Màiri decided not to comment.
“Who is he?”
She frowned. “Ambrose . . .”
It was as far as she got before Ian choked on his wine.
“Ambrose? Seriously? Sounds like my brother’s Yale friends.”
None of which meant anything to her, although she understood he was making a jest. At her friend’s expense. Màiri glared at him, and he pressed his lips together in an apparent attempt to stop laughing.
“’Tis a fine name,” she countered.
“And I’m sure he is a fine man.”
Somewhat pacified, as he seemed sincere, she answered, “He is indeed a fine man. We’ve been friends since childhood and planned to marry.”
“So why didn’t you?”
Màiri glanced at her father.
“Ahhh. I see.”
Ian’s brother said something to him then, and Màiri was left to observe the great hall of Hightower Castle. She’d not visited the castle for over a year, and there were subtle changes it had taken her a while to notice. Fresh rushes, scented too. And it appeared all of the tapestries had been cleaned, their bright colors more vibrant than she remembered. Bronze and silver gleamed from every table. Although not known for their excesses, Clan MacKinnish was wealthy. Their close connection to Clan Bruce had increased their influence.
Even when her father had been allied with the Bruce, he’d never been particularly taken with the man. Over the years he and the elder Bruce had seemed to disagree on more than they did not. The recent attack on Balliol land had infuriated him, so much so that he still had not agreed to renew his support.
Màiri tried to avoid Ambrose’s gaze, but she could feel him looking at her.
“Do you love him?”
Would his intimate questions never cease? Màiri’s answer was swift. “Aye, I love him.”
And yet, she could not prevent herself from thinking of what Alana had said—that her love for Ambrose was that of a dear friend. There was no denying his kiss had not made her feel the same way her husband’s had.
“You’re dangerous, Màiri.”
She glanced up to see Ian looking straight at her again.
“Pardon?”
“I’ll explain more later. In the meantime, I promised you a talk with your friend. Go. Everyone is too drunk to notice.”
She stared at him incredulously. What sort of man pushed his new wife toward another, particularly on their wedding night? One who cared little for her. Of course, they’d just met. But something about it rankled.
Still, she very much wished to speak to Ambrose. To ask why he’d not come sooner, when something might have been done to prevent the marriage.
“You are sure?”
Ian smiled so broadly, the two indentations in his cheeks appeared.
An odd sensation overtook her, and she forgot precisely what they had been discussing.
“Dangerous,” he repeated, though she had no notion of what he meant.
Remembering what they’d discussed, what he’d agreed to, she stood and placed her goblet back onto the table. Then, thinking of what was to come this night—her talk with Ambrose and the wedding bed—she snatched it back up.
The sound of her husband’s laughter echoed all the way through the hall.
