DRESSING FOR DINNER
“Must I see another suitor?”
Amabel du Mas rolled her eyes. She heard her younger sister laugh behind her and shot Alina an inquiring look.
“What?” Alina said playfully. “It's going to have to be one of us. And frankly, I’d rather you than me.” She grinned and adjusted the silver fillet that held her dark hair off her brow.
Amabel threw a roll of ribbon at her sister, but it missed. They both laughed, though for Amabel, at least, the merriment faded quickly.
The two girls were in Amabel's chamber at the top of Lochlann Castle. They were dressing for dinner where, they had been informed that morning, they would be meeting another suitor. The fourth one in two weeks.
Amabel hated it. They both did. But there was no escape. Their uncle Brien, Earl of Cawley, had said it would be so, and there was nothing they could do or say. Amabel looked out through the arched window over the castle courtyard. She could see the tile and thatch roofs of the town of Lochlann stretching beyond their castle's mighty walls. Up above the town, the sky was gray and she wished, not for the first time, she could take off and fly like the swifts and swallows, escaping this place forever. She sighed.
“Thank you, sister, for your observation.” She turned to Alina with an arch smile. “I had not expected any enthusiastic takers for the task. Who wants to be a bride for the latest ambitious fortune-hunter.”
Alina looked sad. “Exactly. You are worth more than that, sister.”
Amabel felt her throat choke up. Her sister's words touched her deepest hurt. But she would not let herself cry. Not now. She was the lady of Lochlann Castle since her mother's passing, and she would be impassive and dignified. She inspected her nails distractedly, noticing the gold ring emblazoned with the swallow of Lochlann. It had been her mother's, and she always wore it now. It seemed an odd emblem, this delicate bird, for her mother's powerful clan. But then, she had always considered swallows magical, so it seemed appropriate.
“Well, I'd offer to stand in for you,” Chrissie replied from the corner of the room. She stroked tangled bright curls back from her face with a little frown. “But I'm only the youngest of all us cousins, so I don't think I'd do.”
Amabel smiled. “I appreciate the fact that someone wants to. But I am the eldest, and it has to be me.”
Thirteen-year-old Chrissie, earnestly pretty, with a heart-shaped face, rosebud mouth and bouncy curls, was the daughter of Amabel's aunt Frances. Amabel and, particularly, Alina, felt fiercely protective of her since Frances died, leaving her an orphan. Under the protection of Lord Brien, Earl of Cawley, their ambitious great-uncle.
“Don't offer to marry too soon,” Amabel advised her young cousin. “I'm sure your turn will come, soon enough.”
“Really?” The girl looked at her with big eyes. She seemed excited at the prospect and Amabel wanted to weep for her.
“Don't doubt it,” Amabel assured her.
Alina's tranquil eyes met Amabel's and the two older women shared a more serious look. They both understood, even if their cousin did not, the reason for their uncle's insistence they marry soon. He was unstoppably ambitious, and he knew the worth of the three cousins for strategic and territorial gains. Stone-hearted, he would grant their hand to any who would make a good ally. This left all three of them, but particularly Amabel and Alina, the eldest of the great-nieces, in peril.
They could be married to anyone. Absolutely anyone: cruel or kind, likeable or indifferent, bonny or not – at his whim. Anyone who would bring him greatest advance for his ambition. They had already had some near escapes and were not sure how much longer their luck could save them.
“You have seen three suitors this month, thus far?” Alina asked levelly. She came to join Amabel at the window.
“Yes,” Amabel said stonily.
“The Thane of Lennoch?” Alina inquired. “What happened to him? I thought our uncle had settled on him?”
“He was settled,” Amabel agreed. “Then, it seems, he decided against it. If I were to guess, I would say he discovered their laird was not that well connected.”
“Ah.” Alina raised a brow.
Amabel sighed. All their great-uncle cared about was ingratiating himself with King Alexander. Everything he could do to cement his influence at court, he would do. Their great uncle's only child, cousin Colla, was already married to the Duke of Athol. That gave her uncle enough of a hold at court, but evidently it was not enough for him. The sisters privately wondered if Uncle Brien did not seek the crown.
“Uncle Brien is an ambitious man,” was all Amabel said now.
Alina nodded. She compressed her lips to hide a smile. “Who is this one?”
“He is... no one,” Amabel said tightly. She wanted very badly to cry.
“No one?” Alina inquired. “How can he be?”
“He is some minor thane from some obscure fortress on the eastern borders of our land,” Amabel said thinly.
Alina stared at her.
Amabel rolled her eyes. How could Uncle Brien consider some nobody? Even go so far as inviting him to dine? What was it about this nobody that interested him?
“What?” Chrissie asked curiously. She was watching them intently, listening in even as she pretended to search through the box of ribbons on the dressing table.
“Well… if we wish to be ready for dinnertime and halfway presentable,” Alina replied quickly, “I think I ought to untangle that cloud of curls. To the dressing table with you!”
Amabel smiled her thanks. Her sister knew how overwrought she was feeling and had granted her some time to think. Lacing her fingers together, Amabel walked across the long bedchamber and headed for the far window. Looking down over the gray, rain-spotted roofs, she contemplated her uncle's harsh decree.
How can he think of marrying me to someone with nothing to recommend him? Why would he do such a thing? Amabel shuddered at the thought of being married to some coarse countryman, someone who could barely count and certainly not write, someone with appalling manners. Someone who lived in some drafty hall with the barest amenities. Not only would she lose all chance at love, she would lose everything that mattered most to her: refinement, beauty, the good things in life.
I wish Mother was still alive. Accounts said she was a strong woman. She had all but defied Lord Lochlann when she married their father, the French envoy at court. It was a love match, or so Amabel was told. She wished she could have the same, with all her heart.
“...and when I marry, I know what I want!” Chrissie was saying proudly, as if she had guessed the topic of Amabel's thoughts. “I want to marry someone like Heath.”
Heath Fraser was a fosterling from the MacConnells, a small but ambitious clan. He was a year or two older than Chrissie, and she was clearly besotted with him.
“I am sure the family would be very encouraging of the match,” Alina said reassuringly.
“Truly?” Chrissie frowned, her pretty face crinkled up. “You think so?”
Amabel saw Alina sigh. “Yes, dear.”
“But why? Why could I marry Heath, but you or Amabel has to marry someone Uncle says you must?”
Alina teased the comb through a particularly stubborn knot. “Well, it's like this. Amabel and I are older, so by the time we are married off, perhaps Uncle will be established at court.”
“You think so?”
“Yes.”
Amabel grinned to see her sister so motherly. Alina had assumed the role of Chrissie's mother when Lady Frances died four years ago, though there were only six years between the two girls in age.
“What would you want your husband to be like, Alina?” Chrissie asked.
Alina frowned and reached up to adjust the silver fillet that held her hair back. Amabel knew she was giving herself time to think.
“I do not know, dear,” she said honestly. “I do not think much about it.”
Chrissie looked horrified. “But, Alina! You must! Why, I think it is all I think about some days!”
They all laughed, and Chrissie went pink.
“I think I would like someone... unusual,” Alina said eventually. “Someone who knew himself and who knows his mind. A strong character, but not a feckless sort. A man who spends his time thinking, as I do. Who has strong ideals, a good heart.”
Amabel blinked. That is a wise answer. Such a man would suit Alina perfectly.
Chrissie looked surprised.
“But what would you want him to look like?”
They all giggled.
“What?” Chrissie asked impatiently.
Alina rolled her eyes at her and then kissed her fondly on the head.
“Never you mind. I don't. Mind, that is, about how he looks. As long as he was kind, wise, and fair of heart, I could not care less.” She finished her cousin's hair, plaiting deftly, and coiling the plaits up with some pink ribbon.
Chrissie looked rather confused. After a moment, she shrugged and turned to Amabel.
“What about you? What would you want your future husband to be?”
“Well…” Amabel decided to be as broad as possible. “I want someone with a brain in his head and boots on his feet. Someone who rides and fights but who can also talk sensibly about all types of things. Someone who has a practical bent, but who can eat at table without spilling half the contents of his bowl. Braw and strapping wouldn't hurt, either.”
The two women looked at her. Then they burst out laughing.
Her sister's heavy-lidded French gaze met hers levelly.
“I don't believe a word. I am sure you want more from a husband.”
Amabel sighed. There was no arguing with Alina. Amabel was actually very selective and so far, none of the suitors had come even close to fulfilling her hopes. I doubt this one will be any different.
An hour later, the three women descended the staircase to dinner. Amabel had chosen a dark green velvet gown that hung to the floor, emphasizing her slender, tall body. She was a contrast beside Alina, dark-eyed, dark-haired and wearing a velvet dress in a blue so deep it could be black. Chrissie, dressed in white linen, her curls plaited and rolled into coils over her ears, walked behind them, craning to see over their shoulders.
In the doorway of the dining room, Amabel halted.
On the dais, at Lord Lochlann's table, sat a small delegation. Two men-at-arms, a monk. And a fourth man. The reason for her pause was the fourth man.
He had dark eyes, close-cropped hair, and a neatly trimmed black beard. He wore a black jerkin and trousers, the jerkin tight over his wide shoulders, loose over his trim waist. He looked into her eyes, and she saw his gaze widen, surprise written on his face, and something that looked like fear or wonder – she was not sure which. But it moved her heart.
An instant later, the peace was shattered as a man ran, shouting, into the room.
“Lord Lochlann! Help! We are being attacked!”