Chapter 9
Padraig pulled back one of the seats of honor for Cairren, then slipped into the one beside her.
As servants circulated among the diners, Padraig watched the stares directed toward his bride and him.
He hadn’t intended to shock his clansmen and women or hurt Myrna, but lust swept him away as Cairren returned his kiss.
Now Myrna sulked, his mother and father could barely hide their disgust, the people seated before him gossiped, and his bride was already in the midst of a conversation with her parents.
It was as though he no longer existed to Cairren, as though she intended to set the example for how leaving one another alone would work.
Seated next to her mother and two seats down from her father, Cairren spoke softly in French.
Padraig had given little thought to whether Innes spoke French since he hadn’t heard him, but Padraig realized the laird must have since he met his wife in France.
It intrigued him to hear the burly Lowlander speak French with a Scottish brogue.
It didn’t resemble any French Padraig had heard, but Collette and Cairren understood him.
Cairren’s French sounded flawless, as though she’d spoken nothing else.
She’d continued to use Gaelic for "please” and “thank you” despite how the servants turned up their nose.
She’d understood what Myrna said when they met, and she’d even offered Mary a complicated greeting.
He respected and appreciated her effort.
When a servant stepped between them to place a dish on the table, the woman intentionally tipped it toward Cairren’s lap. Padraig watched in horror but snapped to attention in time to push the servant’s hand away, making the food splatter the tablecloth rather than Cairren’s gown.
“Return to the kitchens and don’t let me see your face at this table again.
Ever,” Padraig hissed. Cairren turned wide eyes to him before she glanced at the tablecloth, then at her lap.
Fortunately, none had spilled on her, but Padraig knew she understood the slip hadn’t been an accident.
He had her attention, and he intended to seize upon it.
“You speak French and Scots. Do you speak any other languages?”
“I can read and write Latin; my Italian is passable. It’s not even a day’s ride to Italy from where my mother grew up. She learned enough to assist my grand-père with their soap and perfume trade. She taught me.” Cairren offered him a shy smile. “I’m working on my Gaelic.”
“You’ve impressed me with what you know. Do your parents, or at least your father, speak it?”
Cairren shook her head. “Nay. My father mentioned last year that he would look for a husband from the Highlands for me. I didn’t know how long I would have, but I asked a lady-in-waiting from here, Blair Sutherland, to help me. She’s been tutoring me for months.”
“You wanted to impress your new clan?” Padraig asked, but he wanted to retract his words when Cairren looked at him as though he were an imbecile.
“I want to understand what people are saying,” she replied. Neither of them needed to say aloud that she wanted to understand what people were saying about her.
“You barely had a Scots accent when you spoke yesterday. You’re bound to impress people with your knowledge.”
“I doubt that, and that’s not my intent.”
Padraig couldn’t blame Cairren for being on the defensive, but it was their wedding feast. He wished for a reprieve from everyone’s animosity for just a while.
He served Cairren the choicest cuts of food as the dishes and platters moved across the table.
She was gracious, but he noticed she pushed food to his side of the trencher, keeping very little for herself.
“Do you always eat so little?” Padraig murmured. Once more he wished he’d kept his mouth shut.
“Did you expect a gluttonous bride? One used to gorging herself during feasts at the royal court?”
“I didn’t expect aught. I hadn’t had time to. I learned of our betrothal a fortnight ago.”
Cairren’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. “And in that fortnight, I’m certain you were far too preoccupied to wonder who you might be marrying.” Her gaze shifted to where Myrna sat glaring at her. Cairren sat back and looked away from their food. “And you wonder why I don’t feel much like eating.”
Cairren and Padraig reached for their shared chalice at the same moment, their fingers brushing together before Padraig’s hand covered Cairren’s.
Padraig felt Cairren’s sharp inhale before she released the stem, but her hand was still beneath Padraig’s.
He pulled them away and tucked them beneath the table, out of anyone’s sight, particularly the glowering blonde at the end of the table.
“Let us get through this feast and tonight, then perhaps we can talk properly.”
Cairren canted her head to glance at Padraig as his fingers entwined with hers beneath the tablecloth. His hand was warm, and she could feel his callouses rub against her knuckles. It was the hand of a man accustomed to work, and she found the feel arousing. “Aboot what?”
“Aboot how we will go forth. We are both healthy and young. We can expect to be married for many years. I would like us to start out with a truce.”
Cairren yanked her hand away. “Then the first term of our agreement is that she leaves. I can’t, so she must.”
“Be reasonable, Cairren. She is our guest, and a lifelong friend to our clan.”
“‘Our?’ She isn’t our anything. She is yours.
Yours to deal with. Take her home and stay there if you’d rather, or ride back and forth.
Balnagown is less than a morning’s ride.
You can see her every day if you want, but I wouldn’t have to share my new home with a woman who looks like she’d murder me in my sleep. ”
Padraig was prepared to disagree, even tell Cairren she was overreacting, but he spared a glance at Myrna, and the hatred that oozed from her turned her normally serene face ugly.
When he returned his eyes to Cairren, she’d already turned back to her parents.
He always ruined things by failing to keep his attention away from Myrna.
He’d done it several times in the day he’d known Cairren, and he wondered how many more times she’d endure the unintended slight before something had to give.
The meal progressed with Padraig sitting in silence, avoiding Myrna’s doleful expressions, while listening to Cairren cheerfully talking to her parents.
He’d learned French and could speak it, but he hadn’t used it often.
He rarely visited court, and that was the only time he needed it.
When he tuned out the sounds around him and focused on Cairren and her parents, he could follow along as they discussed the border and England.
It surprised him how deeply Cairren understood the politics of her home region.
He could tell she took an interest, and he realized she was more intelligent than he’d given her credit.
When their talk turned to her time at court, she became more guarded.
But she told her parents stories about Blair and Arabella, and Padraig found it relieved him to learn she had two friends at Stirling Castle.
He wondered if he could arrange for Blair to visit Foulis the next time she traveled to Sutherland.
When the music began, Padraig held out his hand to Cairren, who looked at it as though it were mottled with warts.
Her incredulous expression made him think twice about offering to dance.
But they were the bride and groom, and even if this irregular marriage meant no one expected them to act like a married couple, he found he wanted to dance with her.
His body ached to feel her pressed against him, and he was curious to learn if she danced as gracefully as she did everything else.
“I’d like to dance with you,” Padraig confessed.
“Why? No one expects it. I don’t expect it,” Cairren responded.
“Because I want to.”
Cairren narrowed her eyes, and Padraig could tell she gritted her teeth, but she relented with a condition.
“I will not dance any that require me to partner with someone else. I haven’t a death wish.
” There was no humor but deadly seriousness in her last sentence.
Padraig nodded, wishing he didn’t have to agree.
He helped her from her seat, then led her to the floor.
Other couples had already gathered for the first dance, but when they noticed the groom and particularly the bride, they gave them a wide berth, as though breathing near Cairren would endanger them.
Cairren pretended not to notice. At court, no one paid attention when she took to the dance floor.
It was always too crowded to spot her, and courtiers used dancing for seduction and politics.
She’d learned early on that while refusing to dance shielded her from the innuendos and propositions, not dancing was only fodder for more gossip.
She’d chosen the lesser of the two evils.
As she moved among the Munros, it was clear the lesser evil would have been to remain seated.
Padraig drew Cairren into the circle of his arms as they picked up the rhythm of the dance, and Cairren discovered he was light on his feet and skilled.
Inevitably, her mind wondered how many dances he’d shared with Myrna to have become so at ease.
She closed her eyes for a long blink, trying to clear the picture of them together.
“Cairren? Don’t think aboot her. I’m not,” Padraig murmured.
“Stop lying. It doesn’t make me feel better, and it does you no service.”
“Must you always believe the worst in me? Have I treated you like the others?”
Cairren’s eyes met his, and the earnestness she found made her question her assumption that he just hid his disgust better than the others. She whispered, “No.”
“I meant what I said earlier. I’d like to call a truce.”