Page 22 of Bride of the Merciless Laird
The seamstress was a lass not many years older than Tyra herself, short and sturdy, with wild red curls, a bridge of freckles on her pert nose, a wide smile and nimble fingers. It turned out she had lived in Dumbarton and sewed for the royal ladies who visited the castle there. After her husband died, she returned to Kintail with her two children and had found great success.
They went over the picture-books Maeve had brought with her.
Tyra pointed to a sumptuous gown in the book of Italian fashions. “Could ye transform the burgundy-colored velvet into this confection?”
Maeve nodded. “Of course, Lady Tyra. I’ve made several similar gowns fer the ladies.”
This brought a wide smile of approval from Tyra.
Tyra tried on each of the gowns in turn. First the burgundy velvet.
Isla couldn’t contain her mirth at the sight of Tyra in the dress meant for Cousin Agnes. It billowed where it should have clung; the neckline – clearly meant for a pouter-pigeon of some considerable girth – sagged horribly. The gown was short in the hem, displaying far too much of Tyra’s ankles and long, slender legs. And, most ridiculous of all, the sleeves seemed to have beentailored for a giant. They hung loose at Tyra’s sides, giving her an altogether out of kilter demeanor.
One glance in the looking glass and Tyra joined in the laughter.
Tears streamed down Isla’s face. “I dae declare our poor maither’s cousin must have been a pudding of a lass. Round in the wrong places, short where she should have been long and long where she should have been short.”
Laughing, Tyra shook her head. “Oh dear, I think the task of re-making these gowns might test even the skills of the Queen’s seamstress.”
Maeve, who’d been doing her best not to laugh, could not suppress a giggle.
“Dinnae fash Lady Tyra. I’ve been more sorely tested on many an occasion. I’ll have them ready fer ye this time tomorrow, good as new.” She measured and pinned and measured again. “Send yer man to collect them any time after the bells ring fer noon.”
When Maeve finally departed, she took three, not two, gowns with her for alteration after Isla found a third one which she’d first overlooked. The little seamstress was escorted back to the village by one of the men-at-arms from Eilean Donan. It seemed Laird Ewan was taking no chances with the safety of visitors to and from the castle.
Tyra stood with Isla at the entrance to the keep, watching them ride off.
So, the Laird Mackenzie is, after all, wary of another attack.
CHAPTER TEN
Ewan waited at the entrance to the banqueting hall for the last of the councilors to enter. Only eight of the fifteen members had been able to make their way through the layered snow on the roads to be there for the hastily called meeting. Yet, according to clan law, with the addition of Duncan to their number, that was sufficient.
Old Jacob hobbled in on the arm of his spritely nephew, Aonghas. He was the only one of two elders present today. But that was no surprise to Ewan. This freezing weather was cruel to old bones, keeping them close to the warmth of their fires with no inclination to travel.
As soon as they were all seated, Ewan, standing at the head of the table, led them in a quiet prayer, thanking the Good Lord for their presence.
“Nae doubt ye’re all wondering what is of such urgency that I have called ye here today fer this meeting.”
A ripple of nods and muttered “Ayes,” met his comment.
“I’ve found a bride and I wish tae marry,” he blurted, aware of the immediate gasps issuing from around the table. He found himself to be less confident with his plan now he was facing his Council, so Ewan decided the best way forward was to get it over with.
For a moment, the councilors froze, then a ruckus erupted. Shouts of “Good on ye, Laird Ewan,” and “Who is the lady?” broke out. The majority were beaming.
Hamish was the first to address him. He got to his feet to speak and the others grew quiet. Hamish was as tall as Ewan, another rugged warrior. His craggy visage, grey beard and shock of white hair proclaimed his age, yet his bearing and stance were those of a younger man.
“Lad, we’ve long pressed ye tae remarry. As we’ve told ye often enough, yer marriage and the alliances that may come wi’ it are of great importance tae Clan Mackenzie. I believe I speak fer all of us when I say, yer news is pleasing. But much depends on who the lass is and where’s she’s from, before we can grant ye our blessing.”
He resumed his seat and the others looked up expectantly at Ewan.
“Of course. I have every intention of responding tae yer many questions. The lady in question is the sister of the Laird of Clan MacNeacail of Scorrybreac on the Isle of Skye. We… er… metwhile she was on her way tae Moray, staying at Malcom’s inn. Our meeting was most fortuitous.”
Another rumble passed around the table.
“Is this the lass that was betrothed tae Laird MacDonald of Sleat?”
Ewan nodded. He had anticipated there would be questions regarding Tyra’s former betrothal and he was ready to meet them head on.
