“Separately?” he repeated.
“Yes.”
He leaned back in his chair, studying her with open curiosity. “And why is that?”
She dipped her quill again, her lips twitching.
“Because,” she said carefully, “there are certain matters regarding my married life that my sisters may appreciate, but my father most certainly will not.”
Kayden blinked once. Then realization dawned on him.
A low laugh escaped him, rich and unrestrained.
“Ah,” he drawled, “those matters.”
She refused to look up, though her cheeks pinkened charmingly.
“I will not,” she continued primly, “subject Papa to accounts of conjugal bliss.”
He laughed outright then, leaning forward on his elbows. “Conjugal bliss?” he repeated.
She shot him a warning look. “I am a respectable lady,” she declared.
“Aye,” he agreed solemnly. “A thoroughly respectable lady.”
Her foot nudged his beneath the table.
“And I shall tell him,” she added loftily, “that we are well. That the clan thrives. That his daughter has not been eaten by barbarians.”
“Pity,” Kayden murmured. “He might have enjoyed that image.”
She swatted at his sleeve.
He returned to his letters, though his expression remained warm.
One by one, he addressed neighboring lairds. He wrote with careful diplomacy, offering cooperation, trade agreements, and shared grazing rights for the winter months.
And then he paused. His hand hovered over the final piece of parchment.
Lilliana noticed. “Is that the last letter?” she asked.
“Aye.”
He began writing the name slowly.
MacNairn.
The name hung between them like a memory not yet spoken aloud. She watched his expression shift, not to anger, but to something steadier. Thoughtful.
“I did not realize you would invite him,” she said gently.
Kayden sanded the letter before answering. “It is important to mend fences before the owner kens they are broken.”
She smiled faintly. “That sounds like wisdom borrowed from Old Fergus.”
“It is,” he admitted. “And he is rarely wrong.”
She folded her letters carefully, tying each one with ribbon.
