Flowers rained down, soft and fragrant, catching like snow in their windswept hair.
The moment Jack and Adaira stepped into the hall as husband and wife for their celebration feast, the storm finally broke.
He took his place beside her at the laird’s table on the dais. Their hands were still bound by two stubborn knots—his left hand and her right—and Jack studied their fingers, entwined and hanging between their chairs.
“Eager to untie us, bard?” Adaira asked, and he glanced up to see she was watching him, a tilt of a smile on her lips.
“Should I be?”
“No, not yet. We’re supposed to be bound until I take you to bed, but I’ll have to break with tradition and untether you long before then.” Adaira indicated the dais, where Jack saw Lorna’s grand harp, waiting to be played.
That was their last moment of peace. The clan began to flood the hall as the storm raged beyond the walls. Conversations and laughter rose, loud as the thunder that rattled the windows. It was warm and muggy and damp and boisterous and joyful, and Jack felt overwhelmed by how suddenly his life had become woven tightly with so many others.
Dinner was delivered from the kitchens. Platters of salmon, fresh oysters, scallops, and smoked mussels were laid out on the table alongside venison with rowan jelly and slow-roasted lamb with preserved lemons. Bride’s pies were carried out next—small mince pies made of calves’ feet and mutton, apples, cinnamon, currants, and brandy. There were bowls of colcannon, a dish made of cabbage, carrots, potatoes with brown sauce butter, fritters, barley bannocks, and oatcakes. And then the desserts arrived—almond flory and pudding, sponge cakes and creams, honey cakes, shortbread, and meringue with berries.
Jack had never seen so much food. His stomach still felt knotted from the vows, but as soon as Adaira began to fill her plate, he followed her lead. He promptly discovered there was no time to eat. Everyone wanted a moment to speak to Adaira and her new groom, and Jack had no choice but to endure it and let his food grow cold.
One at a time, the people stepped up to the dais to bow to them. Some were genuinely thrilled and delighted; some tried but couldn’t hide their puzzlement. Some regarded Jack like he was a mainlander. He endured it all and spoke little, leaving the conversation to Adaira.
There was a lull, and Jack finally had the chance to stuff his mouth with a few scallops. He suddenly felt Adaira’s grip tighten on his hand, slightly, as if she didn’t mean to alert him but couldn’t help it. He glanced up to see a young man ascending the dais. He was handsome, his complexion ruddy from wind and sun. His hair was blond, cascading in soft waves, and his eyes were the startling green of summer grass. And those eyes were for Adaira and Adaira alone.
He bowed deeply to her, his hand over his heart. Jack instantly noticed the dirt that stained his fingernails, even though his knuckles were raw, as if he had scrubbed them for hours, trying to wash the grime away. When he lifted his head, he stared across the table at Adaira, and his gaze was hungry, full of longing for her.
A cold, unexpected pang went through Jack.
“Adaira,” the young man said, and her name was like a song, a promise. It was the sound of one who had shared many moments with her. One who knew her intimately.
Adaira stiffened. Her voice was hollow, emotionless. “Callan.”
Callan swallowed. He was nervous, standing before her. But he smiled, and Jack’s dread only deepened. “It’s been a long while since we spoke.”
Adaira said nothing. Her face was guarded. But her hold on Jack tightened.
Jack cleared his throat. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”
Callan spared him a glance. “Forgive me, but our paths never crossed before you left for the mainland. I’m Callan Craig.” His eyes wandered back to Adaira.
“And what do you do on the isle?” Jack persisted, tracing Adaira’s fingers with his own, hidden like a secret between them.
“I dig trenches and harvest peat.”
Backbreaking work that no one on the isle wanted to do. The sort of labor given to men who had committed crimes and fallen out of grace.
An awkward silence welled between the three of them. Jack couldn’t think of anything else to say or ask; he could only wonder what Callan Craig had done to doom himself to the marsh. Jack could even smell it on him—the pungent odor that no amount of water and soap could wash away.
“How are your wife and daughter?” Adaira finally asked. She was polite, just as she had sounded to every other person she had spoken to that night. But there was more to her words. A reminder, a warning.
Callan stared at her, a spark of remorse in his eyes. “They are well, heiress. My wife sends you her felicitations and hopes you will have a very happy marriage.”
“Give her my gratitude then.”
Callan bowed again and descended the dais. As soon as his back was turned, Adaira reached for her sparkling glass of summer wine and drained it. Jack said nothing, but he watched her from the corner of his eye.
“Are you all right?” he whispered.
Adaira fumbled for the amber wine bottle that sat between them on the table. She poured herself another glass and held it to her nose, breathing in its ambrosia.
“I’m quite well,” she said, her gaze fixed absently on the crowd.
Jack also looked over the hall and saw that Callan Craig had situated himself at a nearby trestle table, where he could continue to regard Adaira, unhindered.
Jack felt his lip curl, but he hid it behind a long drought of wine. He set the empty glass down with a clunk before he tugged on Adaira’s hand, inviting her to look at him.
“Untie me,” he said.
She stared at him, as if hesitant to let him go now that he’d made his earnest request. But she conceded and stood, pulling Jack up after her. The mere motion of her rising hushed the exuberant conversations, and every eye was drawn to her.
“My good people of the east,” she began with a smile. “I’m breaking with tradition this evening and cutting my groom loose long before bed, so that he may reward us all with a little celebration music.” She turned to Jack and unknotted the plaid that bound them, an intimate gesture that provoked whispers in the crowd.
The clan’s attention shifted to him as he walked to where Lorna’s harp waited on the dais. He sat on the stool and let out a long breath, the weight of expectation nearly cracking his confidence. But he could see Mirin and Frae sitting in the crowd nearby. Laird Alastair, Torin, and Sidra. Una and Ailsa and their son and daughter. This was home to him—these people with their enchanted plaids and dirks, with their laughter and weeping and stories and fears and dreams. They were his clan, and he belonged among them, even though he had returned as a stranger.
Jack positioned his hands on the strings and began to play a joyful song. His notes reverberated in the hall, full of life and merriment, but it did nothing to ease the storm that stirred within him. He was acutely annoyed by Callan Craig, who continued to shamelessly stare at Adaira. But then Jack dared to glance at her too, and found that she was sitting in her chair watching Jack as if he were the only one in the hall.
The firelight and shadows danced on her collarbones; her half of the golden coin gleamed like a fallen star at her breast. Her hair cascaded around her in soft waves, the crown of wildflowers a contrast to her fair coloring.