Chapter 8
Callum had to admit that his grandmother had done a fine job of decorating the Great Hall, considering how little time she’d had to complete the task.
Fresh rushes, thick with sweet-smelling herbs, coated the floor. Some of the tapestries had been moved around, and the space glowed with countless candles. There was food, of course, and plenty of it, piled high on the creaking feasting table.
Nobody had begun eating yet. First, they would mingle as the guests slowly arrived.
Melody would be introduced once just about everybody was here.
They could drink in the meantime. Then there would be more talk—these events were all talk, all endless, pointless jabber—and a little light dancing.
This was no ceilidh, but a restrained celebration.
The wedding celebration would be wilder.
Callum caught himself in time, angrily reminding himself that there would be no wedding celebration. This betrothal was simply designed to buy him time. Perhaps if he could act as though his heart was broken, his councilors would be more sympathetic about future matches.
Probably not, though.
After the dancing and talking, they could at last sit down to eat.
At least when he was eating, he wouldn’t have to worry about fending off countless attempts at conversation.
All in all, Callum was not looking forward to the feast. Angus was right, however.
The feast had to happen. It was a political move, that was all.
Lucas appeared at his side, grinning.
“Ye look down in the dumps,” he commented. “A freshly betrothed man should nae have as dark an expression as yers. Smile, for heaven’s sake. They’ll think ye are bein’ forced into this.”
“Well, I am,” Callum shot back. “The council harasses me endlessly about choosin’ a bride. Now I’ve chosen one to shut them up. Daenae expect me to smile about it.”
Lucas sighed. “Fine. Do as ye like, then. Is Lady Melody here?”
“Nae yet. Do we have any unexpected guests?”
Lucas hesitated, just for a moment. “I’d nae say unexpected, but…”
“Who?”
There was a beat of silence.
“Thomas Johnson,” Lucas murmured.
Callum tightened his jaw. He had half expected the man to arrive, but knowing that he was here was jarring, somehow.
“I wonder if he considers me a traitor,” Callum observed.
“Ye cannae think like that. Will ye nae risk even a wee smile? When Lady Melody makes her entrance, people will be lookin’ at yer reaction. If ye seem unhappy or even neutral…”
“I am nae a liar, Lucas,” Callum interrupted sharply. “I’m nay good as an actor, ye ken that.”
Lucas didn’t argue, and nor did he try to convince Callum again.
He had a point, of course. The Highlands would be in uproar over Callum’s strange and sudden choice of bride.
Well, they’ll just have to get over it, he thought grimly. And when they learn that the betrothal is over, they can congratulate themselves on how right they were in predicting that it would never last.
He snatched up another cup of ale, swigging it down. It would be better if he could get himself properly drunk, enough to numb the edge of concern and regret, but of course, that wasn’t possible, not at a party like this. In fact, he…
Callum cut off that thought, glancing around with a frown. The conversation around him had stopped, and most faces were turned toward the stairs leading up to the gallery.
He saw at once what they were staring at.
Melody stood there, alone, at the head of the stairs. He hadn’t given much thought as to what she’d wear, and had simply assumed that his grandmother would find her something suitable.
Well, she had.
Melody wore a long, shimmering gown of red silk, layered with countless gauzy veils that made the dress seem to glow and shiver with light, shifting around her. The sleeves were long, covering the backs of her hands, and he noticed her wearing one of his grandmother’s old ruby rings.
The bodice fitted tightly, displaying the soft curve of her waist, dipping in from her hips, and then sliding upward into a full bosom. Why had he not noticed her remarkable curves before? Perhaps it had been the baggy servant’s gown.
Nobody else was wearing red in the Hall.
It was a bold color for a betrothal celebration.
There were no beads or sequins sewn onto the dress, or even any embroidery.
The color was so vibrant that she did not need any extra decoration.
The only hint of tartan she wore was a thin strip around her hips, slung low like a belt. It was, of course, MacDean tartan.
Her gaze swept over the silently assembled crowd, every set of eyes fixed on her. Something like anxiety crept into her eyes. Her shoulders hunched up, just a little, and she began to pick at one of her fingers.
She’s afraid, he realized. And why would she not be, with them all staring at her like that?
Clearing his throat loudly, Callum stepped toward the stairs, resting one foot on the lowest step. He held up his hand, and she glanced toward him.
“Come, me love,” he said, loudly and pointedly. “I have people for ye to meet.”
Melody met his eyes. Something like gratitude sparked there.
She gave a tight nod and uncertain smile and began to descend carefully.
To avoid stepping on her skirts, she lifted the hem a few inches, revealing her feet.
Callum had assumed she’d wear matching slippers, like most of the other ladies here, but in fact Melody was wearing heavy, solid-looking boots.
That’s Kat’s influence, he thought, hiding a smile. Very practical.
She reached the bottom of the stairs and took his hand, clutching rather tightly.
“They are all staring at me,” she whispered, swallowing. He tracked the movement down her pale neck, and briefly imagined himself pressing his lips against the soft skin there.
Stop it, fool! This betrothal is all a fiction. Ye are not to kiss her, or touch her in any way, and certainly not to think like that about her!
“Well, it is our betrothal feast, and they already ken what I look like,” he responded shortly. “Ye had better get used to bein’ looked at.”
“I… I don’t much like it. Being looked at, I mean,” she murmured.
He glanced down at her. She wasn’t looking at him, but instead scanned the ranks of people around them with trepidation, as if she were afraid they would pounce on her at any minute.
“I cannae protect ye from bein’ looked at,” Callum heard himself say. She glanced up at him, frowning.
“I never asked you to.”
“Then why did ye… why are ye tellin’ me if ye daenae expect me to do somethin’ about it?”
She stared at him, baffled. “You are asking me why people talk to each other about things? Don’t you tell people about how you feel? Friends, I mean.”
He scoffed. “I certainly daenae.”
“Well, then, I feel sorry you.”
“Sorry? Lass…”
Callum’s hot, angry retort was interrupted by the appearance of Angus. The man in question glided through the crowd like a shadow, his lips curled tightly into a smile.
“Me Laird, Lady Melody, I am glad to see ye lookin’ so well,” Angus murmured. “That is a pretty dress, lass, but a more appropriate color might have been green, or perhaps a brown.”
Melody colored, smoothing her hand over the skirt. “Should… Should I change? Lady Sophie said that this color suited me.”
“And it does,” Angus soothed, smiling faintly. “I’m sorry, I should nae have said that. The dress is beautiful, and ye look very well in it. It’s just that this is yer first impression on the clan ambassadors, and I thought…”
“Ye’ve said enough, Angus,” Callum warned.
Angus bit his lip. “Aye, ye are right. I hope I’ve not given offence, Lady Melody?”
She shook her head. “No, of course not. I’ll remember your advice when I choose new dresses.”
Angus bowed. “I’d be glad to give ye me advice on anythin’, Lady Melody. It’s nay secret that we’re all surprised to hear of the Laird’s betrothal to ye, but ye seem like a good, kind woman, and I wish ye both all the happiness in the world. The tartan is a nice touch, by the way.”
Melody blushed. “That was my idea. I wanted to wear a piece of MacDean tartan. To… to show that I want to belong, you know?”
Callum stayed silent, watching her thoughtfully. She spoke as though she meant it. But she never would belong here, would she? If they were truly going to be wed, he wouldn’t have suddenly sprung the news of their betrothal on his councilors and let the news spread that way.
No, he’d have started from the bottom up. He would have introduced her to the people first. He would have brought her with him on visits to villages and towns, and encouraged her to do charity and make herself known.
She’d be good at that, he thought, not entirely sure where the certainty had come from. He could see her, in an ordinary dress, without jewels or fine silks or airs, talking and laughing with common folk just as easily as anybody else.
Perhaps she’d be less shy amongst people like that. The common folk weren’t as revoltingly pretentious as lords and ladies and councilors could be.
This is a pointless thought, Callum reminded himself sternly. This is nae a true betrothal, even if she is very pretty, so it does nae matter if the people like her or nae, because she is nae stayin’.
“We should get ye a drink,” he said aloud, mostly to drown out the cacophony of his own thoughts.
“Yes,” Melody answered fervently. “Please.”
Before they could make their way to the drinks table, however—laden with goblets and flagons and cups, with a puddle of frothy spilled beer rippling around one of the table legs—a man stepped in their way.
Callum could not help himself. His hand tightened rather sharply around Melody’s, and he heard her suck in a surprised breath.
“Forgive the sudden appearance,” the man said, his voice flat and monotonous as always. “But I wished to see you, Callum, and to greet yer new bride-to-be.”
Tall and thin, he had the look of a man who’d lost a good deal of weight over the years. His clothes hung loosely, and there was loose skin around his face and neck. He’d once been red-haired, a vibrant and colorful fellow, but time and tragedy had wrung the color out of him, leaving him gray.
Melody glanced between the man and Callum with wide, confused eyes. She didn’t understand, of course. How could she?
“Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend, my Lai-? My love,” she added hastily, as if she’d remembered the pretense.
Before Callum could respond, the man introduced himself.
“Me name is Thomas Johnson,” the man said, offering a tight smile. He didn’t extend a hand for her to shake. Melody made an abortive flinch forward, as if to offer her hand, but stopped herself in time.
“I’m glad to meet you,” she answered, offering a thin smile. “Are you a close friend of Callum’s?”
“We were kin, once,” Thomas responded listlessly.
Callum clenched his jaw until he heard his teeth squeak. “Daenae, Tom. Nae now, nae here.”
Thomas ignored him. He never even glanced at Callum. Instead, he stared at Melody for a long, taut minute, gaze raking the poor lass up and down.
“Pretty,” he murmured. “Tall, too. Ye always liked tall women, eh, Callum?”
“Enough. Thomas, I have nay objection to yer bein’ here, but ye cannae do this. A betrothal has long been sought after by me council, by me clan. Lady Melody is a fine choice.”
There was an edge of tension in Callum’s voice. He could hear it, the note ringing in his head like a tuneless fiddle string. He imagined that Thomas could hear it too. And worse, so would Melody.
Thomas continued to ignore him.
“I wish ye luck, me Lady,” he continued, still staring at Melody with that colorless, unblinking stare. “Ye are goin’ to need it.”
Callum prayed, just for an instant, that Melody would behave like an ordinary English woman. English manners were strict, he’d heard. A too-strong opinion or an uncomfortably strange statement could be glossed over and coolly ignored, if necessary. Curiosity, after all, was vulgar.
“What do you mean?” Melody asked, and he could hear the frown in her voice. “I don’t understand.”
Thomas swayed on his feet. Was he drunk? No, Thomas didn’t care for alcohol.
How do ye ken? That was then. This is now. Few things can drive a man to drink like the loss of his only child.
“I mean that I hope ye fare better than the previous lady of this clan,” Thomas intoned.
A shiver rolled down Callum’s spine.
Melody swallowed audibly. There was a small pocket of silence around them now, with a few guests staring unashamedly, trying to listen in on the conversation.
Great.
“If yer goal here was to scare her, Thomas, ye have succeeded,” he snapped. “Ye have gone too far.”
Thomas blinked slowly, like a cat.
“I only wished to warn her. I wish someone had warned me daughter before she married ye.” Then he turned to Melody. “Aye, lass, I was his father-in-law.”
Melody sucked in a breath, leaning backward. A ripple of murmuring rolled through the crowd. The conversation would be repeated throughout the Great Hall all evening; Callum knew that for certain. The conversation would be repeated often enough that the words would change, twist, and be amplified.
He growled, shaking his head, and tugged Melody away from Thomas.
“Ye should leave,” he said shortly, addressing the man. “We all grieved for her, but this is goin’ too far. I daenae wish to see ye again tonight, Thomas.”
“Why would ye see me?” Thomas responded, two spots of color appearing in his cheeks. “I’ve said what I came to say.”
He turned on his heel, plunging into the crowd. Cursing to himself, Callum all but dragged Melody away.
“Is he really your father-in-law?” she whispered.
He set his jaw. “He was. I’m nae married, as ye ken.”
Melody swallowed. “But you were married.”
He gave a tight nod. “I was. This is not a secret. Everybody knows it. It was common knowledge in the clan, and in neighboring clans, too.”
“Married,” Melody whispered, as if chewing over the word. He glanced briefly down at her and found himself wishing he could know what was in her mind. It seemed safest to take her to the dance floor. They could get a little space that way, and it would be harder to be overheard due to the music.
“Aye. Married.”
“What happened to her?” Melody queried.
Callum glanced away, swallowing down a familiar knot of sadness.
“She’s dead.”