Chapter Eight #3
Robert crunched his fingers and touched the top of her hand with fast feather-light flicks of his fingertips. “But cannot tickling also be an irritant?”
“I can think of other things that are much more irritating,” she said dryly, withdrawing her hand from his touch and placing it on her lap.
“I need more wine,” she said, gesturing to Fenella who stood in wait with the jug.
After she refilled their cups, Alex gestured to the seat next to Robert’s.
“Fenella, please join us.” Then she said to Robert. “Fenella loves horses.”
Robert smiled in greeting and soon the two were conversing easily, allowing Alex a moment’s peace.
Sitting back in her chair, she took another sip of wine while she considered her sampling of men.
So far, she had learned little of Adam, other than he was handsome, evidently a very skilled knight, and favored social conventions.
He seemed to be in possession of several admiral qualities, but he was bound to find certain aspects of her character wanting.
Girlish laughter erupted from the trestle table where Rory sat, drawing her gaze. Corc had slid farther down the bench. Now, bright-eyed lassies surrounded him. They were all leaning close, clearly hanging on his every word.
She forced herself to look away. She had clan business to consider. After all, they needed a laird. Her eyes darted to Rory again, but she shook her head against the direction of her thoughts.
A laird of noble birth.
Her fingers gripped her cup tighter. Where was she? Oh, aye, then there was Robert. Robert had winsome looks and a cheerful disposition...but...could she tolerate a lifetime of odd horse talk?
This time it was a rich masculine laugh that pulled her attention back to Rory and his gaggle of love-struck MacKenzie lassies. Alison, Helen’s youngest and still unmarried sister who was not known for her good sense, was leaning close to Rory, whispering something in his ear.
Still, Rory and Alison’s conversation was none of her affair. Clan MacKenzie needed a laird of noble birth, not a man as alluring and forbidden as Rory. She clenched her fists against the weakness of her own thoughts.
All right, back to business. She leaned forward, looking past Mary, Adam, and Michael to where Timothy sat. He and Michael were engaged in what looked like sensible and serious conversation.
Hmmm...mayhap Timothy was the one. He appeared level-headed and cared nothing for useless conventions. Even Abbot Matthew had said that Timothy was the man who would accept her for who she really was.
Suddenly, less than jovial feminine voices drew her attention. Alison and another lass were now squabbling for the seat closest to Rory.
“Right,” Alex said under her breath and placed her hands on the table, coming to her feet.
The men at the high table began to push back their chairs to stand as a courtesy to her. “Nay, gentlemen, please keep yer seats.” She walked the length of the table and leaned next to Michael.
“We have been remiss,” she whispered in Michael’s ear. “One of our guests has not joined our company at the high table.”
Michael looked across the room, following the direction of her gaze. “He is a peasant,” he said under his breath.
“He would not be the first peasant to grace this table. Look. Fenella is sitting at the end there speaking to Robert. William is not truly of noble birth.”
Michael flattened his hands on the table. “Fine,” he whispered. “I will go and bring him to our table, although he looks rather comfortable where he is.”
Alex looked across the room to where Rory sat.
He looked too comfortable. She knew she couldn’t have him, but she certainly wasn’t going to let another MacKenzie woman have him either.
Moments later, while Michael and Rory approached the high dais, she looked for empty chairs.
There was one chair free at the very end of the table next to Timothy or there was the chair next to hers, her father’s chair.
In that moment, she wanted nothing more than for him to fill the chieftain’s seat, but she resisted the baser commands of her body and allowed Michael to lead Rory to the last chair.
She leaned forward to see past the line of faces separating them and raised her cup.
A warm smile lifted his full lips and set her heart to racing.
She quickly leaned back to escape the sinful sight of him.
She had to keep her eyes on the true prize, on what mattered most—the wellbeing of her people.
More than anything, they needed a laird, and as much as she wanted Rory, hungered for him, the peasant son of a dockhand could not be the one.
It would be a direct insult to the MacLeod, which would endanger her people.
She drained her wine and sat back, noticing that the table of MacKenzie lassies was silently eying Rory, however, now from a safe distance.
Go ahead and look all ye want, lassies. How could she blame them? Rory was the kind of man that could bring even the most chaste of women to their knees.