Chapter 6
Now Kenna had… well, not a friend. She couldn’t afford to be friends with anyone here, not when she knew perfectly well that Ashbourne would exploit that friendship and punish her for having it in the first place.
If she hadn’t had nearly all of her pride crushed out of her by the ordeal that was her marriage, she would have resisted these scant overtures of kindness.
After all, Arran had been extremely unkind to her only the day before, with no clear reason either for his initial ire or for his reversal.
If she really tried to pick it apart, she could see him disliking her for her surface Englishness, but why the change of heart?
Alas Kenna had already survived years of cruelty at Ashbourne’s hands.
She had made it through isolation, through forced separation from her family and her culture and her home, from everything she held dear.
She’d survived the constant snubs and snide comments from every fine lady who might have otherwise offered the hand of friendship.
She was so, so lonely. And, frankly, a bit desperate for any sort of friendly contact.
She wasn’t proud to admit it, but there it was.
So now that Kenna had a civil acquaintance, she wanted nothing less than to return to her own rooms to sit, alone, until someone finally had some kind of use for her.
Arran readily agreed to show her to the library when she asked.
“Laird Callahan isnae precious about people using the books,” he said. “He would have no qualm with ye borrowing a tome or two to enjoy while ye are here.”
“Generous,” she muttered idly, trailing her fingers down the spines stacked neatly on one shelf. She meant it, too. There were many people in a Keep, and they would doubtlessly have highly variable levels of respect for the expensive tomes.
“Ye are fortunate to serve such a laird,” she said, half her attention on the books.
Ashbourne didn’t stop her from reading as much as she wished and didn’t begrudge her the use of his library.
But he was too often found sitting in the room for her to feel entirely comfortable there. “Are ye a Callahan by birth, then?”
“Nay,” he said, and something—some small hitch in his voice—snagged her attention. She turned away from the books to find the guard staring determinedly out the window. “It’s… My name is Burns.” He cleared his throat. “I’m from neighboring lands, but when my parents died, the Laird took me in.”
“I’m sorry about your parents,” she said, and he nodded, still not meeting her eye. “But I’m glad ye found a place here with the Laird, with the clan. Ye were lucky to have such a neighbor. He’s a good man.”
“Aye,” he agreed. “I was lucky.”
There was something jagged beneath the pronouncement, and she wanted to pry, if only because this was the longest conversation she’d had with anyone besides Anna in ages.
But she didn’t have the right, she reminded herself.
Just because he was being kind to her didn’t mean that she had any right to know his story, unless he desired to give it.
“A good neighbor is a better fortune than any gold,” she said, the words springing from her memory…
and then she paused, her heart wrenching sadly, when she recalled who had said it.
The old Laird Lennox. He’d said as much to her father dozens of times, though Kenna had sometimes wondered if her father truly was the good neighbor from the aphorism.
When she looked at Arran, he was watching her intently. Perhaps she was being a bit odd. Lack of practice speaking with others, most like.
“I’m sorry,” she said, flushing. “My clan—my father’s clan—we used to live no more than a few miles from the Lennox Keep.
And the Laird there, Laird Lennox… He used to say that.
He was a kind man, a good man. He took in people from all over, no matter what they could offer in return.
People sought sanctuary at Lennox Keep. And it made him all the more powerful for it. Those people were loyal.”
She swallowed against a bitter taste in her throat.
Her father hadn’t been so welcoming after the explosion at Lennox Keep.
He’d argued that the MacBraes had had injuries, too—nevermind that they weren’t nearly as serious as those the Lennoxes had suffered, nor as extensive—and he had to care for his own people first.
He had left the reeling Lennox Clan to fend for itself. And, before long, the clan had all but disappeared.
“Aye,” Arran said, voice distant. Then, he jolted. “That is, I have heard as much of Lennox.”
She nodded, cringing inwardly at herself. This guard had been assigned to her. He didn’t want to listen to her prattle on and on.
She dragged her attention away from him and focused again on the bookshelves.
She moved past a long shelf that looked as though it held farming records from a nearby county, then brightened when she spotted history books.
Histories of the Highlands, of Scotland.
Of just the Callahan Clan. Of the people who won battles and the ways that they won them.
She found two titles that intrigued her in mere seconds, each a thick, heavy volume that was dusty enough to suggest that nobody would come looking for it very soon.
When she turned back around, Arran was looking at her oddly.
“The History of Ireland Since the Invasion of Henry II?” he read, craning his neck so he could see the small print that tracked sideways down the spine of the book. “That is what ye want to read?”
She rolled her eyes at his skepticism. “What, did ye expect me to do, run for the nearest romance?” Men always expected women’s brains to melt out of their ears if they ever read anything other than The Romance of the Forest.
“Well… aye.”
He didn’t even look sorry about it!
Kenna felt her temper flare. This happened sometime, when Ashbourne wasn’t around. It was as though her body had to release all the pent up anger while it was still safe to do so.
Also, Arran’s assumption had been highly irksome.
She gave him a smile that was more bared teeth than politeness. “When ye have been bartered to your enemy, dreams are a luxury. Better to learn everything ye can about strategy, dinnae ye think?”
The moment the words left her lips, she wished she could snatch them back.
It was one thing to let herself slip a bit when Ashbourne was away; it was another entirely to openly confess that she loathed him as she did.
What if Laird Callahan had set this man to guard her so he could spy on her and use what she said against her husband?
Or even worse what if he’d set Arran to guard her so he could spy and report what she said to her husband?
The silence that hung between them was an agony.
“I would return to my chambers now,” Kenna said when she could not bear it any longer, condemning herself for ruining things.
She’d had someone to talk to and now it was all discomfort and unease, all because she was unable to control her damn mouth—as if she didn’t have legions of practice with such things.
“Verra well,” Arran said, his tone neutral. His face, too, was impassive, but there was a depth of feeling in those honey-gold eyes. She just wished she knew what that feeling was. “I shall accompany ye.”
Kenna nodded, torn between relief and disappointment that this was all. They made the short journey back to her bedchamber in silence. At the door, however, he briefly put his hand against the doorjamb, stopping her from closing it.
“Kenna,” he said, and her heart pounded at the sound of the familiar version of her name.
She was frankly a bit impressed with herself for giving him leave to use it.
“If ye wish to go anywhere while your… while the men are away,” he amended.
“Just tell me, aye? Three days is a long time. Ye could do much in that time.”
The words were an invitation, a kindness—or perhaps a trap.
“I will think on it,” she said.
Lord knew she had a hard time thinking when he was around, watching her intently.
“Verra well,” he said again, offering her one last nod.
The door closed quietly between them.
For a long while, Kenna stood with her back against the wood, her heart pounding frantically in her chest. It didn’t feel quite like fear, though. She knew what fear felt like. It was her bosom companion.
She thought maybe, if she dared, this time her heart might be pounding with excitement.
And that should likely frighten her most of all.
Kenna fascinated Arran.
Kenna MacBrae, with her stubborn mouth and her flashing green eyes and her long golden hair. With her bold spirit, which hadn’t been destroyed by the suffering she lived with, only hidden away, waiting for her moment. With her clever carefulness and her quiet strength.
Damn him, but he liked the woman.
Hating her had been much easier.
She had been an irritant when he loathed her, just one more venal Englishwoman—no matter the technicalities of her birth. But now, he saw that they had more in common than he could possibly have suspected.
What was worse, he wondered? Losing one’s family because they all died, or losing them because they betrayed you? He genuinely wasn’t certain. At least he had warm memories of his family. Kenna’s would all be tainted by the way her father had thrown her to the wolves.
Christ, he needed to stop thinking about her. He needed to keep his wits about him for when Laird MacBrae got here. If Arran ever planned to reclaim his birthright, he needed to understand the man who had taken the largest bite out of Lennox lands.
That should be his focus. Not Kenna.
He went down to the kitchens, even though the head cook hated when people tramped through her space in between meals.
“Nay,” she said instantly, putting her hands on her wide hips over her clean, if long-stained apron. “I willnae have ye soldiers tramping about in my kitchens. Nae even one as braw as ye, Arran Burns.”
He smiled his most winsome grin. The woman was more than old enough to be his mother, but Arran knew from long practice that she could be charmed.
“Och, please Mrs. Wilson,” he said. “I’m a growin’ lad, ye ken. And your food was so good this morning that I had to savor it. More fool me, for it only left me hungerin’ for more. I beg ye, truly.”
She pursed her lips, her hands not budging from her hips. He was wearing her down, though, he could tell. The maid behind her was blushing so hard that she was liable to faint right into the soup she was meant to be stirring. Arran shot her a wink, and the girl squeaked.
“Watch yourself,” Mrs. Wilson warned. “I’ll nae have ye turning my lasses heads. Maraid, tend to that soup. Ye ken perfectly well he’s too old for ye.”
Arran shrugged bashfully. “What can I say?” he asked. “I’m faint from hunger. My wits arenae what they ought to be.”
Mrs. Wilson narrowed her eyes further. “Ye may take an apple,” she said. “And then ye may wait for lunch, like the rest of the clan. And dinnae go telling the rest of ye warriors that I allowed it, either. I willnae be overrun, ye hear?”
“Of course, mo leannan,” he assured her, then darted nimbly to the side as she swatted at him with a dishrag. “Ye are a queen among women, ye ken?”
He grabbed an apple from the table, then pilfered a roll of bread that was almost too hot to touch, as well. He skittered from the kitchen as she shouted after him, calling him every word for thief that she knew.
He was laughing, his mouth already full of a bite of fruit when he nearly collided with Kenna’s subdued English maid. Anna, he thought she was called.
She was petite and unassuming, barely coming up to his shoulder. She had narrow features and thin shoulders. She was as unthreatening as a woman could be.
When she saw him, she raised her chin, showing no signs of intimidation.
“Oh, good,” she said, her words clipped. “You.”
“Me,” he agreed. “Were ye looking for me, lass? In the kitchens?”
Her mouth twitched to the side in a way that said she didn’t think much of his intelligence.
“No, of course not,” she said. “I am here to order my lady her food; she plans to dine in her chamber. But tomorrow, she wishes to go to the village so that she can commission a new frock for her father’s visit. You are to accompany her.”
She had quite the high-handed manner for a slip of a lass that did not have the advantage of rank or might. But he was pleased enough with her words that he didn’t want to argue.
He didn’t let himself question why he liked it so much.
“Of course,” he said. “Tell her that I shall be ready whenever she wishes to depart.”