Princess of the Highlands Trilogy - THE EXTRAS

A Noble Maiden Fair

Author's Note: This takes place after the last book in the trilogy so it will contain spoilers. I would not recommend reading until you have read the entire trilogy. ;) 

The Great Hall rang in celebration, laughter and cheering ringing up to the rafters. The talking was incessant save when most were occupied with filling their empty bellies. It was a feast, after all, and Malcolm McCladden joined in as heartily as anyone else. 

He was glad no one decided to entertain with music; they would not have been heard above the clamor anyway. 

Malcolm glanced up at the dais where his brother and his bride were sitting among the most honoured guests such as the Welsh king, Cadfael. He normally would be sitting with them, but had declined, saying it was no fun to have everyone's eyes on you when you ate. So instead he was comfortably perched among his comrades-in-arms as they feasted and toasted the good health of anyone who walked by them. 

It was, in all respects, a most merry time. 

He felt a presence at his elbow and turned to see one of the lassies proceed to fill his empty cup as he listened to Merwyn telling a story of his own sister's wedding. Malcolm jerked his elbow back off the table while laughing, upsetting the lass, his cup, and the pitcher of mead. 

All three fell to the floor in a crash that was only noticed by Malcolm and his nearest companions. 

He tumbled off the bench he was sitting on and tried to help the lass up, apologizing profusely while picking up the cup and the pitcher, whose contents were mostly on the girl's once-white dress. 

"I am sae sorry," he concluded for perhaps the twentieth time, handing the pitcher to her and looking at Merwyn in hopes of aid from his quarter. 

She took it and promptly burst into tears, running out of the Great Hall before Malcolm could say anything. 

"Wha' did I—?" he exclaimed.

"Gae after her," Merwyn shot back, chuckling. "She jist might forgive ye though ye ruined her bonnie dress." 

Malcolm sighed in helplessness and walked out of the Great Hall, the silence of the corridor hurting his ears after the celebratory din he was accustomed to hearing. He had no idea if he would even be able to find the lassie—who knew where she had gone. 

He heard sobbing and he turned a corner to see the lass sitting on the steps, the empty pitcher beside her, and tears escaping through the hands that were covering her face. 

"Em..." His voice faltered. 

She did not look up. 

Malcolm sat down beside her, his arms crossed over his knees, wondering what he was supposed to do next. He was completely unschooled in dealing with lasses in general—Fiona had been the exception, but she wasn't like most lassies to begin with. 

Glancing over at her again, he placed his hand on her shoulder and attempted, "I really am sorry fer wha' happened. I didnae mean to bump ye like tha'... Can yer dress be washed?"

She let out a hiccuped sob and rubbed her nose with the back of her palm. "I suppose sae. It will hae to. 'Tis the only dress I hae." Her voice was soft and husky, like a warm summer breeze at evening, but it might have only been so because she had been crying. 

"Why do ye no' hae more?" he asked in confusion. 

"They were burned up when the Danes destroyed my home. I was lucky to escape wi' my life. Nae one else in my family did." She looked up into his face, her cheeks wet from crying.