Page 23 of How to Be a Scottish Mistress

“Are you certain you wish to stay?” Sir George asked, his brows drawn together with concern.

Fiona bit her lip to stop its trembling. The afternoon had gone by very slowly. Sitting in solitary silence in her chamber had given her far too much time to think. But she could not allow any of her doubts to show, for then Sir George might not leave, which would place his life in peril.

“This is the only way to get what Spencer deserves,” she said.

Sir George’s shoulders lowered and Fiona knew she had successfully made her point. With a dramatic flourish he dropped to one knee. “We shall meet again, my lady. Under far better circumstances, I assure you.”

Fiona swallowed back her tears, refusing to mar the dignity of the moment by crying. The determination she witnessed in the knight’s eyes gave her courage. He would never forsake Spencer’s cause.

“I pray that you are right, my friend.”

Fiona extended her hand and Sir George rose to his feet. Looking over his shoulder, the knight locked his gaze on the earl. “If any harm comes to her or the boy while she is in your care, you’ll answer to me.”

The words were boldly spoken, with a wealth of meaning infused in every one. Fiona flushed and turned to look at the earl. His eyes narrowed as he went very still. Fearful, she held her breath, but the men exchanged some kind of unspoken understanding and Sir George backed away without further incident.

The tightness pressing against her chest increased as she watched the proud knight mount his horse and ride away. He had been a strong, constant support through all the pain and grief of the past year and she truly had no idea when she would once again set eyes upon him.

She clenched her mouth and turned away, concentrating on keeping her emotions steady and even. She would not break down in front of this curious crowd of strangers, would not give them the pleasure of seeing her cry.

Her jaw still tight, she walked to the earl’s side. He gave her a slight nod. Her heart skipped. Strange how this small gesture gave her a measure of comfort, made her feel less alone.

For one impulsive moment she wanted to reach out, grab his hand and squeeze tightly.Saints alive, wouldn’t that get their tongues wagging?

“The evening meal will be served soon,” the earl said. “Let us retire to the great hall.”

“Fine.”

His brow cocked at her cool tone. He watched her closely for a very long minute, then gestured for her to walk ahead of him. But she was not to be left alone. After only a few steps the earl clutched her arm, rather possessively.

Fiona drew in a stiff breath, feeling a jolt of awareness as her flesh leapt at his touch. She looked over at his handsome face, locking her gaze on his. His expression was completely unreadable. How unfair! Her body was responding to him in ways she had never before experienced and he felt nothing.

Unsettled, Fiona extracted herself from the earl’s touch the moment they reached the high table. Attempting to hide her thoughts, she looked at her hands, which were shaking in her lap. Gracious, it felt as though every feeling coursing through her body was on display for one and all to see. She felt as exposed as if she were sitting there with nary a stitch of clothing on her body. Even the arrival of the servants carrying heaping trays of hot food didn’t spare her the scrutiny of those seated in the hall.

Mother Mary, it is going to be a long meal.

Oddly enough, the one person who was not paying attention to her was the man seated by her side. Goblet in hand, the earl was engaged in a rather heated conversation with a group of men seated to his left. They were debating the merits of different weapons and battle strategy, and relating the gory outcome of a recent fight.

It was astonishing to hear how spiritedly the men offered their opinions and argued their points. None had any difficulty disagreeing with the earl. Nor did he deny his men the right to express their thoughts.

How unusual. Henry had, on a few occasions, sought the opinion of his captains, but they rarely disagreed with his views. At least not within her hearing. It was a confident leader, indeed, who allowed such liberties among his retainers.

Lost in thought, Fiona did not at first notice when a servant plunked a large tray of meat between her and the earl. ’Twas the smell that finally caught her attention. She wrinkled her nose at the strong odor, realizing few herbs or little if any seasoning had been used when roasting the meat. And from the char on the outside, it was obvious the flesh had been thoroughly cooked.

Perhaps too thoroughly.

Fiona’s stomach flipped. She glanced beneath her lashes at those seated around her and saw everyone was eating with gusto. Resolved, she sliced a piece of venison off the bone and popped it into her mouth. It tasted like sand, but she chewed it purposely, though she needed a large sip of wine to wash it down.

She picked at the food on her trencher, grateful the earl was occupied in conversation with the men seated around them.

“Do ye not like our food?”

Fiona glanced up and met Duncan’s challenging stare. “It’s delicious,” she countered, forcing a large piece of meat into her mouth.

“Shall I offer ye a bit of friendly advice?” The warrior sat back in his chair, lazily surveying her. “Work a tad harder at hiding yer true feelings.”

“Or else?”

“Ye’ll never survive.”

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