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Instead, he gave a nod, already hating himself for such awkwardness.
“I will need to throw a wake and a burial for my father,” he said. “To honor his memory, I’m going to invite all the tenants, clansmen, and friends from his lands. They would want to say goodbye.”
Kate nodded. “All right.”
“Can ye cook, please, Kate?”
She seemed to straighten her back a little as he said that. “Yes, of course.”
“Thank ye.”
“What should I cook?”
Ian scratched his head. He’d never had to entertain guests, and he didn’t remember what was usually served at wakes. “Please ask Manning, and once ye’ve decided, tell me what I should buy in the village or hunt for.”
“Okay. And how many people?”
“I dinna ken how many will come. I think about fifty.”
Her eyes widened. “Fifty? But it’s just the three of us: Manning, Cadha, and me…”
“Aye.” Ian massaged his forehead. “Ye’re right, I’m putting too much on ye.”
“No,” she said and straightened her back even more. “No. Don’t worry. We’ll manage. I’ll think of something.”
He felt her eyes on him, but he didn’t look back at her.
“Don’t worry,” she repeated. “Just concentrate on your dad’s funeral. I—we’ll take care of the food. You won’t even notice a hiccup, I promise. I won’t let you down.”
He glanced at her sharply. The soft golden light of the candles Cadha had set on the table for him played on her pretty face. The mixture of resolve and uneasiness in her features choked him, scraped at old wounds. She would clearly be making a big effort, mayhap bigger than she could manage after what she’d been through.
And he didn’t deserve her.
“Nae,” he said. “Dinna do more than ye can, Katie.”
Her features smoothed in surprise. “I can. I can.” She stood up. “Everything will be ready. Everything will be great. You have enough stuff going on, Ian.”
She didn’t let him contradict her but walked out of the hall, leaving him alone in the deafening, dark loneliness of the empty walls.
He’d been wrong. This wasn’t home. This didn’t feel like home. Not without Father.
Torn between the memories of the monstrous deeds he’d done and the emptiness of what he’d thought would bring him relief, he needed to forget. To numb the desperation that tore at the ragged wound that used to be his heart.
And he knew only one way to do that.
He went into the storage room and filled his waterskin with uisge from the barrel.
That night, the numbness took him even before he went into the bedchamber that used to belong to his father and was now his. It still smelled like his father—steel and leather, the tang of wool grease, and alcohol. Before Ian fell into oblivion, he dreamed of his father scolding him.
Chapter 11
Two days later…
“What are ye doing?” Manning yelled.
Kate studied the dead chicken hanging upside down in her hand.
“What am I doing?” she said. “Trying to pluck it.”
