Eight people sat at the high table, and Malcolm bore a striking resemblance to the middle-aged man in the seat of highest honor. Must be the lord of the castle, and his lady was seated to his right. Another middle-aged couple flanked the lord’s left, followed by a lovely young woman who might be around her age. Liam and Robley were next to Malcolm. There were two empty chairs. One between Malcolm and his cousins and another at the very end near the young woman. She set out for the open spot next to the very safe-looking woman.
Malcolm stood. “Father, Mother, this is Lady Alethia Goodsky. My lady, this is my father, the earl of Fife, and my mother, Lady Lydia. You already know Liam and Robley, and these are their parents, my Uncle Robert and his lady wife, Rosemary. My younger sister Elaine is seated to Rosemary’s left.” He gestured to the empty seat next to his. “Come. You must be hungry, aye?”
Drat. So much for her plan to sit next to Elaine. Alethia executed a perfect curtsy, courtesy of many months of practice at all the fake courts in every fair she’d ever worked. “I thank you for your kind hospitality.”
“We all enjoyed your music earlier today, lass.” The earl’s eyes twinkled with warmth. “’Tis my wish that we might hear you play again this eve, if that is agreeable to you.”
“It would be my pleasure.”
“We’ll have someone fetch your instrument.” The earl gestured to the seat next to Malcolm. “Come, sit. ’Tis high time we ate.”
Alethia exchanged a shy smile with Malcolm’s sister and made her way to the chair Malcolm had pulled out for her. Her knee brushed against his thigh as she settled herself, and a current of electricity raced through her body.
“Let us bow our heads and give thanks for the food we are about to receive.” The earl’s voice reverberated throughout the hall. “Join hands.”
Oh great. Just what she needed. Everyone made the sign of the cross, and Alethia imitated their movements. Malcolm took one hand, and Liam clasped the other. Odd, the hand Malcolm held was the only one she felt. All the while the earl droned on in Latin, the feel of Malcolm’s strong, callused warmth sent all kinds of sensations pulsing through her. Whoa. Not good. Finally grace ended, and she tugged her hand back.
Malcolm glanced her way, his eyes twinkling. He reached for her hand again and held on tight. “I’m no’ yet done giving thanks.”
“You don’t need my hand to continue,” she whispered, heat rising to her cheeks.
“Ah, but I do. Your gentle nature, my lady,” Malcolm said, rubbing the bruise on his lower lip with their clasped hands, “fills me with the reverence.” He brought their twined fingers to rest on his thigh.
Gulp. Her face turned to flame, and she tried her best to free herself. “For a moment there, while you made the introductions,” she said, managing to pull her hand free, “I almost gave you credit for being well mannered.”
He threw his head back and laughed, Robley and Liam joining in.
She seethed.
“Would you share my trencher, Lady Alethia?” Robley asked, gesturing toward the flattened slab of day-old bread they would use to hold their meal.
She graced him with her sweetest smile. “Gladly.”
Servants came with platters of food, and everyone began to serve themselves. Robley offered her pieces of lamb, root vegetables, and dark bread. How clean could their kitchen be? For that matter, how clean was the cook? If Beth was any indication, not very. Which was the greater risk: eating questionable food, or insulting her hosts? She took a tentative bite, surprised to find the meat tender and tasty. She hadn’t eaten a decent meal in two days, and she decided this meal was definitely worth the risk. Conversations buzzed all around her. She let her attention drift to the people sitting below the dais.
A disturbance toward the end of the long trestle table caught her attention. Something caused a ripple of movement among the diners farthest from the dais, where the villagers and crofters sat. People turned in their places, handing bits of bread, meat or vegetable to something small behind them. A dog?
No, not a hound. A small boy tugged on shirtsleeves until given a bite to eat, moving on to the next person once he’d taken the offered morsel. Dressed in rags with his hair a matted tangle, he seemed to be equal parts dirt and child. A quarrel broke out between two rough-looking men sitting directly behind the little beggar. One of them shouted and pounded his pewter mug on the table. The boy didn’t react in any way. He’s deaf.
Unable to look away, she gripped the edge of the table. As if he could feel her stare, he lifted his eyes to hers with a solemn expression at odds with his age. Her heart went out to him, and she couldn’t help but sense his loneliness and isolation. She wanted to wrap him in her arms, care for him and teach him to talk with his hands. Like her, he found himself in a frightening world impossible to navigate.