English.
Abigail slipped into her well-practiced method of reading lips, watching first the Scotsman speak and then Sir Reuben.
Sir Reuben swung down off his horse, followed by the most senior soldier and two others. The rest remained mounted. "You are the laird?"
"Nay, he is out hunting with the Sinclair."
Her stepfather was clearly taken aback. "My daughter's intended is out hunting?"
"Aye."
"And your laird went with him?"
From the look on the old man's face, something in the way Sir Reuben spoke alarmed him. "Ye dinna gainsay the Sinclair, my lord."
"Perhaps he wanted to provide the meat for the wedding feast himself?" Sir Reuben asked.
The old man nodded his head quickly. "Aye, I'm sure that was it."
"I see." Sir Reuben looked around him. "Your laird has made arrangements for our comfort?"
The MacDonald man pointed to a cottage separate from the others and near another building. "Aye. The cottage yonder, near the chapel, is clean and ready for your occupation."
"And my soldiers?"
"Are they not accustomed to sleeping outside like a Scottish warrior?" the old man asked, a wicked twinkle in his eye.
Abigail found herself almost smiling.
"We have tents for them to pitch around the cottage. I can provide for all my people in a civilized fashion," her stepfather said with what she was sure was arrogance. It was in his eyes and the way he held himself.
Sir Reuben was a powerful lord, which was why his only sanction upon sending a miserly number of soldiers as tithe to his king when he had a bevy of them had been the loss of a daughter.
Abigail knew her mother was speaking as well because the old man's eyes strayed in Sybil's direction a couple of times, though he did not seem to ever speak directly to her as he and her stepfather worked out arrangements for where to pitch the soldier's tents.
For once Abigail was grateful she could not hear. She could not be forced to listen to her mother's words and she chose not to watch Sybil's lips.
The decision to pitch the tents for the English soldiers on the west side of the cottage, farthest from the keep, made little difference to Abigail.
She wanted a chance to see the man she had been commanded to wed, the laird she had to deceive about her affliction.
At least until they reached the Highlands.
Later that night, Abigail willed herself to sleep as she lay in the small bed in the corner of the cottage. Only it was to no avail. Her mind was whirling with questions and possibilities.
Why had her intended groom been out hunting when she and her family had arrived? Surely he had known the date of their arrival; it had been dictated by him through his king to hers.
He had yet to return to the keep, having missed the evening meal.
Was this his way of showing his unhappiness with the prospect of marriage to an Englishwoman? Was he delivering a slap at her stepfather's consequence? His dislike of the English was no secret, but he had agreed to the marriage and all the stipulations surrounding it.
Stipulations that scared the tiredness right out of Abigail and filled her with worry on top of the apprehensions already plaguing her. His king had required the marriage be consummated before they left the Lowlands. Abigail had no idea why Scotland's sovereign would demand such a thing, but the prospect leant additional discomfort to a situation that already had the power to terrify her completely.
None of those fears were soothed in any way by the fact that she had yet to even see her groom from a distance.
When she looked into his eyes, would she see cruelty? Hatred to rival her mother's? Would he recognize her affliction despite her best efforts to hide it?
Tonight's dinner had been a trial unlike anything she had experienced since first losing her hearing. It was hard enough to keep track of several people speaking at once; the unfamiliar surroundings only made it worse. She had received help from an unexpected source. Sir Reuben had done
Abigail slipped into her well-practiced method of reading lips, watching first the Scotsman speak and then Sir Reuben.
Sir Reuben swung down off his horse, followed by the most senior soldier and two others. The rest remained mounted. "You are the laird?"
"Nay, he is out hunting with the Sinclair."
Her stepfather was clearly taken aback. "My daughter's intended is out hunting?"
"Aye."
"And your laird went with him?"
From the look on the old man's face, something in the way Sir Reuben spoke alarmed him. "Ye dinna gainsay the Sinclair, my lord."
"Perhaps he wanted to provide the meat for the wedding feast himself?" Sir Reuben asked.
The old man nodded his head quickly. "Aye, I'm sure that was it."
"I see." Sir Reuben looked around him. "Your laird has made arrangements for our comfort?"
The MacDonald man pointed to a cottage separate from the others and near another building. "Aye. The cottage yonder, near the chapel, is clean and ready for your occupation."
"And my soldiers?"
"Are they not accustomed to sleeping outside like a Scottish warrior?" the old man asked, a wicked twinkle in his eye.
Abigail found herself almost smiling.
"We have tents for them to pitch around the cottage. I can provide for all my people in a civilized fashion," her stepfather said with what she was sure was arrogance. It was in his eyes and the way he held himself.
Sir Reuben was a powerful lord, which was why his only sanction upon sending a miserly number of soldiers as tithe to his king when he had a bevy of them had been the loss of a daughter.
Abigail knew her mother was speaking as well because the old man's eyes strayed in Sybil's direction a couple of times, though he did not seem to ever speak directly to her as he and her stepfather worked out arrangements for where to pitch the soldier's tents.
For once Abigail was grateful she could not hear. She could not be forced to listen to her mother's words and she chose not to watch Sybil's lips.
The decision to pitch the tents for the English soldiers on the west side of the cottage, farthest from the keep, made little difference to Abigail.
She wanted a chance to see the man she had been commanded to wed, the laird she had to deceive about her affliction.
At least until they reached the Highlands.
Later that night, Abigail willed herself to sleep as she lay in the small bed in the corner of the cottage. Only it was to no avail. Her mind was whirling with questions and possibilities.
Why had her intended groom been out hunting when she and her family had arrived? Surely he had known the date of their arrival; it had been dictated by him through his king to hers.
He had yet to return to the keep, having missed the evening meal.
Was this his way of showing his unhappiness with the prospect of marriage to an Englishwoman? Was he delivering a slap at her stepfather's consequence? His dislike of the English was no secret, but he had agreed to the marriage and all the stipulations surrounding it.
Stipulations that scared the tiredness right out of Abigail and filled her with worry on top of the apprehensions already plaguing her. His king had required the marriage be consummated before they left the Lowlands. Abigail had no idea why Scotland's sovereign would demand such a thing, but the prospect leant additional discomfort to a situation that already had the power to terrify her completely.
None of those fears were soothed in any way by the fact that she had yet to even see her groom from a distance.
When she looked into his eyes, would she see cruelty? Hatred to rival her mother's? Would he recognize her affliction despite her best efforts to hide it?
Tonight's dinner had been a trial unlike anything she had experienced since first losing her hearing. It was hard enough to keep track of several people speaking at once; the unfamiliar surroundings only made it worse. She had received help from an unexpected source. Sir Reuben had done
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