“What? She’s bonny,” she said, tilting her head at Mairi in what Ciaran gathered was meant to be subtlety. “Ye could do far worse.”
Mairi’s fair cheeks were bright red, but she gave no other outward sign that she could hear these staggeringly inappropriate comments about her person. She’d make a fair diplomat’s wife one day. Ciaran, however, was no diplomat.
“Will ye stop that!” he hissed at his aunt.
Kirsty decided to speak to Mairi directly.
“Dinnae mind him,” she said. “Men are fair idiots when it comes to pretty lasses. He means no offense.”
The idea that Ciaran was the one causing offense was so preposterous that he could do little more than let out a strangled sound of dismay. This, at least, had the benefit of making Mairi crack a smile.
“I appreciate that, Lady Kirsty,” she said with a straight face. Impressive, that. “But with matters so unsettled with the clan, I confess that I am thinking more of war than matrimony.”
Kirsty heaved a dramatic sigh as though this was lamentable, yet understandable.
“Aye, I suppose that would take up much of your attention,” she allowed magnanimously. “But if ye ever do start thinking on matters of marriage, please dinnae forget my poor nephew. He’s a far better match than he is making himself appear.”
Ciaran wondered how much harm it would do to his reputation as a warrior if he just let himself sink under the table and disappear.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Mairi said.
She gave Kirsty a curtsy, then shot Ciaran a glance—he was fairly certain she was laughing at him, but he was too busy not meeting her eye to be sure—and then went to join her brother at the head of the room.
“What is wrong with ye?” Ciaran asked his aunt when some of the clansmen began striking up music and people began to drift out to the center of the room, preparing to dance.
Kirsty looked at him like he was daft. “What is wrong with me? Ye are the one who is ignoring pretty ladies. It’s high time ye found yourself wed, my boy.”
“Need I remind ye,” he said through gritted teeth, “that ye never married yourself?”
She tossed her head. “Spinsterhood is all well and good for women, but remaining a bachelor is no good for a man. Ye have tae use your good looks to get yourself a good lass before she realizes that men are more trouble than they’re worth. It’s all about the timing.”
She punctuated this inanity with a sage nod, as if she was bestowing upon him the truths of the universe.
Ciaran gave up. Kirsty could win this one. He could never keep up with her in matters of lunacy.
The noise in the hall grew as more and more feet joined in the lively dancing. Ciaran looked vaguely out over the swirling figures, trying to pretend that he wasn’t keeping an eye out for one particularly golden head. He’d almost convinced himself when a quiet giggle cut through the noise, reaching his ears though it should have been lost in the chaos.
Eilidh was laughing happily as she twirled with one of the Buchanan guards, who looked likely to perish from the pleasure of having her on his arm.
A spear of something ugly went through Ciaran. He clenched his jaw, refusing to let it show.
The guard was young, perhaps eighteen or nineteen, and though he could not be far off in age from Eilidh herself, Ciaran could not help but think that the lad was too green to appreciate a woman like Eilidh Donaghey. Indeed, he could barely keep up with her dancing; he was practically a clod, standing there as he spun her in time with the music. If Ciaran was the one dancing with her?—
He cut that thought off before it could continue. He wasn’t the one dancing with her. He wouldn’t be the one dancing with her.
It didn’t matter who she chose as her partner. Itdid not matter.
He was getting sick of trying to convince himself of things. It made him long for the simplicity of battle, where the only thing he could focus on was survival.
This politics business was far more dangerous, as far as he was concerned.
The musicians eventually took a pause to eat and drink, and the dancers filtered away from the floor and back to their places at the tables. This brought Eilidh, looking particularly bonny with her flushed pink cheeks and sparkling eyes, back to the head table where Ciaran had been seated with his aunt. She took a spot away from him, though; one where she could bend her head in conversation with Mairi Buchanan and Davina. Ciaran tried to catch her eye until he realized what he was doing, then made his attention go to his plate. He should have been hungrier, but despite the sumptuous fare in front of him, he was able to do little more than pick at his food.
“We must thank ye again for your hospitality,” Kirsty said to Laird and Lady Buchanan, kicking Ciaran under the table to get his attention. Ciaran tried to muster a smile, but he feared it looked more like a grimace.
“We are pleased to have ye,” Ewan Buchanan replied, looking as though he meant it.
The Laird was too canny for Ciaran to describe him as out-and-out friendly, but he carried that same weary-but-joyous air as did his wife.
