But Sebastian lingered.
Lydia swallowed in a dry throat. “Is there anythin’ else ye wished to say?” she asked, polite but in a chilly tone that showed just how much she would have preferred it if he followed his fellow council members.
Sebastian’s eyes softened in a way that made her stomach twist, like a predator pretending to be harmless. “Only that the clan is fortunate to have a lady so… dedicated. A woman who endures danger yet still fulfils her responsibilities is a rare treasure indeed.”
When she glanced at Kieran from the corner of her eye, she found him strangely tense, his shoulders drawn up to his ears, and she couldn’t help but wonder what was wrong.
Did he, too, realize there was something strange about Sebastian? She had never heard him speak about his uncle, not directly at least, and so she had no idea what his opinion of the man could be. All she knew was that now, it seemed to her that Kieran had a bone to pick with him, to say the least.
“Enjoy the feast,” Kieran said roughly, making it abundantly clear the conversation was over.
Sebastian inclined his head, stepping back. “Of course. Do savor the night while ye can.”
He vanished into the crowd, and Lydia didn’t see where he went. Lydia was only glad she didn’t have that suffocating presence over her anymore—a weight lifted, something in the air shifting.
She exhaled shakily.
Kieran turned to her at once. “Are ye all right?”
“Aye,” she said, though the icy trace Sebastian’s stare had left on her spine was slow to fade.
Kieran watched his uncle disappear into the throng, the torchlight catching on the few silver strands in Sebastian’s hair as he slipped between guests with the effortless ease of a man welcome in every corner. People greeted him warmly, clapping him on the shoulder, unaware of the frost he brought in his wake.
Kieran’s jaw tightened.
How did he ken about the attack?
He was certain he had kept the matter quiet. He had given his men clear orders, and they were not the kind who disobeyed him. No one had seen anything, no one had spoken—accordingto them all, nothing had happened at all, and he and Lydia had agreed to keep the incident silent until he could make sense of it.
So how had his uncle leaned in with that casual smile and mentioned attacks, plural, as though it were news sung by the minstrels?
Kieran’s pulse thudded, slow and heavy, suspicion coiling in his gut.
He didn’t want to suspect Sebastian. The man had helped raise him, teaching him sword-work, advising him at council, laughing loudly and drinking harder and telling the clan proudly that Kieran would be twice the laird his father had ever been.
But his uncle also had a way of looking at things—possessions, titles, people—that made Kieran’s skin chill as if hit by frost.
And tonight, it was Lydia he had looked at that way.
Beside him, Lydia exhaled, small and shaken. Kieran angled himself subtly closer, shielding her from the crowd with his body without making it obvious. Her fingers brushed her skirts, smoothing fabric that did not need smoothing.
“He unsettles ye,” he said.
“Sometimes,” Lydia admitted with a small nod. “But… surely, it is all in good jest.”
Even as she spoke the words, she did not seem to believe them.
He leaned down, saying, “Perhaps ye can call me a misshapen lump of cream tonight.”
For a moment, Lydia didn’t react, and Kieran cursed himself for the forced attempt at lifting her spirits. But when she smiled, the tension in her shoulders easing, it soothed him more than he cared to admit.
But he couldn’t ignore this. Whatever it was he had sensed from his uncle, he doubted it was all in his head—or all in good jest as Lydia claimed.
Perhaps someone spoke… and why wouldnae they tell him? He’s a trusted member of the council.
I’m makin’ this seem worse than it is.
But still, he would not let this get out of hand. Either he would put his suspicions to rest or?—
