Beneath the thousand thoughts racing through his mind—the effort it took to keep his body upright, the struggle against giving anything away with his reactions, the work of wondering how in the hell he was going to manage his aunt—Ciaran was impressed. He wouldn’t have pegged her for someone so skilled at probing for information.
“I want no part in a war,” he replied. It was as honest as he could be, given his circumstances.
She let out a sharp bark of laughter.
“Well, that’s too bad,” she said flatly, that smile vanished from her face. “None of us wanted a war, Ciaran, but it found us. It foundye…”She trailed off meaningly. “With thosebanditsye encountered, ye ken.”
Internally, Ciaran swore. If Eilidh hadn’t believed his story about the bandits, then there was no chance that the hardened warriors of the Keep had believed it, either.
He clenched his jaw until he could feel the muscles moving, until he knew that his teeth would ache later from the effort. Eilidh watched him carefully, looking almost… disappointed.
“We saved your life,” she reminded him in that same level tone, the one that threw the absence of her usual cheer into stark relief. “The least ye can do is repay that debt. If ye dinnae stand with us against Gordon, then ye may as well be an enemy.” She tilted her head. “Sommat to consider.”
And then, without any further offer of aid, she turned on her heel and left him standing alone in the courtyard.
Ciaran swore under his breath as he watched her retreat. He ran a frustrated hand through his hair, growing even more irritable as his shoulder screamed with the mere effort of raising his arm above his head.
Christ, when had things gotten so bloodycomplicated?
He stood there for a long moment, his legs trembling beneath him. He had, despite his promise to the healer, overexerted himself.
Just as he gathered his resolve to make the long, likely painful walk back to his room, he felt a strange prickling across his scalp, the one he’d felt a thousand times before in battle. The one that had saved his life more than once.
With a carefully casual air, he looked over his shoulder in the direction of the feeling—but saw nary a soul, not even the regular clansfolk who were moving through the space on their daily business. Ciaran was too well-versed in the language of danger to disregard the feeling, however. Even if he didn’t see someone, that didn’t mean that they weren’t watching him.
Someone was here. Someone skilled enough to remain hidden as they spied upon him.
It seemed he didn’t have much time left for resting and recovery. Soon, he would be left with no choice but to act.
5
The feast held that evening had clearly been intended to celebrate the arrival of the new Buchanan heir, but everyone politely pretended that they had always meant for it to also welcome Lady Kirsty Gunn, who acted genuinely chuffed at the gesture.
“Too kind of ye, much, much too kind,” Kirsty had twittered at Lady Buchanan, who had that look common to new mothers; bright-eyed with happiness even as her shoulders were heavy with exhaustion. “And tae think that this daft nephew of mine didnae take the time to be ill on your doorstep when ye werenae occupied by something as important as a new arrival!”
Ciaran tried not to scowl; Ailsa tried not to smile. He was less successful than she was.
“Well, we are pleased to host him, no matter the timing or the circumstances,” Ailsa said diplomatically, every inch the Lady of the Keep. “And ye as well, Lady Kirsty. I dinnae ken if ye recall…”
Ciaran tried to fade into the background as the two women began reminiscing about some long-ago meeting, but Kirsty’s hand shot out and grasped him by the arm, her fingers liketalons. So much for her professed concern about his injuries, he thought as he winced when she dug in.
The other Donaghey sisters seemed just as entertained by Kirsty as Eilidh had been. When Lady Buchanan was herded away by her doting husband, who insisted she take a seat after her recent ordeal, she was replaced by a sweet-looking redhead.
Davina McPherson was, like her eldest sister, shadowed by a protective husband. Arran was attuned to her every move, his attention never wandering from his wife for long. Davina was soon followed by Vaila McGregor, who gave Ciaran a sharp-eyed assessment before turning to greet Kirsty with significantly more warmth.
Vaila’s husband didn’t stand behind his wife like a sentinel—though something about the way James watched his dark-haired warrioress suggested that he would have liked to do so—but rather stood beside her, as though they intended to face any enemies side-by-side.
Eventually, Vaila and James also drifted away. There was a moment of blissful, blissful peace—aside from Aunt Kirsty chattering his ear off, of course—and then a new lass approached, this one unescorted by a glowering male companion. She had hair so raven black that it gleamed in the flickering candlelight, and her curtsy caused the bands of reflection to flicker as she moved.
“Good evening, Lady Kirsty, Laird Ciaran,” she said politely, though there was a hum of intelligence underneath her words that made Ciaran feel he was being observed. “I ken that my brother and new sisters have already greeted ye, but I wished to offer my own welcome. I am Mairi Buchanan.”
Ciaran offered her a nod—one that was polite enough but did not invite further conversation. There was an awareness of social mores in Mairi’s eyes, one that suggested that this mighthave been enough, but then Kirsty spoke, far too loudly to be considered an undertone.
“Ach, finally, one who is nae yet married,” she said, tugging excitedly at Ciaran’s arm. “This one is still free to snatch!”
“Aunt Kirsty!” Ciaran was shocked, but truly, he shouldn’t have been.
And indeed, his censorious exclamation did little to quell her.
