Spying a space near the front, she tried sliding into place as unobtrusively as possible. But it was near impossible to remain unseen, as the whispers of her presence spread through the chapel like wildfire. Pay them no mind, she told herself. She carefully adjusted the skirt of her gown, then glanced beneath her lashes to see who sat beside her. ’Twas Hamish, the castle steward. She offered him a shy smile. Hamish grunted, his expression leaving little doubt that he was displeased with her seat choice, but at least he had the good manners to stay in the pew. Fiona was sure any of the women seated so piously around her would have made a scene and stomped away. It was difficult to concentrate on the service with so many resentful glares trained upon her back. Fiona could almost hear the snickers when nerves made her stumble over the words of a familiar prayer, but she refused to bow her head. Her pride demanded she stay, but more importantly, she needed the familiar comfort of the Mass to calm her nerves.
