9
Ambrose was herein the hall, dining with the other wedding guests.
When her new husband had offered the invitation, Màiri had not expected him to accept it. Especially not this evening. But as her father and Ross MacKinnish toasted their renewed alliance—part of the marriage agreement—she noticed him at the very back of the hall. Wouldn’t the laird of Clan MacKinnish be surprised when he returned. She’d heard he had been away but was due to arrive back home soon.
Màiri had eaten the meal mostly in silence. She was seated on the dais next to her new husband, Grey, Marian, and Ross. It was difficult to believe she was now wed, her dream of marrying Ambrose gone. And he’d never even come to her until it was over.
“There’s no need to cover it,” he said, the remark delivered in his deep, husky voice.
Màiri pulled the pewter wine goblet toward her. She’d never drunk more than two at one time before, but this felt like the perfect occasion to do so.
“’Tis a habit.” She hadn’t even realized she’d done it this time.
“It’s beautiful.”
Her heart leapt at his words, but she dismissed the sentiment. Surely her mark was anything but. She had seen it more than once in her reflection on polished brass. And had lived with odd looks from strangers that proved otherwise.
“I’m not kidding. It’s unique, a part of you. And you are a beautiful woman, Màiri.”
Màiri. He spoke her given name as if they were familiar. Which was perhaps the right of it. They were married now.
“Many thanks”—she tried out his name on her lips as well—“Ian.”
Màiri leaned forward to look at her father sitting on the other side of Ross MacKinnish. He was glancing at her too, and although she could not discern his expression, it lacked any heat. Truthfully, after that first day, he’d acted more relieved than upset. He despised Clan Dern that much.
When she looked back at Ian, he was staring at her, his eyes like liquid gold. Piercing. That he did not look away made Màiri want to, but she held his gaze instead. Reminded of their meeting less than a sennight before, she felt her cheeks grow warm.
“That look is what got us into this mess.”
Even though she agreed the situation was indeed a mess, Màiri hated to hear the words aloud. This was certainly not what she had envisioned for her wedding day.
“I look at you as I would any man.”
“Ha!”
She should be offended by his laughter, but instead she found herself smiling.
Ian leaned closer to her. “Your father said I was the first man you’ve ever kissed, but I know that isn’t true.”
Màiri’s back straightened. “You accuse me of being loose? ’Tis a fine way to begin a marriage.”
His expression changed in a way she didn’t understand. She narrowed her eyes. “Where are you from that your manner of speech is so brazen?”
He took a sip of wine as if giving himself more time to answer her question. Did he not know from where he hailed?
“I am from many places,” he finally said, “the most interesting one being here, in this very moment.”
It was not much of an answer, and they both knew it. What was he hiding? Màiri knew only that he was the son of Laird MacKinnish’s sister-in-law. So why had he never been to Hightower before? For the two clans were close enough that she would have heard of the man if he’d made a previous visit.
“You did not answer my question,” she pressed.
Musicians played as the guests finished the final course of the meal. But Màiri could not revel in the celebratory atmosphere of the evening. She could barely eat a bite. Finally, she stopped resisting and looked into the crowd. Ambrose was watching them, just as he had been when last she’d looked.
“Ahh. So he’s the one you’ve kissed?” Ian whispered. “I wondered.”
She looked at her husband sharply. “’Tis not proper to discuss.”
“I am now wed to you because your father believes our indiscretion was your first. So yes, it is a proper topic of discussion.”
