“I was taught to believe most things are possible. And I have never known the MacKinnish men to be a fanciful lot. If they believe it . . .” She trailed off, not wanting to say too much out in the open.
“But still, I appreciate the difficult position you’re in, my lady.”
“Màiri, please.”
When Greyson smiled as he did now, his resemblance to Ian was more apparent than ever.
“Has there been any word?” She did not clarify, but he seemed to understand. According to Alastair, Ian and Greyson’s family traveled from Castle Lochlavine, so it could be a fortnight or more before they arrived.
“None, unfortunately.”
“My apologies.”
Marian came rushing out then, closing the wooden door behind her. Her husband grasped her hand the moment she reached his side. Showing affection in front of others must not be as unusual in their time.
And of course, as they walked to the hall, Màiri found herself thinking of her kiss with Ian. As she did when she woke each day, when she sat next to him at the evening meal, when she lay in bed each night . . .
Was he still back in his bedchamber? Or had he already gone to the hall? He might not want her as a wife, but he could have at least escorted her belowstairs.
Her curiosity about his whereabouts only grew when he failed to appear at the meal . . . or afterward. Pretending his absence did not bother her, Màiri went about her morning, and then afternoon, as usual. She resisted asking after him.
The day drew on unbearably, her loneliness made keener by everyone else’s lightheartedness. When Greyson and Marian accompanied her back into the hall that evening, conversation and laughter filled her ears as soon as they stepped inside. Her father called thiset cessabit. Times of peace when training was halted and . . . she looked around the hall, soaking it in. For now, the joy of being alive and fed was foremost on everyone’s minds. She wished to take part in it, but . . .
“You’re looking thoughtful.”
That voice. Màiri hated that the sound of it should affect her so—as if she’d suddenly come alive again.
“Good eve, Ian.”
“I’ve been looking for you.”
“I’ve just arrived,” she said stiffly, “escorted by Greyson and Marian.”
He looked every bit a MacKinnish, making the fact that he’d evidently traveled to this time with the help of Fae magic all the more unbelievable. Tartan draped over his broad shoulder, Ian McCaim could easily pass for Ian MacKinnish.
“Will you dine with me tonight?”
She glanced toward the dais, where she’d been headed before Ian had stopped her.
“We’ve dined together every night,” Màiri said, confused.
“Not in the hall.”
The vespers bell rang then, a signal for all to move to their seats.
“Come with me.”
Curious now, if only because this was the most they’d spoken since her father had left, she followed Ian through the back door leading to the kitchens. But instead of entering them, they turned toward a closed door. Taking a wall torch with him, Ian opened it and led her down the spiral stone staircase.
“Can you see okay?”
Màiri could see well enough, but that didn’t mean she understood what was happening.
“You asked that I dine with you, and yet . . .”
He turned a corner, and she followed. Still curious. Mayhap a tad apprehensive.
“Here.”
