Page 24 of How to Be a Scottish Mistress

Merciful heavens. She didn’t doubt he was offering her friendly advice. Which naturally begged the question—what would those who wished her ill say?

Fiona let out a long breath and looked across the hall. Father Niall was seated one table below, his head bent close in conversation to a man dressed in priest’s robes. Her maid, Alice, was nowhere to be seen.I must remember to make sure food was provided to her.

Fiona glanced down at her nearly full trencher of bread, wishing there was an easy way to spirit it out of the hall. ’Twould rather neatly solve two problems—bringing food to her maid and freeing Fiona from trying to choke down another morsel of the heavy, rich fare.

Distracted, she picked at her food while taking in all the activity of the great hall. There were plenty of servants moving about, bringing food and drink to the men and women seated at the lower trestle tables. ’Twas a large crowd and most were in good spirits, talking and laughing amongst themselves, though one table of guardsmen was shouting and rudely banging their empty tankards on the table, demanding more ale and wine.

It was then that Fiona spied Spencer among the ranks of the squires, his features twisted with anxiety as he scurried to do the soldiers’ bidding. Her stomach heaved with fear at the sight of his clumsy movements. He shouldn’t be there, serving these heathens. ’Twas bound to end in disaster.

No sooner had the thought formed in her mind, Spencer lost his footing and pitched forward. Instinctively his arms thrust out and he was able to save himself from hitting his face on the stone floor. But the metal pitcher of ale he carried did not fare as well. It bounced as it crashed to the ground, the contents splashing high in the air.

Laughter rang out as most of it landed on a brutish-looking warrior with a nasty scar on his thick forearm.

“The ale goes in the tankard, lad, not on the face,” one of the men shouted.

“About time Donald had a proper bath,” another teased, and a second round of laughter erupted among the men.

“Dammit, lad, watch what yer doing!” Donald’s beefy hand swung out, cuffing Spencer on the back of the head. “Spill another drop of that good ale on me and I’ll be spilling yer blood on the rushes!”

The hall went silent at the outburst. Fiona rose purposefully from her seat, but the earl placed a restraining hand upon her arm. “Leave it.”

“But, my lord—”

“I told ye, Spencer willnae be given any special treatment. He must learn his duties just like the other squires. And he must also learn the consequences of failure.”

“Beg pardon, sir,” Spencer said to the angry soldier.

Fiona heard the trembling in Spencer’s voice as he offered an apology. Which was soundly ignored. His eyes grew enormous in his pale face as he stepped aside to elude another blow from the unforgiving Donald. Spencer wobbled, yet through sheer force of will managed to stay on his feet.

Fiona’s heart sank like a rock. She felt powerless, sitting there like a witless fool, watching the drama unfold without being able to do anything to prevent it.

“If that oaf harms my son . . .” she began, clamping her hands together until her knuckles turned white.

“He willnae,” the earl insisted. “Trust me.”

Sod off.Dear Lord, that’s what she wanted to say—nay, to shout. But instead she held herself very still, allowing the words she dared not speak to reverberate in her head.

Donald bit out a crude oath and lunged for Spencer, but this time he never got close. One of the men seated at his table blocked the blow, then two others held him back.

Donald couldn’t mask his fury or frustration. He struggled to free himself, his expression nearly murderous. Fiona’s heart stopped. If either man lost his grip, Spencer would be grievously injured.

Do something!She wanted to reach over, grab the earl by his broad shoulders, shake him until his teeth rattled, and then scream the words at him in her loudest voice.

The earl visibly tensed, and she realized the hysteria in her eyes had alerted him to her anguish. He turned to Duncan. The two men exchanged a look, then Duncan nodded.

“A swim in the loch will cool Donald’s temper,” Duncan shouted, rising to his feet. “Shall we help him, men?”

“Into the loch!” One of the retainers took up the challenge and the hall soon reverberated with the chant.

“Into the loch! Into the loch!”

Fists pounded on the trestle tables as the cries grew louder. The mood turned celebratory. A protesting Donald was lifted on the shoulders of several men and carried from the hall. A few giggling serving wenches followed, along with some of the squires, a smiling Spencer among them.

The noise level returned to a hum of conversation as the attention shifted back to the meal. Fiona lifted her goblet and took a long sip of wine, hardly believing that disaster had been averted.

“I told ye there was no need fer worry. My men are tough, but they know I willnae tolerate thoughtless cruelty,” the earl said, placing his hand over hers.

Fiona’s pulse spiked. The feel of his flesh against hers made her tremble. The residual effects of her anxiety over Spencer? Or was it something else?

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