Never in her life had Alana felt more out of place.

She had suffered through great banquets at Douglas Stewart’s table, the men half-drunk before the meal even began and only growing worse as the night went on. She had even borne witness to celebrations which lasted three or four days.

She’d also witnessed the backbreaking work of cleaning up after such an event.

Those banquets and such had meant nothing but discomfort for her. Discomfort over being stared at by men who enjoyed laughing together over what they’d like to do to her. Discomfort over being the only woman in the immediate area. She had never much enjoyed the sight or sound or stench of a very drunken man, but she had learned to manage her disgust.

Sitting at Edward Remington’s right hand while he held a banquet was an entirely different matter.

For one, she had never so much in her life felt like the center of attention, and she loathed it. Even during clan banquets when the men had leered at her and shouted untoward comments, she’d been able to shrug her shoulders and blame their behavior on their rough upbringing and the lack of proper teaching in their youth.

What was the excuse, then, for a few dozen nobles who’d like as not received a fine education in all of the social arts and graces? Why did they not bother to hide their obscene interest in her?

They commented on her hair, her skin, her eyes, her height, her figure—right in front of her! To her face! It stretched the bounds of belief in her mind. Were these wretched, overdressed men and women never taught how terribly ungracious it was to stare and speak of a person as though they could not hear the conversation?

It was as though she weren’t really there.

Or as if they weren’t aware of her ability to speak English. As though they might voice their opinions with impunity because she could understand nothing they said.

Was that what they believed? Could it be possible?

“For a wild Scottish thing, she makes a good showing,” one of the women commented, fingering a jeweled brooch at her breast as though to draw attention to it. Or to her breast, half-revealed as it was in a low-cut gown.

“Yes, I suppose. Her mother was one of us, after all. I assume her English blood tamed the wild Scottish side of her,” her companion noted. She, like her friend, wore richly embroidered silk and jewels in her lustrous hair.

Much like all of the women present.

They were beautiful on the outside—stunningly so, really—but ugly within.

Would she become ugly, too, after spending enough time among them?

If her intended was aware of any of this, he gave no indication. He was far too busy holding conversations with the men, reliving their success during the morning’s hunt. They spoke of their dogs, the falcons their falconers had raised, other such tedious topics.

She sat in the middle of all of this, not belonging on either side. It was doubtful that the women would ever accept her, mean cats that they were. She would always be an outsider, an “other” unfit to be in their company no matter how many Remingtons she bore.

Why did Edward not turn to one of his kind for marriage?

Perhaps none of them would have him, she thought to herself, eyeing him from beneath lowered lashes. He was perhaps forty or fifty years of age—ancient in her opinion, but still reasonable for a man who never spent a day engaged in hard labor. He seemed capable of making pleasant conversation. He even sounded as though he’d been well-educated.

One glance around the castle was enough to prove his wealth. Alana could scarcely believe the sumptuous feast laid out before them—and this was not even the wedding feast, which promised to be much more lavish! Roast duck, sizzling pork, roast beef, four long tables in all loaded to the point where they seemed ready to collapse from the strain of tray after tray.

And the wine flowed as though there was a stream of it running past the castle. Endless amounts. She witnessed one rather portly man who she’d heard others address as “Lord” drink no fewer than eight cups and still call for more once that was through.

If Edward was truly wealthy enough to afford such a feast, why had he not found a bride before now?

Why would he debase himself with someone as low as herself? Not that she saw herself as being any lower than he—on the contrary, she considered him to be fairly vile—but he certainly felt that she was beneath him.

As did everyone present, based on their stares and whispers and the occasional ill-concealed laughter.

It was her mother’s blood and the fine family she’d been attached to. Alana had never learned the name. Douglas had never once spoken it aloud.

Evidently, it was enough to make up for her lack of finery, though Edward had provided a gown and one of her maids—no, ladies in waiting—had dressed her hair in an intricate mass of braids and curls. He’d seemed pleased with her appearance upon visiting her chambers earlier, commenting on the fullness of her figure and complimenting the smoothness of her skin.

To her horror, she had merely nodded and thanked him for saying so.

It was as if she had become a different person, which horrified her, no matter the reason. Even if it was merely a matter of surviving until she could feasibly escape, she betrayed herself every time she allowed one of his ill-mannered, unfeeling, overly-intimate comments to go by unchallenged.

What would happen to her if she stayed? Would she simply cease to exist? Would everything that had ever made her the person she was no longer be?

All the more reason to get out while she had the chance.

Edward raised his chalice then, encouraging the others to do the same. “I would like to make a toast to my good fortune in finding such a lovely bride. I am certain my Alana will make a good wife and bear me many fine children.”

The toast left her feeling cold. It was all about him, his good fortune, his luck. His children.

“To the happy couple!” one of the noblemen shouted—a bit too eager, but he was well past drunk by that point—and the rest of the room echoed the sentiment.

She wished she could speak. Just a single word to show them that no, she was not simple. She spoke English and understood every word they said.

Would that embarrass them? Force them to be a bit more polite to her?

It mattered not, for she was never granted the chance to speak in the smoke-filled room, the hearth and candles making it nearly impossible for her to see the wall opposite the one to her back.

She would have to wait until the recitation of her vows the following day, she supposed.

The night dragged endlessly on. Musicians entered once the food had been cleared away and began playing on the flute, the lyre, the tambourine. Some of the men and women around the room began to dance, others to clap in time with the music.

Wine flowed heavier than ever, and the more the men drank, the greater their appetites for things other than food. Several of them pinched the backsides of women other than their wives or attempted to steal kisses. Much laughter rose up at this behavior, while Alana would have loved nothing more than the cuff the men about the head for behaving no better than children.

One glance at her betrothed told her he was no better. It wasn’t as though he’d lied to her—he had made it plain that he enjoyed the company of women and expected freedom to do as he liked with whomever he liked. He eyed up one of the servant girls tasked with pouring wine, staring pointedly at her breasts whenever she bent over her work.

When he caught Alana’s eye and knew she had witnessed his behavior, he merely smiled.

“What?” he challenged. “Is there something you wish to say to me?”

She bit her tongue hard enough to hurt, then smiled in return. “Not at all. I’m glad you are enjoying your feast.”

At this, his smile widened. Became more genuine and less taunting. “You see? I told you how agreeable I can be once it’s understood that I will have my way.” He leaned in, reeking of wine and sweat. “And I will have my way with you by tomorrow at this time. You had better hope I find you intact, as you claim to be.”

She was certain she would vomit—not from any fear, for she was truthful in regard to her lack of experience—but from his utter indifference. His coldness. His callous attitude.

Would it hurt when the time came? She thought it would.

“I must retire now,” she said, not caring whether her abruptness in changing the subject would be construed as evasiveness. She only knew she had to get away from him. Immediately.

He eyed her up, weighing her words. “Fine, then. You’ll need all the rest you can get, for tomorrow will be a very important day.”

Yes. It would.

Though not for the reason he believed.

She would be long gone by the time to exchange their vows arrived.