“He. Is going. To the. Highland Games.”
Robena frowned and straightened. “Aye. He is.” She raised a brow. “Why. Are we. Talking. Like this?”
Without looking up, Nicola’s lips curled. “I’m trying. To make. A point. About the Highland Games.”
Raising her hands, Robena pushed herself to her feet. “For the fourth—fifth?—time: he’s going to the Highland Games!” She allowed her palms to slap down against her thighs for emphasis. “What does it matter?” Before her sister could answer, she shook her head. “I dinnae want to talk about it.”
Kester was going to the Highland Games, aye. To marry someone else.
She felt like a complete and utter fool.
Of course, he didn’t want to marry her. Of course, he would prefer to marry the woman who could assure peace for his clan.
He was kind and noble and worried about his people; she knew he’d do anything necessary to ensure his clan’s prosperity. Even marry his enemy’s daughter.
She’s likely tall and beautiful and kens how to embroider.
His betrothed didn’t play the pipes.
Robena could feel the tears pricking at the backs of her eyes and hated them. ‘Twas better to stay angry at him—at all men!—than be hurt at his inevitable choice.
But St. Kelsi’s vocal cords! The man could kiss!
She forced a scowl, forced down the memory of his touch, and stomped across the room to her sister’s worktable.
“Is there aught here which will make me forget I’ve been a fool?” She peered over the scales and cutting boards and mysterious and herbally looking bags. “Or mayhap make everyone else forget I’ve been a fool?”
Without looking up, Nicola said mildly, “If ye’re asking me to poison the entire keep during Wynda’s wedding celebration tonight…the answer’s nay.”
“But I liked how ye paused there afore answering.”
Nicola smirked. “I didnae. ‘Twas me inhaling.”
“Ye were considering it,” Robena needled, leaning her weight on her forearms. “I like that.”
“I’m no’ poisoning people.”
Robena nodded to the flagon. “What’s that? It looks poisonous.”
“‘Tis, in too great a quantity. Anything’s poisonous in too great a quantity.”
“Water’s no’.”
Nicola finally met her eyes. “It is if ye’re drowning.” Her gaze sparkled with merriment.
“Hmm. How about air? Everyone needs air to live. Ye cannae have too much of it.”
“Can ye fly?”
Robena’s brows drew in. “Nay.”
“Well, then, if ye fall off a cliff, or the highest battlement while practicing yer piping…I imagine ye’d have just enough time on the way down to decide there is such a thing as too much air.”
Oh, by St. Kelsi’s eardrums.Robena rolled her eyes. “‘Tis too much ground that’ll give ye trouble in that scenario, Nicola. Can I assume whatever ye’re concocting isnae poisonous and cannae help me to fly?”
Her sister shrugged and continued stirring. “I suppose whisky can be said to make people fly, but nay. ‘Tis just another draught for Mother.
Ah.