A short trumpet burst saved him from having to say anything further, and gasps went up around the hall as two servants carried out a silver tray with a rampant unicorn sculpted of spun sugar. This meant the first course would be served presently, so he ushered the two ladies to the front of the royal dais, where he bowed and they curtsied to James and Margaret. Then they sat near the end of the cloth-covered trestle table to the right of the dais, the position of highest favor. Thankfully velvet cushions had been tied to the wooden bench; without them it would have been a hard endurance for arses large and small.
As much as the Great Hall remained too grand for his blood, it stung to know this would be his last feast in the king’s presence for a long while. He would miss James. Their pilgrimages to the four corners of Scotland, the bloodthirsty battles they had fought side by side, the thrill of defeating enemies and then enjoying the spoils of victory. And yet…the thought of hunts rather than war, a large feather bed with thick quilts in a warm chamber rather than a hard pallet in a corner, wasn’t entirely unappealing. Nor was protecting the two most beautiful women in Scotland—one pure fire, bold and brazen and fierce; the other spring rain, soothing and gentle and refreshing.
He’d lived for years with unrequited lust and tender feelings for Lady Janet. But something stirred within for Lady Marjorie as well, and the notion unsettled him.
Really, he needed to keep distance from them both.
If only to retain his own sanity.
…
After a lifetime of plain convent food, the countless trays carried out by a small army of servants made her dizzy.
Marjorie tried not to make owl eyes at the colorful, heavenly-scented array, but it was nigh on impossible. Whole chickens, duck, geese, swans, even fully dressed peacocks. Haunches of beef and venison, boars’ heads with apples in their mouths, pies, jellies, and several kinds of cooked vegetables. Her stomach rumbled, and she licked her lips and stared down at the pewter plate sitting in front of her, lest anyone see how ravenously hungry she was. The bread and butter with small ale she’d had at sunrise seemed a thousand years ago now.
With admirable efficiency, the servants placed a selection of the dishes into the large stale-bread trencher sitting halfway between her and the man sitting to her left. Lady Janet and Sir Lachlan would share one, but unfortunately she had to eat with a stranger.
“You’re the Hepburn lass,” said the well-dressed man, glaring at her, his gray-flecked beard twitching in affront. “Bad blood.”
“Sir,” she began, but he’d already rudely turned away. Nor did he ask what she might like to sample from their shared trencher before carefully using his eating knife to cut slices of meat and a spoon for vegetables and other soft dishes, as was proper and clean.
No, he was using his hands.
Her stomach rebelled at the sight of fingers trailing through sauce and handling meat, and Marjorie pressed her fingertips to her mouth.
“Not hungry, lady?”
She glanced to her right at Sir Lachlan’s words and watched in envy as he wielded his ruby-hilted dagger with precision to cut choice slices of venison for Lady Janet and place them on her plate.
“N-no,” she whispered miserably as, of course, her stomach chose that moment to gurgle like a thunderclap.
Sir Lachlan stared at her, his thick black brows drawing ominously together. “You lie.”
Marjorie bit her lip. This close, the Beast looked even darker and more fearsome, and she could only see Lady Janet if she leaned well forward or back. Yet her hunger pains had clearly addled her mind, for even more than before, she wanted to touch him. Stroke that jagged scar on his face. Smooth his hair. Even answer him honestly.
Taking a deep breath for courage, she tugged on Sir Lachlan’s sleeve so he might lean down. “The man said I had bad blood. And used his hands in the trencher. He touched everything. I don’t think he wishes to share with me. See…like he’s doing now.”
“Wait, lady.”
In one surprisingly graceful movement, he stood and stepped back over the bench. A moment later, there was a muffled choking sound, and the stranger was no longer sitting beside her but hanging in midair.
By the saints, Sir Lachlan had him by the throat!
Gasping, Marjorie looked left and right, utterly unsure of what to do. People farther along the bench were still eating and talking. Did this happen often? Should she say something? Summon help?
“Sir Lachlan!” boomed a voice from the dais. “Lord Kerr is turning as red as your doublet. What is his crime?”
“Poor manners, Your Grace,” replied the Beast, shaking the man as though he weighed no more than a feather.
King James nodded. “I see. Best remove him from my Hall, then. I’ll only have guests who know how to behave. Do set him on his feet, though.”
Sir Lachlan actually scowled but allowed the drooling, shaking man to leave, which he did at great pace. Just as swiftly, a servant removed the spoiled trencher. Now others at the table were watching her, some from across the room as well. A few were laughing and pointing, but most were censorious. Queen Margaret’s stony gaze expressed pure dislike.
Marjorie’s stomach rumbled again, and she fought the urge to weep. The sooner she could leave Stirling Castle, the better.
“Choose, lady.”
Startled, she looked up to see Sir Lachlan gesturing at a refreshed trencher being held by two smiling servants.
He had arranged food for her. After removing the man who had been so ill mannered, albeit rather violently.
“Ah, anything, r-really,” stammered Marjorie, her mind still trying to piece together what had just happened. “Whatever is easiest.”
“What do you wish?” he asked.
And there it was—the question she had waited her whole life to hear. Not from family or a friend but a man she had met mere hours
