leather sheath, and Emmy hoped not to embarrass herself with the medieval utensil. She had never mastered chopsticks, after all, and avoided authentic Asian food for that very reason. If this required similar skill, she was doomed.
Ross proved an excellent conversationalist, regaling the table with stories of their travels in the far north. "There’s a place beyond the hills where the wind never stops," he said, grinning. "It howls like a pack of wolves and chills ye to the bone, nae matter how many layers ye wear."
"Sounds like a place I’d avoid," Emmy said with a laugh. "I prefer my wind gentle, and my layers purely decorative."
Hugh chuckled, lifting his cup in a toast. "Spoken like a woman of sense."
"And where are ye visiting from, Mistress?" Ross asked, drawing her attention back to him.
Emmy’s smile didn’t falter. “My family holds land near Inverness,” she said smoothly, repeating the story she’d crafted with Maud and Agnes only an hour ago. “My maid and I were traveling south when she took ill—just a touch of the ague, but I couldn’t leave her. We were seeking shelter when the storm caught us.”
“And what an unusual accent ye have,” Sir Hugh noted, his tone casual but his eyes sharp.
Emmy tilted her head. “I suppose it must sound strange,” she admitted. “My father was a trader—he did business all across Europe. We lived in Spain for a time when I was a child, then later in Rome.”
“Rome, ye say?” Sir Hugh’s interest seemed to sharpen.
Emmy nodded. “Yes, my father thought it important that I learn several languages. Spanish, Italian... a bit of French. It’s left my accent somewhat muddled, I’m afraid.”
Ross leaned in with a grin. “Muddled, aye, but charming all the same.”
Though she felt confident her answers sounded natural—more like genuine truths than rehearsed tales—Emmy was admittedly relieved when the conversation shifted, as Maud had assured her it would, to the war. She listened attentively but had no knowledge of the events they discussed, much less anything to contribute.
When Emmy had expressed this concern earlier in the kitchen, Agnes had waved it off without hesitation. “Och, nae worry. They’ll neither expect nor want ye to speak on such matters. Better left to the menfolk.”
Emmy had made a show of pretending to gag at the outdated attitude, only to be met with confusion from the kitchen women, who clearly saw nothing unusual about it.
She listened to fragments of their talk, names and places she didn’t recognize. Kirkintilloch, Wark on Tweed, John Comyn, Simon Fraser. It was a hard winter everywhere, Hugh MacBain said, filled with skirmishes and rumors of a renewed English push come spring. England was regrouping, Edward I determined to put an end to what was left of the rebellion. Supplies were low across Scotland; trust was even scarcer. Scottish forces were fragmented, and some nobles maintained their loyalty to the English king.
She caught sight of Maeve, seated further down the table, who was leaned forward, her eyes shining as she watched Brody. Emmy caught the wistful look on the young girl’s face and hid her suddenly amused smile.
Oh, she’s smitten , she thought. Adorable.
The conversation ebbed and flowed as the meal continued. Brody remained quiet throughout most of it, hardly ever inciting conversation but only replying, and only occasionally exchanging glances with Emmy, who was mostly occupied by Ross to her right. Emmy found herself watching Brody from the corner of her eye, wondering what he was thinking, if he were pleased with the kitchen’s effort and result, if she’d managed suitably to pull it off, pretending to be from this era... or if he simply wished he were in his chambers where he generally took his meals, alone.
At one point while Ross continued with another tale, Emmy’s attention drifted toward Brody and Hugh, their voices low but not quite out of reach. She caught snatches of the conversation, enough to piece together its meaning.
"It’s seen better days," Hugh remarked, his gaze sweeping the hall. "All of Scotland has. I mean nae offense, lad, but it has nae gone unnoticed that Dunmara is nae what it was when your parents lived. But it still stands. Strong bones, this place. Strong blood, the MacIntyres. With time and effort, it—all of ye—could be brought back to its former glory."
Brody’s tone was carefully neutral. "It’s held together well enough."
"Aye," Hugh agreed, leaning in slightly. "But Dunmara deserves more than simply holding together. Yer father and his father built a legacy here. I imagine he’d like to see ye carry it forward. Restore it to what it once was—or even more."
"Easier said than done,” came Brody’s reply, “given the state of things."
"Naught worth building—or rebuilding— ever comes easy, lad," Hugh said with a small, knowing smile. "But ye’re more than capable, nae any more or less capable than yer da or yer brother.”
Brody said nothing to this. Emmy wondered if he might have only nodded, clearly uncomfortable with the topic.
“Take an old man’s advice,” Hugh MacBain continued, his voice lighter, “if you want to rebuild Dunmara, the best way is to wed and fill it with bairns. The rest will follow.”
***
Her chamber had turned cold. With so much to do this afternoon, the fire in the hearth had been neglected. Emmy picked out a lump of peat from the basket that flanked the hearth and carefully laid it on the barely-burning coals. Hopefully, it would catch and not smother what was left of the fire and the chamber would be warmed a bit when she returned.
She took a moment to unfasten the pin in her hair, sighing softly as the locks tumbled free, rubbing at her temples where the pin had pressed just a little too tightly.
She’d thought dinner had gone well. No glaring missteps on her part. Maeve had bonded out of her chair as soon as she’d had her fill, coming to stand between her brother and Emmy, intruding upon and then taking over their conversation, for which Emmy was quite pleased but Ross MacBain, not so much.
There had been a moment—so fleeting she wondered if she’d imagined it—when she caught Brody watching her, his expression something other than the cool indifference she’d come to expect. Approval, perhaps? Or something softer, warmer? Whatever it was, it sent her heart into a reckless little flutter.
"Don’t read into it," she muttered to herself, tossing the borrowed dress onto the bed and slipping into the plainer blue one.
But then she paused, her fingers idly smoothing down the skirt. Did she want to read into it? Was she seeking his approval? His regard? The very idea seemed ridiculous, yet... there was no denying the small thrill she’d felt when his dark eyes had softened, even for a moment.
The flutter came again.
Get it together, Emmy.
It wasn’t like she hadn’t been around handsome men before. New York was filled with them—wealthy bankers, polished celebrities, models with come-hither smirks straight out of a Calvin Klein ad.
Brody MacIntyre? He was a different creature entirely.
Raw. Rugged. Unapologetically real. All male. A man who didn’t smile easily, but when he did... it lingered, turning something inside her upside down.
She grabbed her kerchief from its hook and wrapped it around her hair, containing all her hair behind her back. She wasn’t here for him , she reminded herself. She was here because of some strange twist of fate, a bizarre accident she was still trying to make sense of.
And yet, the idea of earning even a sliver of his approval suddenly seemed less ridiculous—and more dangerously tempting.
The back stairs were narrow, leading directly to the kitchen. Emmy skipped down them, the sound of clinking dishes and low conversation growing louder with each step.
The familiar hum of the kitchen, quiet conversation and clinking dishes welcomed her. The evening meal long over, the kitchen women were busy with their nightly tasks, tidying up and preparing for the next day.
Maud was at the work counter, scouring a kettle she’d filled with water, while Ailis swept the floor, her movements gentle so as not to raise any dust. Agnes was bent near the hearth, banking the fires.
“Thought you might need some help,” Emmy said, stepping into the room.
Maud glanced up, one brow arching. “About finished, lass.”
Ailis paused, holding the edge of the broom just under her chin. “Did ye enjoy it? I heard the MacBain asking about ye, about yer accent.”
“I think it went well,” Emmy said with a shrug, having hoped more for their take on her success, or lack thereof. “No one died. No fights broke out. And the laird wasn’t shooting sparks out of his eyes, so I’d call it a success.”
“Ye did fine,” Agnes added. “Held yer own. Dinna say anything daft or dribble crumbs down yer front...did ye?”
Smiling, Emmy shook her head. “I didn’t. It was almost as if I’d eaten supper before...like maybe almost every day, all my life.”
Agnes managed to smile while thinning her lips with some measure of censure. “Hope ye were nae tart like that with the MacBains.”
Emmy tipped her head dramatically and batted her lashes. “Of course not. I was a perfect lady.”
Ailis giggled while Maud harrumphed, and Agnes rolled her eyes.
“Aye, go on then,” Maud said. “Off to bed. Ye’ll have to repeat it on the morrow, lass.”
Humor deserted her. “Oh, crap, really?” Emmy asked, drawing grins from three faces. “Honestly, I’d much rather be here in the kitchen with you.”
“Then ye’d better pray for the snow to stop falling, lass.”
“I’ll seek ye out in the morn,” said Ailis, “with that other léine we found.”
With that, and seeing that the kitchen work was indeed well in hand, Emmy said goodnight and retraced her steps up the back stairs.
Her feet carried her up the stone steps, but as she reached the second floor landing, she froze. Voices echoed softly down the corridor, familiar and low.
Brody’s voice.
Curiosity flared, and while she reminded herself that people who eavesdropped often heard things they wished they hadn’t, Emmy kept herself tucked into the shadows at the top of the stairs at the end of the corridor and strained to listen.
"She’s charming, I’ll give her that.”
Emmy recognized Hugh MacBain’s voice, which sounded mildly amused.
“But who is she, lad? Truly. That story she spun was just vague enough to be polite fiction. She’s nae southern traveler, and we both ken it."
Emmy held her breath, her heart hammering in her chest. She shouldn’t be listening, but she couldn’t stop.
"As much as I ken, I dinna suppose she lied," Brody replied, his voice calm but edged with something harder. "She’s a visitor, naught else."
Hugh chuckled, the sound striking Emmy as deep and still disbelieving. "Come now, lad. If she’s your mistress, there’s nae shame in it. She’s a bonnie one—striking even. Nae man would blame ye for keeping her close."
Emmy’s cheeks burned, her fingers curling into fists. Mistress? Rude!
"She’s nae anyone, MacBain," Brody said, his tone cold and final. "She arrived suddenly, means naught, and will undoubtedly depart just as abruptly. She is nae one. She dinna belong here.”
The words hit like a physical blow, stealing the breath from her lungs. Emmy clapped a hand over her mouth to keep her gasp quiet, her brows knitting fiercely.
She was no one.
She was frozen in place, one hand over her mouth, the other on the stone wall to steady herself. Her brain and heart burned with indignation. She had done so much today—helped with the meal, charmed his guests, tried to make Brody proud. And this was what he thought of her?
She meant nothing. Was nothing.
Her throat tightened, and she blinked furiously, refusing to let the tears fall, briefly more angry with herself for even thinking of crying. Brody MacIntyre wasn’t worth her tears. Not one. He was harsh and stubborn and maddening. He didn’t care about her—clearly.
A moment later, the two men bid goodnight and one door and then another could be heard, opening and then closing.
Emmy waited until she was sure they were gone, closeted in their respective chambers, before she scurried down the hall to her own chamber. She closed the door firmly behind her and leaned against it.
"Stupid," she whispered, pressing the heels of her hands against her eyes, as if that might stop the tears. "So stupid. Why does it matter what he thinks?"
But it did matter. It shouldn’t, but it did. The sting of his words, the casual dismissal, cut deeper than she cared to admit. Her chest ached as she growled her frustration, planting her hands on her hips, staring blindly into her room.
For the first time in days, she felt truly, deeply alone, an outsider all over again.
And she hated him for making her feel that way.