But it was Gainor who stopped them from digging into the fare.
“Ye’ll wait, ye bastards…lads,” he corrected himself.
“For what?” A younger Retainer asked.
“The blessing,” Gainor informed him. “Tonight, we’ll be having a proper supper, which will begin with the breaking of the bread. We should have begun the tradition when the keep was finished. The lassie is good to bring it to our attention. We’re no’ heathens, and this is to be a proper McKay holding. A standard should be set. Elsewise, no decent women folk will ever want to call it home.”
There was a ripple of understanding up and down the tables. But Cora was caught in Faolon’s gaze once more. He sat at the head of a table, waiting for her to bring him the bread. Gainor picked up a round and offered it to her.
“Go on with ye, lassie,” Gainor flattened his hand on her lower back and gave her a push.
Cora discovered her feet felt like they were nailed to the floor. There was something symbolic about carrying the bread to the man who had spent the day ensuring the tower was a safe place to live. The bread in her hands had taken hours of labor on her part to produce. As though they were two parts which, when placed together, made something that was whole.
Ye’re mad.
Truly she was losing her grip on her sanity.
But her breath still caught in her throat when she passed the bread to Faolan. There was a feeling of ceremony in the moment.
Their gazes met.
Cora felt a ripple across her skin. It traveled along her limbs, raising gooseflesh as it went. Her breath caught, leaving her suspended in that moment as Faolan took the bread.
Why did she notice so many small details about the man?
It was so very strange. Yet she found herself fixated upon him. The way his eyebrows were inky black slashes. The blue of his eyes appeared intensified by how dark his hair was. She realized she was staring at him, and he was doing the same. There was a shuffling of feet around them as the men began to get antsy.
Cora bowed her head.
Faolan lifted the bread and spoke out a perfect blessing. It was short and clipped but done very well. No Head-of-House would have found fault with it. He tore the bread, handing one half to the man on his right and the other to her.
Cora nearly dropped it. Only the ache in her fingers from working all day made her clench her fingers around it. Faolan’s lips twitched. Just a tiny amount before he looked away.
“Well, now,” Gainor broke the silence. “There can be no faulting our chief. He did well with the blessing.”
The other men agreed. The sound was muffled as they spoke through half-full mouths. They dug into the meal with the gusto of having a hard day’s labor behind them. Cora smiled, then hurried back to the kitchen, filling her tray with more dishes. Two of the younger lads followed her. They gathered up the remaining food and carried it to the tables.
“Sit, lass,” Gainor declared. “Ye’ve earned yer supper, too.”
One of the Retainers elbowed the man next to him, so that he slid down the length of the bench, clearing a space on the end next to Faolan. Several of the men grinned in welcome.
Aye, they were rough.
But one Retainer was filling a mug for her, while another used a wicked-looking dagger to cut a portion of meat from what she’d roasted and slapped it onto a plate. Every man within reach made sure to put something on her plate as it traveled along the table before landing in the spot they’d cleared for her.
Truly, Cora didn’t think she’d ever sat down among a more welcoming group. It was more than courtesy. She’d earned her place by battling her own pride and doing the things needed, as opposed to what she wanted. She felt somehow more mature than she’d been just that morning. They were outcasts and men without powerful connections. They earned their bread with the sweat of their brows. So far from civilization, they enjoyed the freedom to speak their minds and make their own choices, for they had very little to lose. No one might have forced them to welcome her.
Which made the moment, by far, one of the most satisfying ones of her life.
*
Rory Mackenzie saw the body first.
Whoever it was, they were dead. Caught on a tangle of dead trees, face down in the river, which left no hope that there was life left in them.
He slid from the back of his horse and set his jaw against the grim discovery he was about to make.
“Rory!” Someone whistled from the opposite side of the river bank. He looked up, hoping to spy an honest miracle in the form of seeing Cora standing there with Clement.
Instead, he counted three more of the Mackenzie Retainers. Clement was looking at Rory and the six men with him, and Rory didn’t need to see the look on Clement’s face to know that the other man had been hoping Cora was among them.
That left them all looking at the body in the river. They’d had two lads riding with them. Both had been thin of frame. The body was slight enough; it might be either of the boys or Cora.
There was only one way to know for certain.
Rory made his way into the water. Without the storm raging, the current didn’t have the power to make it deadly. Clement was wading in from the opposite bank. They made slow progress. Stepping carefully as they sunk to thigh level at times. The pace only made the moment worse, allowing them more time to contemplate just how bad their luck had been. Rory reached out to move the tangled mass of hair away from the face.
“Young Sorel,” Rory said at last. He hated how relieved he felt.
Sorel had only been sixteen winters.
The lad hadn’t deserved to die either, but Fate had decided otherwise. Weather could be vicious. It was something they all knew, for there was nothing about living in the Highlands that didn’t require strength.
Yet the storm had been overly vicious.
Rory shook his head. He schooled his thoughts and focused on the task of retrieving the body of his clansman. Aye, he craved an explanation for the tragedy, but sometimes the answer was just bad timing. A man might call it luck, but he wasn’t going to contemplate the matter further. Such would lead to speculation of demons and witchcraft. He’d never been a man to console himself through blaming others.
But Rory didn’t have to.
As they pulled Sorel to the shore and the men gathered round, the grumblings began. There was not one among them who wasn’t injured. Crushed fingers and gashed limbs were sprinkled liberally among them. Returning to the Mackenzie stronghold would have suited them all but not without their comrades.
“Enough,” Rory raised his voice above the growing conversation. “It was a storm. I’ve lived long enough to have seen one or two like it.”
“So early in the season?” one of the men asked pointedly.
“We’ve enough grief without adding fear to the matter,” Rory cut back. “There will be no talk of witches and demons. Matters are grim enough.”
“But, the raging of the storm was so wild.”
“Ye have never seen the wind gust?” Rory responded. “I sure have, man, and the first storm of the season tears into the ground. I’ve seen it before. Let us find the rest of our party.”
His men were obedient enough. They lifted Sorel onto the back of a horse and pulled a portion of his plaid over his face. Their horses had not fared any better than they had. Two were dead where the water had dropped them. Three more limped along, their eyes full of pleading to be taken back to a warm stable.