Page 8 of The Chief

Chapter 4

Rory never came to the Feast of Saint Valentine, and so she did not deny that pleasure to herself. Cristane marveled at the transformation of the hall. Despite the typical lack of colorful foliage in winter months, heather and pansies had been gathered and positioned in every corner. A large collections of candles gave it a welcoming glow.

Similar to when Rory’s father had been alive. Before their mother had decided to leave the main keep behind and stay in Dalrigg Manor. Thankfully, Cait had taken over her role as lady, and Bradon Moor Castle had eventually become as lively as she remembered from her visits as a young girl.

Her childhood had been difficult in many ways. Her father had been a farmer, but he had not stayed around to help raise her. Yet her mother had been a remarkable woman, never accepting less than when she believed they might attain more. Her fondest wish had been that Cristane would someday, somehow, rise in the ranks from scullery maid to lady’s maid, an unheard-of occurrence for a non-noblewoman.

She had died before it happened, but Cristane did not regret that fact. She felt sure that her mother knew. Somehow. And was so proud of her that she was likely telling everyone in heaven of her daughter’s new role.

Sitting with the other high-ranking castle officers and servants, as she did for each meal, Cristane thanked the cupbearer for filling her goblet with red wine. They were treated as equal to the chief’s family in many ways, their wardrobes made of just slightly less expensive materials. It had taken some getting used to for Cristane, especially after her lady had left.

Oh, please, let her send for me soon.

This feast had always been celebrated at Bradon Moor in a fashion that could rival the royal court, but she found she did not enjoy it as much as usual, mortified as she still was from her confrontation with Rory. At least she wouldn’t have to see him quite yet.

Some said he wanted no association with the courtly love it celebrated. Rory tended to have relationships with women that fell short of the depth of connection celebrated by the Saint Valentine’s Feast.

Relations she tried, and failed, to ignore.

But Cristane knew the true reason for his avoidance—and his reasons were complicated and deep enough to assure her that he would not, under any circumstances, make an appearance. It was the chief’s duty to attend such feasts, and Rory was reluctant to take ownership of their clan. So when cheers erupted from the entrance to the hall, she thought nothing of it at first, other than mild curiosity as to the cause. It was only when he was nearly atop her that Cristane realized what was happening.

Their feast would not lack an official representative from the Kennaugh family after all. The chief’s brother was, indeed, here. And he was staring directly at her as he walked past them to the head table not very far away.

She turned away, doing her best to ignore him, and spoke a few polite words to the men at her table. Although she knew it made her a fool, the excitement of his presence was a more heady wine than the one that flowed for all. She was not immune, it turned out, to this day devoted to the celebration of lovers, the possibility of better weather, and new beginnings.

And yet she couldn’t bring herself to look at him. Not after what had happened. She managed to eat her whole meal without a single glance at the head table. But when she inadvertently reached inside her pocket and felt the buckle lying inside, Cristane finally gave in to temptation and looked.

Rory stared back at her with the intent perusal she’d seen him give many different women, but never, ever her. And he held her gaze as she watched him, his scrutiny, if anything, growing more intense. It was as if he had never seen her before, even though they’d roamed the same halls and eaten at the same meals for years. They continued to look at each other like that, two people connected by a glance, until the music began to play. Sweetmeats accompanied the harpist’s music, shared by all, including the servants, who rarely indulged in such fare. The festive mood was impossible to ignore, even for someone who had made an utter fool of herself that day. Who wished to retreat to her bedchamber and emerge only when Lady Cait finally arrived to rescue her.

When the song finished, a clanging from the head table forced her gaze back up to Rory. He stood, his frame seeming to fill the back of the hall—a tall, muscular man rendered even larger by the knowledge of his own worth, even if he desperately tried to hide it from those around him.

“The lover’s pick,” he boomed to more cheers.

She groaned inwardly, or so she thought. The strange looks she received indicated Cristane hadn’t been as subtle as she’d hoped.

“Not wanting to participate this year, lass?” he asked.

“’Tis for unmarried maids,” she said, aware she was very much one of those.

Rory continued, “I thought to begin by making my own guess this year.”

No.

He could not. He would not.

The chief’s family never participated in the ritual, instead giving the honor of first guess—first pick—to a man they wished to recognize. Then, one by one, the rest of the unmarried men would attempt to determine who had chosen their items. Some guessed correctly, but it rarely happened on the first try. They would move from maid to maid in an attempt to find the one who held their token, joining in a dance that ended only when each had found their match.

She wasn’t the only one in the hall to stare openmouthed at the hardened warrior as he signaled for the musicians to begin playing anew. But Cristane was certainly the only one who knew exactly where Rory was headed when he stepped down from the dais.

Closer and closer he came, and with each step, Cristane could hear the murmurs of surprise growing louder and louder. It was not just highly unusual but unheard of for Rory Kennaugh to offer his open palm to a maid.

Cristane had only two choices.

To shake her head and force him to continue the search, looking for—but of course not finding—the woman who held his buckle. After the fruitless quest, he would sit down without a partner. Legend had it that the man who was not offered a lover’s pick would not find love until at least the following year’s feast.

Of course, she didn’t believe the stories.

Or did she give him the buckle, accept the dance, and give everyone even more reason to speak of her in darkened corners? The look he gave her made it clear which he would prefer.

He wished for her to give him the buckle.

And she found she could not deny him. Reaching into her pouch, Cristane retrieved it and placed it in his open palm. A hesitant cheer greeted them as he helped Cristane to her feet. None were sure what to make of this particular development. Slipping her hand into the crook of his arm, Cristane walked with him to the only section of the hall not covered with trestle tables, flowers, and candles.

Rory spun her toward him, and they launched into the long dance, the next pick already having begun behind them. It was a slow song, one with an uncomplicated dance that did not require more than just the two of them to complete. And when his hand settled on the small of her back, the second wrapping around her other hand—the touch both innocent and not—Cristane finally remembered to breathe.

“So then, Cristane,” Rory said, his voice low, deep, and for her ears only, “I pick you.”