As always, Vivien made her way to the dining room well ahead of time. She waited in the parlor outside of the formal room, gnawing on her bottom lip while she stared, unseeing, out of the window.
The door creaking open snapped Vivien out of her reverie; she jumped slightly in her chair, only to look up and see the image that she saw every time she closed her eyes – Kieran.
He was dressed in his full plaid, his kilt freshly washed and pressed, his shirt stark white and immaculate.
He breathed an audible sigh of relief as his eyes met hers, leaving Vivien to wonder why he had been worried about her in the first place. She smiled at him, his answering smile reaffirming how much she meant to him.
All Vivien wanted to do was run into his arms, to feel the safety of his embrace and the taste of his kiss.
To do that would be to sign their death warrants.
Instead, she inclined her head politely, knowing that there could be ears listening to their conversation, and said, “It is a pleasure to see you again, Laird Kieran. I do trust you are well?”
Kieran cleared his throat; Vivien could see the concentration it cost him to restrain himself from doing the very same thing she wanted to do.
“My Lady.” He bowed formally, almost causing Vivien to laugh out loud at the absurdity. “I am well; I hope the same is true for ye.”
“My husband, Reginald, will join us shortly; he is just running a few minutes late. I do apologize,” Vivien said, trying to keep her tone as neutral as possible.
“Aye, that is understandable, my Lady. Running a castle is nae easy task. I dae thank ye for the invitation tae dinner,” he replied, his tone lifting at the end, as though he were asking her a question rather than stating a fact.
Vivien nodded, “Indeed.”
They waited in awkward silence for a few minutes until the doors to the parlor were finally thrown open to reveal Reginald, dressed in his finest dinner clothes. He looked immaculate, in his own way, Vivien thought. He took pride in his appearance, sometimes to the point where she felt he could just as well have been a peacock for the way he paraded around, lauding his wealth in the form of his perfectly tailored outfits.
“Vivien, Laird Kieran,” Reginald greeted them stiffly. Kieran inclined his head, acknowledging Reginald’s greeting, even though it was a slap in the face. Reginald was well aware that he had ignored the rules of propriety with his entrance, and he had done it on purpose to antagonize the man, as he always had to.
“Lord Reginald Stone, I presume?” Kieran said, looking unperturbed. Vivien knew him well enough to know that he would not allow Reginald the satisfaction of knowing that he was crawling under Kieran’s skin with his behavior.
“Yes, that’s right. Who else would I be?” Reginald made a pathetic attempt at laughing; Kieran smiled in return, his expression stoic.
“It is good tae finally meet ye, Lord Stone. I am sorry we missed each other the first time I came calling,” Kieran said, his tone of voice flat. He might have looked unconcerned, but Vivien had a feeling Kieran was nowhere nearly as calm as his exterior showed that he was.
“Let us take our seats at the dinner table, shall we?” Reginald said, ignoring Kieran’s comment as he walked through the doors to the dining room without waiting for an answer.
Vivien’s stomach was roiling with butterflies flapping their wings constantly, causing her to feel dizzy and nauseous at the same time. She had no idea how she was going to make it through this meal without giving away the fact that she knew Kieran in a much, much more intimate way than Reginald expected – and more so than she knew Reginald himself.
As always, Vivien took her seat to the left of Reginald, sitting at the head of the table, while Kieran took his seat to Reginald’s right.
Servants immediately began to filter into the room through a side door that led directly to the kitchens, carrying platters and trenchers full to the brim with a variety of food that could feed a small army.
“Pour us wine, will you, Frederick?” Reginald waved his hand towards the sideboard where the crystal decanters and glasses stood, neatly displayed. Frederick nodded and complied with his orders.
“I do hope you enjoy good wine, Laird MacBride. I have some of the finest vintages that have come out of France in the last few years out for us to enjoy tonight,” Reginald said, glaring at Kieran.
“I’m not much wine inclined, Lord Stone, I’m fonder of a dram – ye can never go astray with a Highlander whisky.”
“Yes, I am sure you cannot,” Reginald replied stiffly. Kieran appeared to be getting under his skin, too, Vivien observed to herself.
The servants made quick work of placing all of the food on the table; the head chef sliced the roast pork and served Reginald first.
Another rude gesture, Vivien thought sourly.
It was customary to offer the first choice of the cut meat to one’s guest – especially when that guest was of at least equal rank to the host. Of course, Reginald was making certain that Kieran knew what he thought of him and would push the limit as far as he possibly could, without outright calling Kieran a heathen.
Kieran’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing as the servant served him next, and finally, Vivien.
The servants hastened out of the room; the tension in the atmosphere was difficult to ignore.
