Kieran didn’t slow.
Michael Andrews—his second-in-command, his right hand, and the only man in the Highlands brazen enough to tease him this early in the day—fell into step beside him, his grin already wide. He was everything Kieran was not: light where Kieranwas shadow, laughter where Kieran was silence. The women of the clan adored him for it though Kieran often wondered if that silver tongue of his would be the death of him.
“I hear,” Michael drawled, brushing a bit of dust off his shoulder, “that the council has planned ye a grand celebration. A ceilidh, was it? Och, ye must be thrilled! Music, drink, women?—”
He caught the look on Kieran’s face then and stopped short. His grin faltered.
“Good Lord, Kieran,” he muttered, stepping back a pace. “What’s got ye in a foul temper? I’ve seen ye come out of battle lookin’ sunnier than this.”
Kieran ground out, “It’s nothin’. Just a headache.”
Michael arched a brow. “Aye? The kind that walks on two legs and answers to Me Lady, perhaps?”
Kieran shot him a look that could have felled a stag.
Michael raised his hands in surrender, but amusement flickered again in his eyes. “Och, so I was right.”
“Drop it,” Kieran said, his voice low. He turned down another corridor, hoping his friend would take the hint, but of course, Michael followed. He always did.
“Ye ken I can tell when ye’re lyin’, aye?” Michael said, tone lighter now, but his eyes sharper now, as if he was trying to look right through him. “What happened? Ye finally told the lass that ye plan to lock her up till we find the bastard killin’ yer wives? Or did she throw a book at ye first?”
“Neither.”
“Then what?”
Kieran exhaled sharply through his nose, rubbing the back of his neck. He hated talking about it, but the image of Lydia’s face, flushed with frustration, her eyes flashing as she argued with him over bannocks, refused to leave his mind.
“She wanted to talk about the ceilidh,” he muttered finally. “Asked questions. About food. Decorations.”
Michael blinked then laughed. “That’s what’s got ye scowlin’ like ye swallowed a blade? The lass wants a bit of cheer. Let her have it.”
“She will have it,” Kieran snapped. “I told her to do what she wished.”
Michael gave him a long look. “And ye think that’s the same thing as carin’, do ye?”
Kieran stopped walking, and his friend nearly walked into him. “Nay. But I daenae care.”
Michael’s tone softened a fraction though he seemed terribly displeased. “She’s nae the enemy, Kieran. She’s yer wife, and she’s likely scared out of her wits, tryin’ to find her place here while ye brood about like a storm cloud.”
Kieran turned his head, meeting his gaze. “Ye think I daenae ken that?”
“Then why treat her as if she’s a burden?”
Kieran let out a heavy sigh, shaking his head. “Because she is, Michael. Every woman who’s stood where she stands has ended up buried under that hill. If she stays near me, she’s in danger. If she gets close?—”
“—ye’re in danger,” Michael finished quietly.
The words hit too close to the truth. Kieran’s hand flexed at his side, the leather of his gloves creaking.
“She’s nae ready,” he said, almost to himself. “Nae for what I am, nae for this life, and I’ll nae have her fearin’ me on top of everythin’ else.”
“If ye keep glowerin’ at the lass every time she tries to speak to ye, she’ll think ye hate her,” Micheal said, and his words were not unreasonable, even to Kieran’s ears. “Is that what ye want?”
Kieran didn’t respond, but naturally, that was not what he wanted.
Michael tilted his head, smirk widening. “Or maybe ye’d rather keep her angry. Makes it easier nae to notice how lovely she is, eh?”
Kieran shot him one last, withering look and turned toward his chambers.
