Chapter 7
“A
re you certain about this, my lady?” Anna fretted as she fluttered her hands, clearly dismayed that she couldn’t assist Kenna in putting on her arisaid. Kenna pinned and draped the garment, belting it at her waist, feeling practically giddy. Far more so than was reasonable for a mere dress.
But she hadn’t been allowed to wear these clothes—the clothes of her ancestors, of her family, of her childhood—since the first day she had stepped foot in England. It felt like reclaiming a part of herself to wear it again.
Ashbourne would be furious. But Ashbourne wasn’t here.
“Ye should try to wear some yourself,” Kenna teased, laughing when Anna tried to hide her clear dismay. “It’s verra comfortable.”
“You are a lady,” Anna said under her breath, as if reminding herself of this fact. “Ladies do not dress for comfort.”
She sounded utterly scandalized. Laughing, Kenna gave in to the impulse to press a kiss to her maid’s lace-capped head. This, of course, only increased Anna’s horrified look.
“It will be fine,” Kenna reassured her.
“People will talk,” Anna said sulkily. “They will wonder what kind of maid I must be, letting you dress yourself.”
“Oh, so it’s a matter of professional pride?” Kenna asked, still laughing.
She was in too good of spirits to let Anna’s attitude get the best of her.
She was going to the village. She could talk to people and shop and explore.
She wouldn’t have to look over her shoulder, waiting for the wrong Society matron to overhear the wrong word or the wrong intonation, and turn Kenna’s very existence into a scandal—again.
She would never return to London, given the choice.
She lacked that choice, of course, but she had today all to herself. And she planned to enjoy it.
“At least you let me do your hair,” Anna grumbled, straightening Kenna’s dressing table with hostile efficiency.
Kenna was grinning broadly when she opened the door—
And she felt her face go slack with surprise as she all but crashed bodily into Arran.
“Ach,” she said, the word huffing out of her as his hands came to her shoulders to steady her. “I- apologies. I didnae expect ye…”
He was looking down at her oddly. At her attire, she realized, and for a moment, she felt a pang of worry that Anna had been right and that she looked like some foolish child, play-acting at being a Scotwoman.
But then his look of shock faded, replaced by a small smile, and her fears evaporated.
“Nae need,” he assured her, taking a step back. She shouldn’t have been able to feel the warmth of his touch through her clothing, but the moment his hands fell from her shoulders, she felt colder. “Ye look as though ye are ready.”
“I am,” she confirmed. Then, she tossed a look over her shoulder. “I’ll see ye when I return, Anna. Ye should enjoy a day off.”
Anna rounded on her, looking as though she were about to faint dead away.
“You are intending to leave me here?” she asked in a horrified whisper. “But who shall serve as your chaperone?”
On instinct, Kenna turned to Arran and found him giving her the same amused look back. It felt good, this moment of connection.
“I will be just fine,” Kenna assured her maid kindly.
“It’s Scotland,” Arran said, a bit more bluntly. “We dinnae act as though being out in public with a man turns a woman’s name to dirt. Besides,” he added, clearly trying to sound reasonable, “I thought even ye English allowed married women to move more freely.”
Anna’s cheeks wore bright spots of color, but she nodded. She was a dear girl, Kenna thought, for worrying over her employer, but she wasn’t unreasonable.
“Please just be safe, my lady,” she said quietly.
“Of course,” Kenna assured her.
As she and Arran made their way down to the stables, Kenna could scarcely keep from skipping.
The bodice of her dress, borrowed from one of the women of the Keep, was less rigid than the tight stays that she wore under her English-style gowns; she felt as though she could take a deep breath for the first time in ages.
Even when the sun was warm, she’d been fighting off the chill of the mornings and evenings in her English clothing; now, ensconced in layers of warm wool, she felt entirely protected from whatever the elements might throw at her.
“I have confirmed that there is a carriage available for ye,” Arran remarked as she happily swished her skirts. It felt a bit odd to be wearing Callahan tartan, but she wasn’t prepared to let that stop her pleasure.
“Nay,” she said, shaking her head. “I dinnae wish to take the carriage. We should ride.”
They crossed into the stables, where a lad gave Arran a respectful nod, then began trailing behind them unobtrusively, clearly prepared to offer whatever aid they might need. Arran was respected here, even if he hadn’t been born a Callahan, she noted.
“Ye are certain?” Arran asked, though there was a wry twist to his mouth that suggested he already knew she was.
She tossed her golden hair, glad she’d worn it simply today, no matter Anna’s grumbles.
“What?” she asked haughtily. “Ye think that just because I’ve spent these last years in ‘civilized’ England that I cannae ride a proper horse any longer?”
She put a world of irony on the word civilized, inverting the mockery her husband usually meant when he made such comments. This time, though, the English were the ones made lesser by the quip.
“All right then,” Arran said easily. “Ye can ride. Why do ye nae try Piper? She’s a bonny lass, verra sprightly.”
He gestured to a chestnut brown horse who had poked her nose over her stable door at the sound of her name, clearly eager to be selected.
Piper would have to wait, though. Kenna had already seen her mount, a black stallion with an ill-tempered air about him.
“Nay,” she said. “I’ll take him.”
“Black Roy?” Arran asked, incredulity clear in his tone. “He willnae go easy.”
Kenna bared her teeth at him. “Me neither.”
When Arran gave him a nod, the stable boy hurried to saddle the stallion for her. Kenna stood at the horse’s head while the lad worked, staring Black Roy in the eye.
“Ye will behave for me, do ye hear me? I willnae stand for any mischief,” she told him sternly.
“I dinnae ken, my lady,” the lad muttered. “He’s called Black Roy because of his black temper. Are ye sure ye dinnae want Piper?”
“I’m certain,” Kenna said, not moving her gaze from Roy’s.
By the time the stable boy was done, Arran had his horse ready as well. He watched her, shaking his head slightly, as she mounted the stallion with ease of practice.
Kenna would never admit that some of her muscles twinged. She hadn’t ridden astride in years. But her body hadn’t forgotten.
“I really should stop underestimating ye,” Arran muttered, apparently to himself.
Kenna answered anyway. “Aye,” she agreed. “Ye really should.”
And then she kicked Roy’s flanks lightly, urging him into a gallop, leaving Arran behind her, laughing gleefully as she went.
There was a little stiffness in Kenna’s seat, Arran could admit, but by and large, she held herself like a born horsewoman. He urged Torrin, his own horse, to move a little faster.
As much as he liked watching Kenna, he couldn’t guard her properly from behind her.
He caught up enough to hear her joyous laughter fluttering behind her on the wind as she rode hard, and he found that he liked that even more than he liked watching her.
Not, he reminded himself, that he ought to be enjoying either of those things. Kenna might not be his enemy, but she could not be his friend.
Their mounts were neck and neck, an impromptu race, until they came upon a ridge that overlooked the Callahan vineyards.
It was a bonny sight, all green curling vines in neat rows, a mixture of the wildness of nature and the orderliness that man strove to impose upon it.
When Kenna looked down upon it, though, she had a bittersweet expression on her face.
“What ails ye, lass?” Arran asked before he could think better of either the question itself or the familiar way he asked it.
She didn’t chide him for his informality, though. She just shook her head.
“It’s good they rebuilt,” she said, though something in her tone said she was reminding herself of this fact. “After the attacks… I ken that much of the vineyard was damaged.”
There was no remaining trace of where the field had burned, Arran noted as he looked down. When he had first arrived in Callahan lands, this had been all charred wood and shriveled vines. It had been a lean few years for the clan while they rebuilt.
“Lucky that they could make it seem as though nothing happened at all,” Kenna went on, still in that distant, too-light tone. “At MacBrae… we never had another fire festival again.”
Grief and anger flared hot within Arran’s chest, and for a moment, it was as though he was at that festival again, seeing the blood and the flames. He felt his anger mount looking for an outlet.
“Ye speak of frivolities?” he snapped, the roaring in his ears too reminiscent of the screams he’d heard that night. “Aye, the Callahans nearly lost their livelihoods, but your clan is the true victim, since they cannae have their wee party.”
She blinked at him, shocked.
“I didnae mean any such thing,” she protested. “I just meant that it’s fortunate that they lost only wealth—”
“Lives were lost,” he interrupted. “Do ye nae care that the Callahans almost starved, those first few years? Do ye nae care that the Lennoxes—”
He cut himself off, lest he reveal more than he ought. Lest he reveal more than he already had. He wheeled Torrin toward the path that led to the village.
“Come on then,” he grunted over his shoulder, not waiting to see if she followed before he spurred his mount into a gallop.
The thundering of hooves behind him told him that she had followed, and he didn’t know if he was relieved or irritated. He rode hard until the only thing he could feel was the swift bunching of Torrin’s muscles shifting beneath him, until the only thing he could hear was the wind whipping past.