another round of incomprehensible laughter.
Which—God forgive them both—affected the bridegroom as well.
“Ye bloody fool, look what ye’ve done!” Mary MacCormack reached across her husband and gave Niall a whack in the stomach.
“Give over, they’re getting th eir vows out,” Niall protested, chuckling himself at the hilarity he’d caused.
“Barely. Ye can hardly hear what the Viscount Strathcairn is saying , he’s shaking so hard.”
The priest fixed the blasphemous pair with a stern look as he pronounced them man and wife. Chastened, Lachlan leaned over to kiss his bride with a herculean attempt at gravity—an attempt which was shattered the moment their lips touched, for his new wife accidentally let out the most unbecoming snort that echoed off the masonry.
“I am sorry,” she apolo gized to Lachlan later at the feast. “I dinna ken what came over me.”
Lachlan’s eyes swept over the crow d at the trestles below. Folding his arms on the table top, he turned his face to her. His lips were upturned in a conspiratorial grin. “I were no better. Besides, it weren’t yer fault. I saw what yer friend Niall did to set ye off.”
Moira grimaced. “T hat scoundrel. I must whip him good when next I see him.”
“Would ye like me to whip him for ye?”
“Dinna ye dare! Niall may be a scoundrel, but he’s my scoundrel. No one lays a finger on him but me.”
The meal wore on, course after course, and the air was appropriately festive. As usual, Moira took less joy in it than the other guests did, but for once it was not because she was the outsider, the object of ridicule. Surprisingly, she was sorry Lord Kildrummond was not there. He’d had to retire as soon as the ceremony concluded. His place at the centre of the dais had been set, but remained untouched. It was a sad reminder that his absence would soon be permanent.
Lady Glinis occupied her usual place next to Lord Kildrummond’s . She picked disinterestedly at her meal. Only once did her eyes meet Moira’s; she stared at the lass with such undisguised loathing that Moira was forced to look away.
O nce the tables had been cleared her mood lifted somewhat. She danced with Niall most of the time, with Lord Albermarle for one song, and with Lachlan for only those dances that were customary of the bride and groom. Each time she danced with him he was noticeably drunker.
“Careful now, man. Ye’ll no’ be able to raise yer staff if ye keep drinking at that rate,” one of the Kildrummond Douglases snickered as the newlywed couple finished one of the dances.
It was a fair observation, for Lachlan had nearly fallen over twice. Even still, her eyes bulged at the man’s audacity, and she opened her mouth to tear a strip off him.
Lachlan circled his arm around her narrow shoulder and squeezed. “Dinna fret, my friend. I’ve no doubt of my capacity to drink and perform as I ought to.”
The crowd of men surrounding them roared with laughter. They missed his emphasis on the words as I ought to .
But Moira didn’t. They both knew that the only task he ought to perform that night was to sleep. And for that Lachlan could be as drunk as he wished.
N o one had any reservations about getting as drunk as they wished that night. Including Niall. And when Niall was in his cups, he tended on the morose side. Moira saw it coming even before it had started. When he finally sauntered off on his own to sit at a peripheral table and brood, she tactfully gave him some time before joining him.
“How is yer ale doing?” she queried cheerfully. “In need of a top-up?”
Niall tore his eyes away from the lovely young Janet who was at that moment serving the knights flanking Dougall MacFadyen on the other side of the hall. He looked down to his cup and then back to the object of his lovelorn desire.
“Ye’ve dirtied yer sleeves,” he mentioned casually as he drained the dregs.
Moira lifted her forearms and examining the expensive, but plainly
Which—God forgive them both—affected the bridegroom as well.
“Ye bloody fool, look what ye’ve done!” Mary MacCormack reached across her husband and gave Niall a whack in the stomach.
“Give over, they’re getting th eir vows out,” Niall protested, chuckling himself at the hilarity he’d caused.
“Barely. Ye can hardly hear what the Viscount Strathcairn is saying , he’s shaking so hard.”
The priest fixed the blasphemous pair with a stern look as he pronounced them man and wife. Chastened, Lachlan leaned over to kiss his bride with a herculean attempt at gravity—an attempt which was shattered the moment their lips touched, for his new wife accidentally let out the most unbecoming snort that echoed off the masonry.
“I am sorry,” she apolo gized to Lachlan later at the feast. “I dinna ken what came over me.”
Lachlan’s eyes swept over the crow d at the trestles below. Folding his arms on the table top, he turned his face to her. His lips were upturned in a conspiratorial grin. “I were no better. Besides, it weren’t yer fault. I saw what yer friend Niall did to set ye off.”
Moira grimaced. “T hat scoundrel. I must whip him good when next I see him.”
“Would ye like me to whip him for ye?”
“Dinna ye dare! Niall may be a scoundrel, but he’s my scoundrel. No one lays a finger on him but me.”
The meal wore on, course after course, and the air was appropriately festive. As usual, Moira took less joy in it than the other guests did, but for once it was not because she was the outsider, the object of ridicule. Surprisingly, she was sorry Lord Kildrummond was not there. He’d had to retire as soon as the ceremony concluded. His place at the centre of the dais had been set, but remained untouched. It was a sad reminder that his absence would soon be permanent.
Lady Glinis occupied her usual place next to Lord Kildrummond’s . She picked disinterestedly at her meal. Only once did her eyes meet Moira’s; she stared at the lass with such undisguised loathing that Moira was forced to look away.
O nce the tables had been cleared her mood lifted somewhat. She danced with Niall most of the time, with Lord Albermarle for one song, and with Lachlan for only those dances that were customary of the bride and groom. Each time she danced with him he was noticeably drunker.
“Careful now, man. Ye’ll no’ be able to raise yer staff if ye keep drinking at that rate,” one of the Kildrummond Douglases snickered as the newlywed couple finished one of the dances.
It was a fair observation, for Lachlan had nearly fallen over twice. Even still, her eyes bulged at the man’s audacity, and she opened her mouth to tear a strip off him.
Lachlan circled his arm around her narrow shoulder and squeezed. “Dinna fret, my friend. I’ve no doubt of my capacity to drink and perform as I ought to.”
The crowd of men surrounding them roared with laughter. They missed his emphasis on the words as I ought to .
But Moira didn’t. They both knew that the only task he ought to perform that night was to sleep. And for that Lachlan could be as drunk as he wished.
N o one had any reservations about getting as drunk as they wished that night. Including Niall. And when Niall was in his cups, he tended on the morose side. Moira saw it coming even before it had started. When he finally sauntered off on his own to sit at a peripheral table and brood, she tactfully gave him some time before joining him.
“How is yer ale doing?” she queried cheerfully. “In need of a top-up?”
Niall tore his eyes away from the lovely young Janet who was at that moment serving the knights flanking Dougall MacFadyen on the other side of the hall. He looked down to his cup and then back to the object of his lovelorn desire.
“Ye’ve dirtied yer sleeves,” he mentioned casually as he drained the dregs.
Moira lifted her forearms and examining the expensive, but plainly
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