Page 89 of Her Highland Prophecy
It will be a miracle if none of us gets ill from this.
He resolved to keep a close eye on everyone over the next few days and summon a healer if they needed. Just as he was finished buckling his plaid, he heard a heavy knock on his door. It was Bhaltair, looking just as wet and miserable as Gordain himself.
Together, the two cousins made their way to the dining hall where most of the Clan had congregated after the funeral.
“To Benjamin Boyd,” one of the men was saying. “The best and most generous Laird our Clan has ever seen.”
“To Benjamin,” the Clan echoed loudly as they all raised their goblets in a toast drinking deeply.
Gordain walked to the head table and took his usual seat, leaving the Laird’s chair empty. There would be time enough to claim it later. Tonight was the time to drink and grieve, and he didn’t think he could do that while sitting on the same chair his father was sitting in the last time they had a meal together. It was too soon.
Bhaltair poured them both a goblet of whisky.
“To Benjamin,” Gordain echoed and then drained his glass.
Two hours and many goblets later, Gordain was still sitting at the table though his sight was starting to blur around the edges. Bhaltair had stopped drinking a while ago but kept pouring whisky whenever Gordain asked.
“Me Faither is gone. And me Princess is gone,” Gordain told Bhaltair. He could feel his words slurring a bit as he spoke, but he took another sip of his drink anyway. “Back to her family and her own time.”
Bhaltair gave him a funny look as he spoke and then chuckled.
“I think it is time we got ye to yer bed,a co-ogha. Tomorrow will be a verra difficult day for ye if ye keep drinking.”
“I dinnae care,” Gordain said, pouring himself some more whisky from the carafe that Bhaltair had brought over earlier. “I has-have…I have nay thing to do on the morrow. Let me drink!”
The last word was shouted to the hall in general and answered by at least a dozen clansmen who lifted their goblets in answer. Gordain drank deeply as Bhaltair shook his head.
Somehow his cousin managed to coax him away from the dining hall and back to his chambers, though he could not quite remember what had happened after.
I think I had too much whisky.
It didn’t matter anymore. If there was ever an evening to end up deep in his cups it was this one. His father was dead long before his time, killed by a man over greed. The Clan’s protection fell to Gordain now, a task that he didn’t know if he was ready to perform. He was supposed to have years before he became Laird in his own right.
He wished Diana was still there. Despite the pain over his father, this evening felt almost like he had been mourning for her as well. She was not dead, but she was lost to him just as much as his father was. He would never see her sweet face again, hear her laugh, mock her over her strange Englishness, make love to her…
With a deep sigh, Gordain pushed away the loneliness he felt and rolled into his bed to sleep. Thankfully, he had drunk so much that his eyes were already closing as his head met the pillow. It had been an extremely long day and he willingly gave himself into the comfort of slumber.
What felt like a moment later his eyes opened suddenly to loud voices nearby. Still confused and groggy, he struggled to comprehend what was happening.
He wondered if he were still dreaming. One of the voices he was hearing was female, with the distinct intonation of the English and the defiant tone that could only belong to one woman. He turned his eyes to the center of the room and found her standing there like an apparition, her beautiful form highlighted by the fire in the grate.
He drunk her in for a moment, not wanting to take his eyes off of her lest she disappeared when suddenly the whole picture he was seeing registered and that was the least of his problems.
His more pressing concern was the fact that Bhaltair was standing right behind her, with one arm around her waist holding her back against him securely, and the other pressing the blade of his dirk against her pale throat.
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Diana promised herself at that moment that if she lived through this, she would get a dirk of her own and have Gordain show her how to use it. She was too much of a danger magnet not to.
She had ran up to Gordain’s room the moment she arrived back at the Castle, wanting to get to Gordain as soon as possible, only to find Bhaltair standing over the man she loved with a knife as he slept.
She called out a warning, hoping to wake him, but Gordain seemed to be deeply asleep and she caught Bhaltair’s attention instead.
“What are you doing?” she yelled when Bhaltair turned to look at her.
“Me? What are ye doing here? Why are ye nae with yer family somewhere in England like me oaf of a cousin thought?” he asked, approaching her slightly.
She took a step back, bumping into the hard wall behind her.
