Chapter 15
Ciaran took Ava riding the next morning. It was the easiest way to keep his promise without showing her more tenderness than he could manage.
Their last outing had been a mistake, as he had been a bit too transparent regarding his feelings. This one needed to have some semblance of structure.
A quick ride had shape and everything. There would be less time to ask questions and grow vulnerable, which was exactly what he wanted. He could place her on a horse, keep her beside him, speak when needed, and return to the castle with the obligation met and his thoughts still his own.
That was the plan.
Then Ava saw the horses.
The change in her came so quickly that he noticed it before he meant to. Her face brightened, and he could have sworn he saw what looked like a laugh on her face.
She was elated, but was still careful not to show it. A part of him wanted to ask what her deal was with horses, but that would be venturing into the very territory he had sworn to avoid as much as possible.
She stepped toward the mare set out for her with the kind of pleased surprise no one could fake well.
“She’s lovely,” she gushed, resting a hand against the beast’s neck.
Ciaran had chosen the mare for her steadiness and good sense. He had not expected to care whether Ava liked her. Yet some small part of him registered the joy in her words before caution could step in.
“She is.”
Ava turned and looked at him with a spark in her eyes. “Did ye choose her?”
“Aye.”
She ran her hand across the mare’s neck, and the beast leaned in for more. “She has better manners than most people.”
He should not have smiled at that, but he did, if only for a second.
By the time they set out, the morning was clear and mild, the ground dry enough for an easy pace.
The farther they moved from the castle, the looser the air felt. There were no walls, no servants in passageways or rooms too small for what sat between them. Only open land, a good path, and the quiet rhythm of two horses beneath them.
For the first stretch, Ciaran kept things simple. He spoke about the history of the land around them and how his father had become Laird.
Most of what he said, anyone could find in a history book.
And something told him that a woman as restless as Ava would have consumed as much as she could about him and his family’s history.
She did live with Isobel for over a decade, so some part of her must have been immensely curious at some point.
As he spoke, she listened with interest that seemed real enough, though not especially deep, and asked sensible questions when one arose.
Then the horses found a better stretch of ground, and everything changed.
Ava leaned forward slightly, not enough to lose control, but enough to show him that she knew exactly what to do with speed. Her mare stretched into it. The movement suited her too well.
Ciaran watched her out of the corner of his eye and raised an eyebrow, almost like he knew what was coming, “Daenae race ahead.”
Ava looked back at him with mock offense. “And who says I mean to?”
“I do.”
“That is unfair.”
“Nay. I am just telling ye beforehand. That horse isnae stable enough for a race.”
The mischievous smile on her face widened, and Ciaran braced himself for whatever came next. “Whatever ye say, me Laird.”
“Ava, wait—”
Before he could finish, she kicked her heels in and let the mare surge forward.
It was not reckless in the very least. She rode well. Better than he had expected. Her seat was light, her hands steady, and the look on her face when she turned to see whether he followed was full of bright challenge rather than panic.
He raced after her because he had no choice left but to do so.
When he drew level again, she was laughing.
“I used to beat Isobel every time,” she revealed, as if continuing a conversation. “She always swore I cheated.”
“Did ye?”
She looked up at the sky. “Constantly.”
He glanced at her with an arched eyebrow.
She snorted. “All right, nae really, but I let her believe it because it made winning sweeter.”
That coaxed a rough breath from him that should not have been as close to amusement as it was.
Ava noticed. Of course, she noticed.
“I kent it,” she said, the laughter in her voice still evident. “There is a sense of humor buried in ye somewhere.”
“Daenae grow too hopeful.”
“Too late.”
They rode on at a brisk pace after that, the horses pleased with the exercise, the morning broad and clear around them.
Ava kept speaking, her voice mingling with the wind in the gentlest way. She told him how Isobel used to accuse her of leaning forward like a jockey, which made her horse go faster.
“And did ye? Lean like a jockey?”
“That isnae the point of this discussion, me Laird.”
“Sounds like it should very much be the point.”
Ava turned to him, her eyes narrowed and her eyebrows raised. “Why? Because ye also think it is quite unladylike?”
Ciaran shrugged in response.
Ava shook her head. “I cannae believe ye. Ye ken, to win, sometimes ye have to disregard things like posture. The competition doesnae care how ladylike ye look.”
A smirk curved his lips as they rode even faster. She told him she once rounded a corner too sharply and landed in mud before she could enjoy her victory, while Isobel laughed so hard she nearly fell as well.
Ciaran found himself listening not out of duty, but because he wanted the next part. That was the first real warning.
Ava smiled more when she rode. Not prettily, but openly.
It changed her entire face. Worse, there was no sign she did it for him.
She was not trying to charm or coax him.
She was simply enjoying herself, entirely occupied with the horse beneath her and the memory of old races and the pleasure of movement.
That made it much harder to defend against. A woman faking sweetness could be met with caution. A woman simply being herself was an entirely different matter.
With an unwelcome jolt, Ciaran became aware that their outing no longer felt like something to be endured. He was not merely tolerating her company. He was taking pleasure in it. In her voice. In her competitiveness. In the way the ride itself felt better because she was beside him.
He was simply enjoying her company; that was it. There was no reason to attach meaning to what was just a fine day out. This was nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
By the time they slowed the horses near a gentler rise, his mind had already reached for order.
“Ye should meet the staff,” he said.
Ava looked over at him, her eyes still glimmering. “Now?”
“Soon.”
Her expression shifted into curiosity. “For what purpose?”
“I mean, ye are the lady of the castle now. Ye have to learn the household. Its rhythm. Its people.” He kept his voice even. “There are matters ye ought to ken.”
That was true. Entirely true. Which made the timing good.
Ava studied him for a moment in a way he did not much like. “Ye are giving me work,” she said.
“I am giving ye responsibility.”
“That sounds less rude when ye say it.”
“It isnae meant to be rude.”
And it was not. But he knew, even as he said it, that practicality was only half the reason.
The other half sat lower and meaner inside him.
If she were occupied with servants, stores, keys, linens, and all the proper burdens of a laird’s wife, perhaps she would sit more firmly inside the shape he had intended for this marriage.
And perhaps he would as well. Hopefully, that would stop whatever had begun riding beside him this morning with her smile in its mouth.
Ava turned her gaze back toward the grounds ahead. “Very well,” she agreed. “I shall learn them.”
He nodded once, feeling a wave of relief wash over him.
At least, with her being busy with her duties, she would have some kind of structure, and he wouldn’t have time to let himself wonder if the walls he had built could perhaps be allowed to tumble down.
The next day proved how badly that logic failed.
Ciaran came upon the lesson by accident. At least that was what he told himself when he passed the half-open door and stopped at the sound of the housekeeper’s patient voice repeating the same instruction for what sounded like the third time.
He looked inside.
Ava sat at a small table by the window with an embroidery hoop in her lap and a look of intense determination on her face that would have been more convincing if the cloth in her hands had not already been so thoroughly mistreated.
What in God’s name?
Thread had gone where thread had no business going, and the stitches wandered. Whatever shape the housekeeper had first intended now resembled nothing that looked like anything.
Good God.
He decided that whatever was in Ava’s hands deserved nothing more than a merciful flame at the end of the day.
The housekeeper, to her credit, remained calm.
“Nay, me Lady,” she said, leaning closer. “Ye must keep the spacing even.”
“I am trying.”
“I can see that.”
Ava looked down at the cloth with open suspicion, as though it had betrayed her. “It looked much simpler when ye did it.”
“That is because I have been doing it for forty years.”
“Oh well,” Ava groaned, her voice laced with despair. “That does seem an unfair advantage.”
For a minute, there was just silence. Then she and the housekeeper burst into loud laughter that seemed to almost roll through the passageways.
Ciaran stayed where he was, one hand still resting against the doorframe. He should have moved on. The lesson was none of his business. He had wanted her introduced to the household and its expectations. The housekeeper was doing exactly that. There was no reason for him to linger there.
Yet he did.
Because the scene was funny.
Ava was plainly terrible at embroidery, but she was terrible in such a determined way that amusement came before judgment. She was trying, failing, and trying again with the same look she wore when arguing a point she refused to surrender.
The housekeeper reached over and corrected the angle of her hand. “There. Gently.”
Ava obeyed. The next stitch went in crooked anyway.
The housekeeper closed her eyes for one brief second.
“I saw that,” Ava drawled.
“I made nay sound, me Lady.”
“Well, yer face did, Mrs. Patmore.”
Ciaran bit his lip to stifle a laugh, because if he did not, he would likely reveal his presence.
He had expected something useful from this. If Ava sat with the staff, learned about stores, linens, keys, accounts, and the duties expected of a laird’s wife, then perhaps some steadier shape would settle over her place in the castle.
Instead, he found this.
Ava was so bad at the task that the whole lesson had turned into a quiet battle between thread and will. Worse, what drew him in was not merely the comedy of it. It was the fact that she was entirely herself in it. She was failing honestly and refusing to quit out of embarrassment.
That should not have pleased him. But for some reason, it did.
He stood there longer than he meant to, watching her narrow her eyes at the cloth as though being stern alone might force the next stitch into its proper place.
The sight made the resignation he had felt in the past few days sink in deeper.
She was no longer only a woman he wanted in moments of heat or conflict. She fit too easily into quieter things. A ride. A walk. A lesson at a table by the window. His attention kept finding her there and staying.
Distance, ultimately, did nothing.
The housekeeper finally took the embroidery hoop from her hands with the look of a woman deciding that retreat was necessary before the fabric died. “We shall try again tomorrow.”
Ava leaned back in her chair. “How encouraging.”
“At yer age, me Lady, I was already sewing cuffs.”
“At me age, I was beating Isobel at riding and considered that a far better use of me time. I suppose I have a lot to learn.”
That nearly got him again.
He was still standing there when Hector’s footsteps sounded behind him.
Hector drew to a halt beside him, then glanced past him into the room. Ava had not yet noticed either of them. She was examining the damage, as though trying to decide whether the cloth might recover with some goodwill.
Hector’s mouth quirked up, and Ciaran gave him a warning look.
“What is it?” he asked quietly.
Hector lifted a letter. “Word back from Isla’s father.”
That pulled the moment into order again.
Ciaran stepped away from the door, and the two of them moved a little further down the passageway before Hector handed him the letter. He opened it and read it quickly.
It said what he had expected. Jack had acted alone. There was no wider grievance or planned retaliation. There was also no man waiting to take up the dead fool’s cause. The old matter ended on the wedding ground, in blood, with Jack’s body left behind and nothing more to follow it.
Ciaran folded the letter once and handed it back.
“That settles it,” Hector said.
“Aye.”
And it did.
Jack was dead. Isla’s father wanted no feud. No further threat stood outside the walls, waiting to be identified and managed. Yet the unease in Ciaran’s chest did not ebb.
His thoughts went back, at once and against his will, to the room behind him. To Ava at the table and to the ruined cloth. To the fact that her smile, her frustration, and her presence in the castle now carried more weight than they should.
He had dealt with the kind of danger he knew how to kill. The thing left standing was the one he could neither fend off nor solve.
Ava was in his home now and well in his routine. Every ordinary hour seemed to fix her there more firmly. Riding had not solved it. Duties had not solved it. Even standing outside a door and telling himself not to look had not solved it.
Jack was gone.
The castle was safe.
And Ciaran still felt no peace, because the one danger left was the woman who kept making his life feel more real each day.