Chapter 4: A Public Humiliation
The gown was a masterpiece of heavy, emerald-green velvet, embroidered with silver thread at the sleeves and hem. The small, delicate circlet of intertwined silver and sapphires they’d placed on her head felt like a vice. It was armor, but of the most transparent kind. It declared her a queen while every instinct screamed for her to be invisible. The memory of the cold chapel, of his low voice translating vows in the dark, was a fragile warmth in her chest. She clutched it like a talisman as the massive oak doors to the Great Hall groaned open before her.
The noise hit her first—a roaring wave of conversation, laughter, the clatter of pewter and the skirl of pipes. Then the smell: roasting meat, spilled ale, peat smoke, and the musky scent of crowded humanity. The hall was cavernous, its ceiling lost in shadows where blackened beams crisscrossed. Trestle tables ran the length of the room, packed with men and women who all seemed larger, louder, and ruder than any English courtier. Tapestries depicting bloody battles and hunting scenes did nothing to soften the stone.
Her entrance caused a ripple. Conversations dipped, heads turned. The stares were not curious now; they were assessments. Hard, evaluating glances that swept from her borrowed crown to her slippers. She saw narrowed eyes, muttered words behind hands, the occasional cold, dismissive smile. Her cheeks burned, but she kept her spine straight, her gaze fixed on the high dais at the far end.
He was there. Seated in a great carved chair, a cup in his hand. Relief, sharp and sudden, flooded her. A fixed point in the chaos. But then her eyes adjusted, and the relief curdled, freezing solid in her veins.
A woman was perched on his lap.
She was stunning, with a cascade of glossy dark hair and a bold, confident beauty. She wore a deep crimson dress cut low, and she was laughing, her head thrown back, one arm looped casually around Lachlan’s neck. Her fingers played with the short curls at his nape. He was saying something, his expression relaxed in a way Elizabeth had never seen. He looked… at home.
Elizabeth’s feet stopped moving. The noise of the hall seemed to recede, replaced by a high-pitched ringing in her ears. The vows—my honor to keep with yours—echoed hollowly. The silver ring on her finger felt like a band of ice.
A path had cleared between her and the dais. Every soul in the hall was watching now, the silence spreading outwards from her like a stain. She became aware of her own breathing, too quick, too shallow. She forced air into her lungs, willed her legs forward. Each step on the rushes was an effort. Her chin lifted of its own accord, a defensive reflex honed in a hundred English drawing rooms.
As she drew nearer, she saw Lachlan’s eyes shift past the dark-haired woman’s shoulder. They met hers. His gray-green gaze widened, just a fraction. His body tensed. He began to move, a shifting of his weight to stand.
The woman—Janet—felt it. Her laughter didn’t stop, but her arm tightened possessively around his neck, anchoring him. She turned her head slowly, a queen regarding a petitioner. Her eyes, a bold blue, raked over Elizabeth from head to toe. Then her lips curved into a smile of pure, vicious triumph.
Elizabeth stopped at the foot of the dais. The heat from the great fireplace to the side was immense, but she felt cold to her marrow. She looked directly at Lachlan, then at the woman draped across him, and finally back to his face.
Her voice, when it came, was clear and carried in the utter quiet. It didn’t shake. “I was unaware you had two wives, my dearest.” She paused, letting the words hang. “Is this one of those Scottish customs I was unaware of?”
A collective, sharp intake of breath hissed through the hall. Someone stifled a gasp. A cup clattered onto a table.
Janet’s smirk vanished, replaced by affronted shock. Lachlan’s face closed off, his expression hardening into something unreadable. But a muscle ticked violently in his clenched jaw. He looked at the woman on his lap as if suddenly seeing her for the first time.
“Janet.” The single word was a low command, stripped of all prior warmth.
“Lachlan, darling, she doesn’t understand our ways,” Janet purred, but her grip didn’t loosen.
“Off.”
It was not a request. It was the voice of the king who had commanded men on a battlefield. He moved then, a sudden, decisive surge of power. He didn’t gentle her. He put a hand on her waist and pushed, dislodging her with brute, undeniable force.
Janet stumbled to her feet on the dais, her face flushing a mortified scarlet. She shot a look of pure venom at Elizabeth before smoothing her skirts, her composure cracking at the edges.
Lachlan rose. He seemed to tower even more than usual, a wall of muscle and velvet and simmering fury. He didn’t look at Janet. His eyes were locked on Elizabeth. He stepped down from the dais, closing the space between them in two strides. The silence in the hall was now absolute, a living thing waiting to be fed.
He stood before her, so close she could see the flecks of storm in his eyes, smell the ale and the herbal scent of him. The air crackled. She didn’t look away, though every nerve in her body was screaming.
He studied her face, his own a mask of granite. Then, he slowly extended his hand to her, palm up. A public offering. A correction.
“My lady,” he said, his voice carrying to every corner. “Your place is beside me.”