also marched him to the dungeon or beheaded him right then and there. Instead, there had been an invite for breaking fast and more words exchanged that she couldn’t fully understand since most were lost with the distance between them.
Pushing herself away from the door, Ailsa hastily grabbed her shears she kept in her room and strategically folded them into the pleats of her belt and gown. Her father might have confiscated Lochmore’s weapons, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t have hers. If Lochmores were invited to dine at McCrieffs’ table, she would be ready.
* * *
‘Your Chief is bedridden and you are Tanist,’ Rory said, repeating her father’s words slowly.
He sounded stunned. Ailsa was stunned as well, but at least this fact she knew. Everything else was as much a surprise to her as it was to the man who sat on her father’s left side while she sat at his right.
Her shears tucked into her belt, she had descended the stairs, a roaring in her ears as introductions were made. As the proximity to this Lochmore filled in the details the distance of the courtyard had not revealed.
His eyes were not the dark brown of earth, but held the light of a gem lit behind it. His size was formidable as she’d thought. Yet it wasn’t that which made her eyes unerringly fall to him again and again. There was something about him that compelled her. It felt like a tincture of awe and wariness.
She shouldn’t have felt either. Lochmores didn’t deserve admiration, and as for wariness...her father had unarmed them all. They weren’t out on the battlefield, but in the comfort of McCrieff Hall, eating and drinking food. Decent food, too. Not the usual fare. Her father had ordered a true feast for this occasion. Ailsa had never seen the Hall so full. There were three tables in the hall. Theirs, the smallest that sat no more than ten on one side, was perpendicular to the two larger tables. Lochmores kept to one side, their backs to the wall and they faced the inside, faced the McCrieffs.
She focused her thoughts on that. There might be no battlefield, but the men had sat as if there was. That was the cause of her wariness. Not this man who bore the name of Rory.
‘The Chief is bedridden and has been for months,’ Frederick replied.
‘And you didn’t think to notify us, though we sent letters regarding the King’s demand?’ Rory said.
‘His illness has nothing to do with our lack of reply, Lochmore.’
‘Then you are the one who ignored them so we could dine here. A letter to that effect would have been more agreeable. Or at least more comfortable for me, since I would have worn different clothing.’
‘Your being comfortable doesn’t concern me.’
‘Nor my safety.’
‘You’re alive.’
‘Without a weapon, so I wonder for how long.’
‘Isn’t it enough that you eat at our table?’ Ailsa knew it was rude to talk around her father, but would not hold her tongue when it seemed the King made demands she knew nothing of. A serving tray laid out with vegetables and covered in a rosemary sauce was presented, giving her an opportunity to break the argument between the two men. ‘Are these leeks not fine enough for you?’
Rory’s gaze fell to her and she refused to look away. A full dining hall and her father between them and yet no one else existed. The tray lowered and broke their line of sight, but only for a moment. A moment more while his eyes remained on the tray and the leeks were laid upon his trencher.
Those few brief breaths allowed her to reflect on the curl of his brown hair, the squareness of his jaw, the strong brow with eyebrows that slashed as if they had a purpose. He looked as if he had a purpose.
Then his gaze was on her again. ‘The leeks look delicious,’ he said, stabbing one with his knife, ‘but are insufficient if I wanted to defend myself.’
What was happening here? ‘Why do you need to defend yourself?’
His mouth quirked as if she told something amusing. ‘We are enemies, are we not?’
Frustrated at her useless question and his fruitless answer, Ailsa searched the Hall for the truth.
She sat where she always sat with her father since Hamish no longer could sit at the same table, yet she didn’t feel as if she was in the same chair, the same Hall or in the same place she’d always been.
This wasn’t a battle and yet it felt as though it was. Deadly silence and watchful stares. Food was served, but no trenchers were shared. Every man had his own goblet. Where the extra spoons, food or goblets came from she didn’t know. She also didn’t know how her father arranged such elaborate plans without her knowing.
On a typical day, by now there would be banter, and arrangements made for tomorrow. Instead, a few of the McCrieffs farthest away from the Lochmores murmured heatedly, and one Lochmore closest to their table kept up a conversation no one engaged in.
This wasn’t a typical meal and, no matter how much she observed everyone here, she knew there was more division in the room than that between Lochmore and McCrieff. Only she couldn’t identify the ‘others’ her father had spoken of.
Only Rory and her father exchanged words and she’d never heard her father be so diplomatic or evasive before. They were enemies, but something else was amiss. She needed him to convey to her why.
‘Is Hamish here?’ Rory addressed her father.
‘Upstairs,’ Frederick said. ‘It will be necessary for you to see him after we break the fast.’
‘Necessary for what?’ Ailsa demanded.
Frederick was turned away from her and Ailsa couldn’t see her father’s face, but she saw Rory’s. Keen intelligence burned in his eyes and he must have seen her father’s hesitation. She saw it in the slight tenseness of Frederick’s shoulders before Rory answered.
‘Necessary to discuss the King’s granting McCrieff land to Lochmores.’
‘Land!’ Ailsa cried.
Rory glanced to Frederick before he pinned her with a dark gaze. ‘Why else did you think I was invited to eat leeks with you?’
Ailsa pushed away from the table. The sharp scrape echoed in the Hall and earned her glances.
‘Ailsa, please.’ Her father turned to her, his eyes darting to others in case their conversation was overheard.
This. This was what had been plaguing the clan. Not her father’s position or Hamish’s illness. An English King decreed McCrieff land to Lochmores and they were here to collect.
Aware of Rory’s eyes on her, she laid her hand on her father’s arm. ‘All of it?’
‘Some,’ her father whispered low. ‘Along the water.’
Reeling, Ailsa gripped her father’s arm. Her father had been acting strange for weeks. Nothing untoward for everything was kept to a routine that was sustained by the Chief before him. Hamish was still too cognisant to do otherwise. Months of her father attending council meetings, inspecting land, conversing with tenants.
