That was their last moment of peace. The clan began to flood the hall as the storm raged beyond the walls. Conversations and laughter rose, loud as the thunder that rattled the windows. It was warm and muggy and damp and boisterous and joyful, and Jack felt overwhelmed by how suddenly his life had become woven tightly with so many others.
Dinner was delivered from the kitchens. Platters of salmon, fresh oysters, scallops, and smoked mussels were laid out on the table alongside venison with rowan jelly and slow-roasted lamb with preserved lemons. Bride’s pies were carried out next—small mince pies made of calves’ feet and mutton, apples, cinnamon, currants, and brandy. There were bowls of colcannon, a dish made of cabbage, carrots, potatoes with brown sauce butter, fritters, barley bannocks, and oatcakes. And then the desserts arrived—almond flory and pudding, sponge cakes and creams, honey cakes, shortbread, and meringue with berries.
Jack had never seen so much food. His stomach still felt knotted from the vows, but as soon as Adaira began to fill her plate, he followed her lead. He promptly discovered there was no time to eat. Everyone wanted a moment to speak to Adaira and her new groom, and Jack had no choice but to endure it and let his food grow cold.
One at a time, the people stepped up to the dais to bow to them. Some were genuinely thrilled and delighted; some tried but couldn’t hide their puzzlement. Some regarded Jack like he was a mainlander. He endured it all and spoke little, leaving the conversation to Adaira.
There was a lull, and Jack finally had the chance to stuff his mouth with a few scallops. He suddenly felt Adaira’s grip tighten on his hand, slightly, as if she didn’t mean to alert him but couldn’t help it. He glanced up to see a young man ascending the dais. He was handsome, his complexion ruddy from wind and sun. His hair was blond, cascading in soft waves, and his eyes were the startling green of summer grass. And those eyes were for Adaira and Adaira alone.
He bowed deeply to her, his hand over his heart. Jack instantly noticed the dirt that stained his fingernails, even though his knuckles were raw, as if he had scrubbed them for hours, trying to wash the grime away. When he lifted his head, he stared across the table at Adaira, and his gaze was hungry, full of longing for her.
A cold, unexpected pang went through Jack.
“Adaira,” the young man said, and her name was like a song, a promise. It was the sound of one who had shared many moments with her. One who knew her intimately.
Adaira stiffened. Her voice was hollow, emotionless. “Callan.”
Callan swallowed. He was nervous, standing before her. But he smiled, and Jack’s dread only deepened. “It’s been a long while since we spoke.”
Adaira said nothing. Her face was guarded. But her hold on Jack tightened.
Jack cleared his throat. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”
Callan spared him a glance. “Forgive me, but our paths never crossed before you left for the mainland. I’m Callan Craig.” His eyes wandered back to Adaira.
“And what do you do on the isle?” Jack persisted, tracing Adaira’s fingers with his own, hidden like a secret between them.
“I dig trenches and harvest peat.”
Backbreaking work that no one on the isle wanted to do. The sort of labor given to men who had committed crimes and fallen out of grace.
An awkward silence welled between the three of them. Jack couldn’t think of anything else to say or ask; he could only wonder what Callan Craig had done to doom himself to the marsh. Jack could even smell it on him—the pungent odor that no amount of water and soap could wash away.
“How are your wife and daughter?” Adaira finally asked. She was polite, just as she had sounded to every other person she had spoken to that night. But there was more to her words. A reminder, a warning.
Callan stared at her, a spark of remorse in his eyes. “They are well, heiress. My wife sends you her felicitations and hopes you will have a very happy marriage.”
“Give her my gratitude then.”
Callan bowed again and descended the dais. As soon as his back was turned, Adaira reached for her sparkling glass of summer wine and drained it. Jack said nothing, but he watched her from the corner of his eye.
“Are you all right?” he whispered.
Adaira fumbled for the amber wine bottle that sat between them on the table. She poured herself another glass and held it to her nose, breathing in its ambrosia.
“I’m quite well,” she said, her gaze fixed absently on the crowd.
Jack also looked over the hall and saw that Callan Craig had situated himself at a nearby trestle table, where he could continue to regard Adaira, unhindered.