Chapter Seven #2
Accepting the bread, Aemyra took a large bite and groaned in pleasure. The seeds gave it a depth of flavor, and the salted pig lard was glorious.
“Thank you,” Aemyra said, polishing off the slice before reaching for another.
Even during a war, Lonan was able to pay to keep his pantry full of delicacies.
Aemyra conceded that a laird who prioritized feeding his people over decorating his caisteal was one she would welcome an alliance with.
Thear indulged her with another of his smiles before turning to watch the revels in the hall, one lock of hair hanging teasingly over his forehead.
As bowls of skink replaced the fish, several warriors requested a tune from the minstrels in the corner and began to dance. Although the general aim seemed to be knocking one another to the ground.
Draevan had never been one for revels and Penryth had never seen elegant balls or banquets.
Even the ceilidh in Caisteal Lasair had been a refined, opulent affair.
This gathering was more reminiscent of the public ceilidhs Aemyra had frequented in the lower town.
Where Orlagh would turn up after a long day’s work and sink one dram before Pàdraig pulled her into a flying reel and everyone ended up sweaty and stained by night’s end.
Caught up in the lively atmosphere that reminded her of home, Aemyra was taken off guard when Thear rose from his chair and offered his hand.
It hovered between them uncertainly, as though suspended in time. She could see the calluses across his palms from wielding a spear, his knuckles dry and cracked like he had washed them too many times.
Fiorean had always used an oil to keep his skin soft…
Hearing blood rush in her ears, Aemyra placed her unmarked hand in Thear’s own, wondering why it felt like a betrayal.
Suppressing a shiver, Aemyra tried not to lean into his heat. Ever since her magic had retreated within her, there had been a chill in her bones.
What she hadn’t expected was for Thear’s large hands to feel gentle as they hovered around her waist.
He was tall, but she didn’t have to crane her neck to look up at him the same way she had with Fiorean. With a small flinch, Aemyra jerked her gaze away.
“I can request a different dance if you do not wish to be touched,” Thear muttered, voice low enough that only she could hear.
His consideration surprised her, and she found her anxiety ebbing.
“I’m only worried for your toes. You may not believe my skill with a sword, but I harbor no lofty illusions regarding my dancing ability.”
Thear gave her another one of his unbridled grins and Aemyra groaned inwardly. One could get addicted to something so infectiously joyful.
“Don’t worry, I’m a spectacular partner,” Thear joked.
Aemyra rolled her eyes as he pulled her flush against his chest. “No matter how well you dance, your footwork isn’t likely to impress me in a sparring match.”
Thear’s hold tightened as he made ready to follow the sound of the fiddle. “And why are you so certain my footwork will disappoint, Your Majesty?”
Aemyra rolled her eyes. “Because you’re bloody enormous.”
With a gleaming laugh that burst into her ears, Thear began twirling Aemyra around the room as the warriors clapped in time to the music.
“You certainly are the most tactless queen I’ve ever had the pleasure to meet,” he said, not the slightest bit out of breath.
Her auburn curls shaking loose, Aemyra allowed herself to be spun toward the tables.
“That isn’t saying much, as I am the only queen you’ve ever met,” she said over the music.
Coming back together after an exuberant spin that had several warriors vacating their seats and joining in, Thear gripped her hands tightly.
“You are, but somehow I find ill manners rather endearing in a partner,” he replied, his words snagging in her ear before he whirled away again.
“Then how lucky for you that I am terribly impolite,” Aemyra called over her shoulder.
Goddess take him, Thear was a fantastic dancer.
Aemyra barely had to think about where her feet needed to go before Thear had already placed her there, in a way that left her more than a little breathless.
Or perhaps that was the hard planes of muscle she could feel under his shirt.
A light sweat broke out on her forehead as they danced, whoops and cheers meeting her ears from the spectating warriors, many of whom had piled onto the floor.
Breaking them up, a warrior tackled Thear around the waist and Aemyra hastily took her seat beside Ceana.
The men were soon engaged in the ridiculous effort of lifting one another’s fèileadh in an attempt to expose the other’s buttocks to the room.
Some men were doing it voluntarily.
There were a handful of warriors just as tanned as Thear, and Aemyra assumed they fulfilled the role of patrolling and visiting the farmsteads and villages in Clan Leòmhann lands. Everyone else sported the pale complexion expected of years spent living underground.
“It does get a little boisterous in the evenings,” Ceana said, a few small squares of sugary taiblet in her hands. “I do adore my brother, but he can be rather stupid.”
Fighting a smile, Aemyra replied, “Yes, brothers can often be that way.”
Ceana looked up at her. “You have a brother too?”
“A twin. Although I am the eldest,” she replied. Opening her mouth, she found that her next words did not come easily. “We also had a younger brother, Lachlann. He was—” Swallowing the lump in her throat, she tried again. “He was killed this past winter.”
The truth was far more complicated, but Ceana did not need to know the details. Nor did Aemyra feel like explaining.
“What was he like?” Ceana surprised her by asking.
No one had asked her about Lachlann since his death.
Aemyra found a smile tugging at her lips. “He was mischievous. Always finding ways to get into trouble, which I’m afraid I mostly encouraged. But he had his father’s gentleness…and his mother’s intelligence.”
Ceana broke off a small chunk of the taiblet. “Grief is the price we pay for the blessing of having people to love.”
Aemyra remembered that Ceana and Thear had lost their mother. Sighing, Aemyra scanned the throng of dancers growing rowdier by the minute, but Ceana didn’t seem troubled. Evidently this was normal behavior for àird Caolas.
“They will probably all end up at the Cuith later,” Ceana said in a matter-of-fact voice.
The fighting pits of àird Caolas were legendary. Every warrior in this room had killed for the honor of calling themselves one of Clan Leòmhann’s trodach, the elite Bonded Dùileach who would hopefully help Aemyra win the war for her throne.
Seeing her expression, Ceana shrugged. “They fight for sport too, don’t worry.”
This time, when the girl passed the last piece of taiblet under the table, Aemyra caught sight of stubby horns and a wickedly sharp tail.
Thear fell into his chair beside her, sweat beading on his brow.
“Your sister tells me you will visit the Cuith later, and I would like to see it. I have heard so many stories of your strength that I hardly believe them,” Aemyra asked.
“I would be happy to oblige my queen with a demonstration,” Thear replied with a chuckle. “There are a few of my warriors here who would be only too eager to repay me for past indiscretions.” He lifted his goblet to hail a few men seated at the end of the adjacent table.
“I would far rather duel you myself,” Aemyra replied.
Thear’s smile faded to something a little condescending. “I fear you are slightly more breakable than I am.”
At once, Aemyra’s face shuttered.
Irritation and unease flooded her system as the promise mark seared white-hot.
She would never let a man see her break again.
For too many nights, she had wondered if the aftermath of Alfred’s attack, if her vulnerability in that moment, had been what had caused Fiorean to change his mind about her.
When she had admitted she didn’t know how to rule.
“Trust me, lairdling. I am far from breakable,” she replied, her tone icy.
Thear blinked, clearly having expected his words to have the opposite effect.
Smothering her anxieties, Aemyra pretended that she could not see Thear trying to work up the courage to ask her what was wrong.
Ignoring him, Aemyra set down her goblet and decided she would visit the Cuith and judge Clan Leòmhann’s strength for herself.