Page 72 of Rebellion's Fire

Findlaech grinned, bowed, and sat, and the buzz of conversation rose up, granting her a reprieve.

It was a pattern for the whole meal. Although the family and Christian sat at the top table, the rest of the household seemed to see nothing wrong in addressing them during the meal. Likewise, the family, would occasionally shout questions or jocular comments down the hall.

On the other hand, like Findlaech, no one appeared to overstep the bounds of civility. The people joked but never derided or used unfit language. They seemed not remotely in awe of the MacHeths. This would have surprised the southern Scots, who, if they hadn’t personally suffered under MacHeth depredations, always knew someone who had. But still, there was a line that no one crossed. It might have been drawn in a different place than William’s, but it was there.

“You find us informal,” Donald said beside her.

“Intriguingly so,” Christian replied honestly.

“Different customs,” Donald said, “added to three years of warfare and the absence of the earl, my father.”

“It works for you.” She hesitated, but here in the MacHeths’ hall, bluntness seemed to be in order. “Talking of warfare, have you been fighting with my husband?”

Donald smiled. It wasn’t a comforting smile. “Not since we last met,” he replied, not troubling to hide his regret.

“Then you have not been to Tirebeck?”

“We came close. There are parties out searching for you. We avoided them. But apart from your absence, I believe all is well there for the moment.”

“Then, when I return tomorrow, there will be no need for any more fighting.”

Donald picked up his wine cup. “That would rather depend on whether or not your husband takes exception to our hospitality. It would make us—my mother and my brother and sister and me—very happy if you would stay.”

As with Adam, a great deal seemed to go on behind Donald’s eyes. And behind his words, both more comprehensible and less straightforward than Adam’s. She sensed no enmity from Donald. But Cailean and Sigurd had been watching Tirebeck for them. Everyone knew her true status as William’s wife, which was not the same as her status as lady.

“You are kind,” she said, lifting her eyes to his. She felt almost as she had when she’d confessed to his brother her worthlessness as a wife. “But by staying away, I neglect my people. And I damage my position as Lady of Tirebeck.”

Donald only smiled again. “In the eyes of your people, it is natural that their lady should visit the Lady of Ross.”

They wouldn’t understand. This was impossible.

Unexpectedly, the Lady of Ross herself leaned forward and spoke up. “She isn’t just the Lady of Tirebeck. She is also the Lady de Lanson. It’s like walking on a slender rope across a river in flood.”

“What is?” Donald asked, clearly baffled.

“Loyalty,” Halla said shortly. “A woman is expected to follow her husband’s.”

And certainly, no one could fault the Lady of Ross there. But if they were speaking of honesty…

“My loyalty is not just to my husband,” Christian said clearly. “It is to the King of Scots.”

There was a short silence, into which a cup thudded on wood.

From his place farther along the table, Adam said. “Then we’d best hurry and change the King of Scots.”

Which was greeted with a surge of laughter around the hall that told her exactly how many people had been listening.

As the laughter died away, a different sound cut through the general noise of eating—the cry of a baby, somewhere at the back of the hall. By itself, the cry would hardly have attracted Christian’s interest, except that in her direct line of vision, a comely young maidservant in the act of pouring ale for Findlaech whipped her head toward the noise and froze.

Findlaech expostulated as his ale spilled over, and the girl muttered something, swinging around, her eyes seeking and finding the Lady of Ross, who lifted her head in subtle and yet clear dismissal. The maid smiled, abandoning her ale, and skipped down the hall to one of the tables at the back, where she took a bundle from another woman.

Christian looked away, found Halla’s eyes upon her. Hastily, she searched for something to say just to divert the conversation from babies and barrenness.

“Muiredach,” the lady called. “I think it’s time for some music. Something sweet and soothing.”

Christian watched a lean, handsome young man in a green tunic rise from the table below and walk across the hall to the harp. It seemed the lady had her own musician.

With relief, Christian found a topic she imagined was safe. “My lady, do you remember the fire at Tirebeck when I was a child?”

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