Chapter 4
“I
have business with Callahan today,” Ashbourne said when he summoned her to his chamber the morning after they had gotten stuck in the carriage.
Her shoulder still throbbed from where he had yanked her about while he’d shouted at her for climbing the tree.
“Do as you will. Try not to embarrass me, if you can manage something as simple as that.”
“Yes, my lord,” Kenna replied. Her demure tone was easy to summon this morning because she was buzzing with eagerness. Did Ashbourne intend to imply that he would be busy all day? That was what it had sounded like.
All day! He would be occupied with someone else all day.
Ashbourne turned from her without a word. When he looked back a moment later, he sneered at her. “What are you still doing here?”
Kenna didn’t need to be told twice. She practically skipped down the corridor as she eagerly put distance between herself and her husband before he thought of some reason that she should accompany him.
She didn’t think it likely. He didn’t seem to enjoy her company unless it was to lord his power over her, but it had happened before.
She wandered outside, not even minding the notable damp to the air.
Part of her relished it, really, the gray mist that still felt so crisp and clean compared to the dreary weather in London.
So many of her memories of childhood were covered in his haze, the not-quite-rain that hung in the air only to cling on hair and clothing.
The sound of steel on steel was the one that drew her attention at last, and she pivoted in the direction of the training yard.
The guards were in the middle of their training; a few, mostly fresh-faced lads, were still running basic drills, while the older, more experienced guards were sparring, sometimes one-on-one, sometimes in small groups.
Declan was the first to notice her. The young Callahan held up a hand to his opponent, who stood with his back to Kenna, then stepped around to approach her. When the opponent turned, she saw it was Arran.
Of course. Those two were apparently always together. And Arran, with his too-keen eyes, always seemed to be wherever Kenna was, too.
“Good morning, Lady Makenna,” Declan said, leaning against the fencepost, a mischievous grin on his face. “Have ye come to see how real Scotsmen train? I cannae imagine that we will make your feeble English soldiers look verra good.”
Kenna smiled. It was impossible not to. Declan Callahan just had one of those airs about him, the kind that made everyone feel better just being around it.
“Ye will be surprised to hear this,” she said, letting her own brogue come to the fore, “but there arenae any English soldiers training in the streets in London.”
Declan gasped, as if shocked. “Nae ever?” he asked, hand pressed to his chest.
She laughed. “Nae ever,” she confirmed.
He gave an exaggerated look of confusion. “But then how do yon English fellows show the lasses that they are braw and brave and can fight for a fair maiden’s heart?”
Kenna was outright laughing now. “Dancing, mostly,” she said.
“Dancing,” Declan repeated, disgusted. “Puir wee sots. Well.” He stood up straight. “I ken ye arenae here to be charmed, but ‘tis a fact that any true Scotsman worth his feed fights better when he has a bonny lass wagering upon him.”
“A fact, aye?”
“Aye,” he said, nodding decisively. “So, would ye please wager upon me so that I may finally win against my friend Arran here.”
He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. Kenna followed the gesture to where Arran was standing, so still and serious that he almost looked angry.
When their gazes met, she amended that. There was no almost about it. He was angry. With her, it seemed.
She bristled at this. What reason did he have to be angry? What had she ever done to him?
She returned her gaze to Declan, her smile no longer so carefree.
“Aye,” she said acidly. “I wager a…”
She dug in her pockets, knowing it unlikely that she would find anything of any great value.
Ashbourne didn’t give her pin money. He preferred that she apply to him for every need, no matter how small, so that she knew he held all the power.
Triumphantly, she pulled out a scrap of ribbon that had recently come loose from one of her bonnets.
“I wager this, ah, symbol of honor,” she said, sweeping a grand arm in front of her to try to make it seem more impressive.
Declan, as good a sport as ever, looked at it with put-upon awe.
“Well, I must have that,” he declared. Kenna felt a rush of affection for him. In another life, in another world, she liked to believe that they would have been friends. “Put up your blade, Arran. I will battle ye for my trophy.”
Arran’s lips twitched in apparent displeasure, but he didn’t argue. He just lifted his sword between himself and Declan, then jerked his head to his friend in a come-along-then sort of way. He completely ignored Kenna.
Or… he tried to.
He was a skilled fighter. Kenna, even years away from having witnessed any soldiers as they trained, could see that at once. She suspected that he was even better than his opponent, though Declan was far from inept.
But Arran’s gaze kept drifting to her, kept catching hers.
She tried to make herself look away. She didn’t know why she was letting herself stare at him any more than she understood why he was staring back.
It wasn’t safe—for more reasons than the naked blades flashing in the two men’s hands.
Gossip moved as quickly in a Keep as it did among the London ton, and even one word of rumor reaching Ashbourne’s ears could spell disaster.
It was the blades, however, that proved the most immediate threat. The third time their gazes met, Arran hesitated, just a fraction, and Declan’s thrust opened a long, thin cut along the other man’s forearm.
“Oh, shite, Arran,” Declan cried, lowering his blade and taking a step back as three fat drops of blood plopped onto the dirt. “Why did ye nae block?”
Arran looked at his arm dispassionately, though the cut had to sting something awful.
“Your win,” he said to Declan, ignoring the question. “The… prize is all yours.”
Arran walked away, tossing down his practice blade with all the others so he could clap his hand over his wound. Declan, pausing only to shoot an apologetic glance over his shoulder at Kenna, followed his friend.
She stuck the ribbon back in her pocket, feeling that much lonelier for the few minutes that she’d spent feeling like she was part of something bigger than herself.
People weren’t meant to be alone, she mused as she took a long, meandering walk around the Keep, during which people offered her polite nods and gentle greetings, but never tried to engage her beyond that.
She wound the ribbon, still in her pocket, around her fingers again and again, trying to ignore the burning jealousy inside her when she saw young women clustered in groups as they shelled peas or worked on their mending.
Love and rage got all the credit for driving people mad. But Kenna suspected that loneliness was just as responsible for people losing their heads.
At least that was the reason she gave herself for why she sought out Arran that afternoon with a small pot of salve in her hands.
“Are you certain this is a good idea, my lady?” Anna asked, wringing her hands. Kenna had asked her to come as a chaperone, promptly spent several minutes internally castigating herself for this distinctly English tendency, and then brought Anna with her anyway.
“Of course I’m certain,” said Kenna, who was no such thing. “I fear I distracted the poor man this morning. No doubt he is not accustomed to having a lady present during training. The injury is my fault.”
Anna still looked unsure, which was entirely fair, given that this was an uncharacteristic display of hand-wringing missishness.
Still, Kenna knocked.
“Aye, come in,” a gruff voice called from the inside.
Even though she’d been invited, Kenna felt as though she was doing something unconscionably brazen as she pushed open the door. Arran turned to face her, his expression growing thunderous as soon as he saw who was standing there.
“What do ye want?” he asked, the words barely more than a snarl.
Behind Kenna, Anna let out an alarmed squeak. Kenna took a step forward, not far enough in the room that the door could close behind her, but far enough that it would be much harder for her maid to grab her arm and bodily drag her out of here, as she so clearly longed to do.
“I have a salve,” she said, offering the small container.
When she looked at it, cupped between her palms, it looked so small, so silly.
But it was good salve. She knew that perfectly well.
“I get it from, well, I get it from someone reputable. It works verra well. Very well. It will cut your healing time in half, I promise.”
She had gotten the salve from Katrina MacAllan, the one person in Scotland she still knew she could trust. But she had always told her husband that she had purchased it for a pretty penny on Bond Street.
Arran looked down at the small pot like she had offered him a handful of sheep dung.
“Nay,” he said, his lips turning down. “I dinnae need anything from ye.”
His words had been intended to sting, but he would have to strike much harder than that if he wanted to hurt her. Her hide had grown quite tough these past years.
“Well, then,” she said, slipping the tin back into her pocket as if she had never intended anything else. “I thank you for not mentioning my, ah, fall yesterday. To my husband, that is. He would have been… displeased.”
She hoped she’d done an adequate job of making it sound as though Ashbourne might be worried for her safety or some such thing. She doubted it.
But Arran’s expression didn’t budge. He still stared down that strong, straight nose at her, his dark blonde hair falling over his brow. Of course, as usual, it was his eyes that pierced her the most.