Chapter 7 #2
Her smile came before grief could prevent it.
“He always claimed the musician played in the wrong key.”
“The musicians generally claimed Lachlan invented one of his own.”
Donaldina laughed softly as the vivid memory returned: Lachlan by the hearth, one boot on a bench, loudly singing a verse while the household tried to drown him out. He had no talent for singing and no humility about it.
“He changed the words,” she remembered. “Whenever he forgot them.”
“He changed them when he remembered them as well.”
“Ye encouraged him?”
“I attempted tae stop him once.”
“And?”
“He sang louder.”
She chuckled. “That sounds like him.”
Roy’s gaze moved toward the flames. “He kept the men awake on difficult marches. Sometimes with songs. Sometimes by arguing that the cook insulted MacNicol honor.”
Donaldina looked at him. “What had the cook done?”
“Burned the porridge.”
“That may have been an insult.”
“So Lachlan insisted.”
The music continued around them.
For a few moments, the guarded hall faded, replaced by a rain-soaked camp Donaldina had never seen and the brother she had known in another life. Roy had memories of him that did not belong to Dun Ard, memories formed in years Donaldina could reach only through another person’s telling.
She wanted them. The realization caught at her pride, but grief had little use for pride.
“Did he speak of home?” she asked.
Roy glanced at her. “Often.”
“What did he say?”
“That the western wind could strip the sense from a man’s skull. That the castle roof leaked above his chair in the council chamber and nae one had repaired it because they found his complaints entertaining.”
Donaldina looked down. “It did leak.”
“He also spoke of the cliffs. The fishing boats. The honey from yer hives.”
Her fingers tightened around the cup.
“And of ye,” Roy added.
Donaldina lifted her eyes. His face had grown more guarded, as though he regretted letting the conversation reach this point.
“What did he say of me?”
“That ye argued too much.”
Her mouth opened in surprise. Roy’s serious expression lingered for just a breath before a slight hint of amusement appeared.
Donaldina narrowed her eyes. “He would hardly have objected tae argument. He considered it a form of recreation.”
“Aye. He sounded proud.”
The sharp answer she had prepared dissolved. She looked toward the fire before Roy could see how deeply the words reached her.
“Lachlan believed I was more capable than others did,” she said.
“He was correct.”
Donaldina turned back to him. Roy had already reached for his cup, as though he had said nothing remarkable. “Ye have kent me for three days.”
“They have been eventful days.”
“That doesnae make ye an authority upon me character.”
“Nae. Watching ye lead armed men through a flooded tunnel and reclaim yer castle provided some evidence.”
A feeling of warmth spread under her skin, prompting Donaldina to drink to hide it. Roy observed her over the rim of his own cup.
“Ye are blushing.”
She nearly choked. “I am not.”
“Aye.”
“I have been drinking spiced ale.”
“Ye have scarcely touched it.”
She set the cup down with dignity. “Dae ye study every woman’s face with such attention?”
“Nae.”
The answer was immediate. Donaldina’s breath hesitated. Roy seemed to realize what he had admitted. His gaze dropped briefly toward the table.
For once, he had no dry remark to rescue himself.
The silence between them shifted. Roy sat close enough that his knee nearly touched hers beneath the table.
His hand rested beside his plate, broad and scarred, the same hand that had cleaned the blood from her arm with astonishing care. She looked away first.
Across the hall, three men sat at the end of a lower table. Donaldina recognized them as clansmen who surrendered only after Cormac fled through the gates. One served beneath Cormac during the years Lachlan was away. Another argued in council that the King’s accord should be abandoned.
Their heads were bent together. Their voices were too low to carry, but their eyes moved repeatedly toward the dais. Donaldina felt Roy’s attention shift beside her.
“Cormac’s men,” he said quietly.
“Formerly, one hopes.”
“Hope is useful.”
“And guards are better?”
“Aye.”
The whispering ceased, though resentment remained visible in the set of their shoulders. They expected Roy and Donaldina to sit together like opponents forced into temporary courtesy. Perhaps the entire clan expected it.
Hostility was simple. It allowed every man to choose a side. Ease was more dangerous.
Donaldina looked around the hall and realized how many people were subtly watching. MacNicol pride permitted few people to stare without pretending some other purpose. Yet, glances came from beneath lowered lashes and over lifted cups.
The feast was not merely a meal. It was a performance of whatever future they might have.
Across the hall, the whispering began again. This time, Donaldina understood what Cormac’s remaining supporters had seen. It was not affection, but rather the absence of hatred.
And in a castle held together by politics, grief and an unwanted marriage accord, that absence might be more threatening than either of them understood.