Chapter Twenty-Three
Supper stretched longer than usual that night, beginning in the ordinary way and then carrying well beyond sunset as an unusually cheerful spirit took hold of the assembled company.
It started with the arrival of several large pitchers of ale and a quantity of roasted meat that Mairead MacCailin loudly declared had been meant for the two evenings and not only one.
Bram’s mother insisted several times—though she protested too little to be convincing—that it was wasteful to serve so much at once, but she was smiling even as she argued, and when the plates came round a second and third time she helped herself as freely as anyone.
There was no particular reason for the high spirits that night.
Some evenings simply took on a life of their own, when good humor arrived and sat for a while, when no one seemed inclined to leave the table and one laugh begat another until even the most ordinary supper stretched well beyond its usual hour.
Mayhap Seumas had something to do with it, reclaiming his place near the hearth and his neglected harp for the first time since breaking his hand months before.
The first tentative notes had earned him a cheer, and the next a demand for something lively.
After a while, someone called for an old favorite, Donnchadh fetched his fiddle to accompany him, and what had begun as an ordinary supper somehow became an evening no one seemed inclined to end.
Or perhaps the mood had already been there, waiting only for an excuse.
Whatever its cause, the hall was louder and merrier than it had been in some time.
More than a few toasts went round, some solemn, others loud and increasingly ridiculous as the ale flowed.
Etta was chief among those responsible for the latter, beginning with a selection of particularly ignoble tales from Bram’s boyhood—one involving a fall from the tower wall and another that concluded with him being chased by geese—at which point Harsain contributed his own version, grossly exaggerated and enthusiastically supported by several men who could not possibly have witnessed the event.
Bram retaliated with an account of his sister’s disastrous first attempt at a festival pudding, which had resulted in the kitchens and great hall being evacuated for the better part of an hour, and soon Mòrag and several of his men were offering up equally undignified histories of their own kin.
Anastasia laughed through most of it, relying upon Etta for translations that became less reliable the more amused his sister grew.
At one point Etta dissolved into laughter halfway through an explanation and Anastasia shoved her shoulder, demanding in English that she finish, which only made Etta laugh harder.
Bram caught his mother watching the pair from farther down the table, her expression faintly wistful until she noticed his attention and lifted one brow at him, as if to ask why he was concerning himself with where she looked.
When the meal was finally cleared and the ale continued to circulate, conversations divided and reformed throughout the hall.
Etta drew Anastasia and several of the women to a trestle table nearer the hearth, where they crowded together upon the benches to better hear the music, while Bram remained with Harsain and several others near the raised table.
His attention wandered toward Anastasia quite often.
She wore one of Etta’s better gowns, a blue one that caught the firelight whenever she moved, and her hair had been braided and coiled at the base of her neck, though several pale strands had worked free around her face.
She was listening to something Mòrag said, her brows drawn together while Etta attempted a translation, and when understanding finally dawned, Anastasia laughed and answered with enough animation that Bram wished her smile was aimed at him instead.
“Ye must admit, she brightens the hall,” Domnall said, and when Bram scowled at him, the man lifted his tankard. “With all respect, laird, ye brought her here.”
“She’s good for Etta,” Harsain observed. “?Bout time the lass had someone nearer her own age to chatter at.”
Bram could hardly argue with that. Etta had never lacked for company at Craig na Coille, but there was a difference between kin and companionship of one’s own choosing, and his sister had plainly decided that Anastasia belonged to her.
The two were presently bent toward one another across the table, Etta saying something close to Anastasia’s ear to be heard above the music, after which Anastasia laughed and gave her a shove upon the arm.
Bram found himself smiling before he caught the expression and reached for his ale instead.
He had enough to occupy his thoughts with Raghnall and the men who would ride with him on the morrow, but for once those concerns did not demand every moment of his attention.
There would be time enough for them when morning came.
Tonight Craig na Coille was warm and loud, Seumas was playing again, his people were in good humor, and Anastasia seemed to be enjoying herself.
Bram saw no reason to spoil any of it by brooding over what awaited him beyond the walls.
The evening wore on until the hall began to empty by degrees.
Bairns disappeared first, collected by mothers who had allowed them to remain awake far beyond their usual hour, and others followed as the music quieted and the pitchers made fewer journeys around the tables.
Mairead eventually passed behind Bram and laid a hand briefly upon his shoulder.
“See that your sister doesnae sit here till dawn,” she told him. “She’ll complain bitterly when I wake her in the morn.”
Bram nodded and smiled into his cup after bidding his mother a good night.
Some time later he glanced toward the table nearer the hearth and discovered that the company there had dwindled considerably.
Mòrag was gone, as were most of the other women who had crowded the benches earlier, leaving only Etta, Margaret, and Anastasia.
Only Seumas remained, Donnchadh having retired, though his playing had grown quieter with the thinning hall, and Etta and Margaret appeared to be carrying on some conversation that Anastasia only half followed.
Anastasia’s attention was fixed on the fire, her face bathed in orange and gold. Supposing he ought now to suggest that his sister and Anastasia find their beds, Bram left the laird’s table and made his way toward them.
He drew near without interrupting, and it was Etta who noticed him first. Her glance brought Anastasia’s around, and when she saw him, she smiled.
The simple warmth of it pleased Bram immensely, accustomed as he had become to receiving far more guarded looks from her.
There was none of the wariness she had shown him of late, none of the careful reserve that had so vexed him.
She looked content, her cheeks faintly flushed from the warmth of the hall and the evening’s laughter—mayhap the ale helped as well—and Bram found that whatever intention he’d had of sending her off to bed had abruptly lost its urgency.
Etta returned to her conversation with Margaret, leaving Bram standing near Anastasia with no particular reason to remain and apparently no inclination to leave.
“You’re leaving tomorrow, I hear,” she said at length, when he’d done little more than look at her.
“Aye.”
Anastasia rose from the bench, mayhap to hear him better above the lingering music and conversation, and stepped around its end to stand nearer him.
She settled her back against one of the heavy timber posts supporting the hall’s ceiling, tucking both hands behind her as she leaned against it.
The pose was an easy one, almost careless, and somehow made Bram even less inclined to suggest she retire.
“To seek your vengeance?” she inquired.
Bram nodded and somehow refrained from asking if she would worry about him.
“It’s strange,” she mused. “Not that you want revenge—that part I understand. It’s... weird that you can just saddle a horse and go get it.”
“Do people nae seek revenge in your time?”
“Oh, they do,” she was quick to assure him, “but mostly we let the courts handle the serious stuff. For smaller offenses, there’s social media, nasty online reviews, public shaming.
My mother is more old-school. She favors strongly worded emails and has been known to demand a manager when the situation calls for it. ”
He grinned before he thought to tamp it down.
“You didn’t understand half of that, did you?” she asked, possibly having read his mind.
“Nae, lass.”
“I won’t ask you if you’re nervous, because I know by now you don’t suffer with anxiety of any sort.”
“?Tis a broad claim, lass,” he charged lightly.
Anastasia tipped her head back a bit more and narrowed her eyes at him, pretending to read him. “It is, but I’m pretty sure I’m not far off the mark. You aren’t the worrying kind.”
He thought of all the plans and arrangements he’d made today. “Ye ken, lass, ye can worry less if ye plan more.”
She laughed outright at this, seeming beautifully at ease with him. “I’ll keep that in mind next time I’m hurled through the centuries.” She seemed to catch herself, and covered her mouth guiltily, glancing around toward Etta and Margaret.
Bram lifted his hand and pulled hers away from her mouth. “They dinna hear.”
Her hand remained in his after he’d lowered it, and for several moments Bram was more conscious of that than anything else. Her fingers rested loosely against his palm, neither gripping nor retreating, and when Anastasia continued speaking, she made no move to reclaim her hand.
“I’m just starting to get comfortable,” she admitted, her voice lower so that Bram had to lean into her to hear properly, “and I’d rather not give them reasons to distrust me.”
Which begged the question, “Did ye nae ever fret about me distrusting ye?”