Chapter 5
The feast held that evening had clearly been intended to celebrate the arrival of the new Buchanan heir, but everyone politely pretended that they had always meant for it to also welcome Lady Kirsty Gunn, who acted genuinely chuffed at the gesture.
“Too kind of ye, much, much too kind,” Kirsty had twittered at Lady Buchanan, who had that look common to new mothers; bright-eyed with happiness even as her shoulders were heavy with exhaustion.
“And tae think that this daft nephew of mine didnae take the time to be ill on your doorstep when ye werenae occupied by something as important as a new arrival!”
Ciaran tried not to scowl; Ailsa tried not to smile. He was less successful than she was.
“Well, we are pleased to host him, no matter the timing or the circumstances,” Ailsa said diplomatically, every inch the Lady of the Keep. “And ye as well, Lady Kirsty. I dinnae ken if ye recall…”
Ciaran tried to fade into the background as the two women began reminiscing about some long-ago meeting, but Kirsty’s hand shot out and grasped him by the arm, her fingers like talons. So much for her professed concern about his injuries, he thought as he winced when she dug in.
The other Donaghey sisters seemed just as entertained by Kirsty as Eilidh had been. When Lady Buchanan was herded away by her doting husband, who insisted she take a seat after her recent ordeal, she was replaced by a sweet-looking redhead.
Davina McPherson was, like her eldest sister, shadowed by a protective husband.
Arran was attuned to her every move, his attention never wandering from his wife for long.
Davina was soon followed by Vaila McGregor, who gave Ciaran a sharp-eyed assessment before turning to greet Kirsty with significantly more warmth.
Vaila’s husband didn’t stand behind his wife like a sentinel—though something about the way James watched his dark-haired warrioress suggested that he would have liked to do so—but rather stood beside her, as though they intended to face any enemies side-by-side.
Eventually, Vaila and James also drifted away.
There was a moment of blissful, blissful peace—aside from Aunt Kirsty chattering his ear off, of course—and then a new lass approached, this one unescorted by a glowering male companion.
She had hair so raven black that it gleamed in the flickering candlelight, and her curtsy caused the bands of reflection to flicker as she moved.
“Good evening, Lady Kirsty, Laird Ciaran,” she said politely, though there was a hum of intelligence underneath her words that made Ciaran feel he was being observed. “I ken that my brother and new sisters have already greeted ye, but I wished to offer my own welcome. I am Mairi Buchanan.”
Ciaran offered her a nod—one that was polite enough but did not invite further conversation. There was an awareness of social mores in Mairi’s eyes, one that suggested that this might have been enough, but then Kirsty spoke, far too loudly to be considered an undertone.
“Ach, finally, one who is nae yet married,” she said, tugging excitedly at Ciaran’s arm. “This one is still free to snatch!”
“Aunt Kirsty!” Ciaran was shocked, but truly, he shouldn’t have been.
And indeed, his censorious exclamation did little to quell her.
“What? She’s bonny,” she said, tilting her head at Mairi in what Ciaran gathered was meant to be subtlety. “Ye could do far worse.”
Mairi’s fair cheeks were bright red, but she gave no other outward sign that she could hear these staggeringly inappropriate comments about her person. She’d make a fair diplomat’s wife one day. Ciaran, however, was no diplomat.
“Will ye stop that!” he hissed at his aunt.
Kirsty decided to speak to Mairi directly.
“Dinnae mind him,” she said. “Men are fair idiots when it comes to pretty lasses. He means no offense.”
The idea that Ciaran was the one causing offense was so preposterous that he could do little more than let out a strangled sound of dismay. This, at least, had the benefit of making Mairi crack a smile.
“I appreciate that, Lady Kirsty,” she said with a straight face. Impressive, that. “But with matters so unsettled with the clan, I confess that I am thinking more of war than matrimony.”
Kirsty heaved a dramatic sigh as though this was lamentable, yet understandable.
“Aye, I suppose that would take up much of your attention,” she allowed magnanimously. “But if ye ever do start thinking on matters of marriage, please dinnae forget my poor nephew. He’s a far better match than he is making himself appear.”
Ciaran wondered how much harm it would do to his reputation as a warrior if he just let himself sink under the table and disappear.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Mairi said.
She gave Kirsty a curtsy, then shot Ciaran a glance—he was fairly certain she was laughing at him, but he was too busy not meeting her eye to be sure—and then went to join her brother at the head of the room.
“What is wrong with ye?” Ciaran asked his aunt when some of the clansmen began striking up music and people began to drift out to the center of the room, preparing to dance.
Kirsty looked at him like he was daft. “What is wrong with me? Ye are the one who is ignoring pretty ladies. It’s high time ye found yourself wed, my boy.”
“Need I remind ye,” he said through gritted teeth, “that ye never married yourself?”
She tossed her head. “Spinsterhood is all well and good for women, but remaining a bachelor is no good for a man. Ye have tae use your good looks to get yourself a good lass before she realizes that men are more trouble than they’re worth. It’s all about the timing.”
She punctuated this inanity with a sage nod, as if she was bestowing upon him the truths of the universe.
Ciaran gave up. Kirsty could win this one. He could never keep up with her in matters of lunacy.
The noise in the hall grew as more and more feet joined in the lively dancing.
Ciaran looked vaguely out over the swirling figures, trying to pretend that he wasn’t keeping an eye out for one particularly golden head.
He’d almost convinced himself when a quiet giggle cut through the noise, reaching his ears though it should have been lost in the chaos.
Eilidh was laughing happily as she twirled with one of the Buchanan guards, who looked likely to perish from the pleasure of having her on his arm.
A spear of something ugly went through Ciaran. He clenched his jaw, refusing to let it show.
The guard was young, perhaps eighteen or nineteen, and though he could not be far off in age from Eilidh herself, Ciaran could not help but think that the lad was too green to appreciate a woman like Eilidh Donaghey.
Indeed, he could barely keep up with her dancing; he was practically a clod, standing there as he spun her in time with the music. If Ciaran was the one dancing with her—
He cut that thought off before it could continue. He wasn’t the one dancing with her. He wouldn’t be the one dancing with her.
It didn’t matter who she chose as her partner. It did not matter.
He was getting sick of trying to convince himself of things. It made him long for the simplicity of battle, where the only thing he could focus on was survival.
This politics business was far more dangerous, as far as he was concerned.
The musicians eventually took a pause to eat and drink, and the dancers filtered away from the floor and back to their places at the tables.
This brought Eilidh, looking particularly bonny with her flushed pink cheeks and sparkling eyes, back to the head table where Ciaran had been seated with his aunt.
She took a spot away from him, though; one where she could bend her head in conversation with Mairi Buchanan and Davina.
Ciaran tried to catch her eye until he realized what he was doing, then made his attention go to his plate.
He should have been hungrier, but despite the sumptuous fare in front of him, he was able to do little more than pick at his food.
“We must thank ye again for your hospitality,” Kirsty said to Laird and Lady Buchanan, kicking Ciaran under the table to get his attention. Ciaran tried to muster a smile, but he feared it looked more like a grimace.
“We are pleased to have ye,” Ewan Buchanan replied, looking as though he meant it.
The Laird was too canny for Ciaran to describe him as out-and-out friendly, but he carried that same weary-but-joyous air as did his wife.
“I’ve always wanted to make more of a connection to the Gunns, one clan of distillers to another. My father always praised ye when I was a child, and now that we’ve rebuilt our distillery, I’d love to talk about your process.”
Kirsty grinned as Ciaran’s shoulders went taut with tension.
“Ach, dinnae think that ye can use your pretty face to charm us out of our secrets,” Kirsty said, wagging a playful finger at Ewan. “We—”
“We dinnae distill any longer.” Ciaran’s words were flat and held no room for argument. “Any secrets are the secrets of the past.”
His words cut through the lightheartedness of the conversation, leaving the air between them fraught with tension.
Ewan frowned. “That’s strange,” he muttered, though it sounded a great deal more as though he felt it was suspicious, not merely odd. “I thought I recently heard a merchant talking of Gunn spirits at market.”
An iron band clenched around Ciaran’s heart.
“Nay,” he said in that same forbidding tone. “We havenae distilled since before the rebellion. The king forbade it. We wouldnae risk his displeasure.”
Ewan got the same disgusted look on his face that any good Scotsman did upon reference to the tyrannical English king, and, for once, Ciaran didn’t have to hide his own reaction, which was precisely aligned with Ewan’s.
“I see,” Ewan commented so mildly that it could only mean that his mind was churning.
Ciaran might have recognized that, but he was still relieved when the conversation turned to safer topics.