Amanda Scott by Abducted Heiress Page B

accompanied this invasion, and the conversation continued unabated while the two ladies wended
     their way to the high table. Two of Lady Mackinnon’s three sons—one a year younger than Molly, the other several years older—stood
     at their places. The other places were still empty.
    Try as she did to appear calm and disinterested in Kintail’s absence, she could not help glancing around, wondering if he
     would dare comment publicly on her choice of attire. A flutter of apprehension and the little she had already experienced
     of the man told her that he might.
    When he entered a few moments later with Mackinnon and Mackinnon’s eldest son, Rory, the embroidered collar on the loose smock
     Kintail wore belted over his russet hose and rawhide boots told Molly the smock was one of Rory’s. Despite its excellent cut,
     it was too short and fitted too tightly across his big shoulders, making his arms and legs look like those of a boy who had
     outgrown his clothes. There was nothing boylike about the rest of him, though. He looked formidable, and she knew in a flash
     that he had seen her, noted the yellow gown and thus her defiance of his request—nay, his command—and that he was displeased.
    The flutter of apprehension turned into a shiver that shot up her spine, but that served only to stiffen it. She raised her
     chin and gave him back look for look.
    Mackinnon spoke to him, and when Kintail turned to respond, Molly felt a rush of gratitude to her foster father for diverting
     that stern look from her. Her gratitude was short-lived, however.
    “See ye, Molly lass,” Mackinnon said bluffly, “d’ye take her ladyship’s chair this once and I’ll shift mine wi’ Kintail’s,
     so ye and he can sit together. He tells me he’s hardly had a moment t’ tell ye aught o’ his Eilean Donan, and I dinna doubt
     but that ye’ll be yearning t’ hear all about it.”
    She could think of no polite way to refuse, but it did not matter, for as soon as those below them in the hall saw that their
     laird was present, a silence fell and what little opportunity she might have had was gone.
    Obediently, she stood behind the chair Mackinnon indicated, trying to ignore mounting tension as Kintail moved to stand beside
     her. She knew he was watching every move she made, because she could feel his gaze, and his displeasure.
    Mackinnon said a few words to serve as grace-before-meat, and the meal officially began with a rumble and scrape of people
     taking their seats on the long benches at the trestle tables.
    Kintail held Molly’s chair for her, deftly sliding it in as she sat down.
    Good manners demanded that she thank him, but over-conscious of his daunting presence and determined that he would not know
     how strongly he affected her, she could not bring herself to do so.
    Servers moved among them, plunking down platters of meat and trays of bread trenchers on the tables.
    As Molly waited for the laird’s carver to serve her meat, her tension increased. She wished she could turn and engage Lady
     Mackinnon in conversation, but her ladyship was issuing orders to a gilly setting side dishes on the table. Bereft of aid
     from that source, Molly signed to another lad to pour her some ale.
    “Art color blind, mistress?”
    His voice sounded like she imagined the growl of a tiger might sound.
    “I believe not, sir,” she replied, avoiding his gaze easily when the gilly reached between them to pick up her goblet.
    “I believe you must be,” he said when the gilly stepped back. “That dress is yellow. I cannot deny that it becomes you—better
     than such a bright color would become most women, in fact—but it is not blue.”
    Flattered despite her determination to let nothing he said affect her more than his looming presence already had, she said,
     “I chose not to wear blue.”
    “I see.” He was silent while the gilly set down her goblet again and departed, and for a long moment after that. Indeed, he
     waited almost