Chapter 12
When guests poured into Callahan Keep for the feast that Laird Callahan was hosting to celebrate and honor the Alliance, Kenna tried her very hardest to enjoy herself, instead of dwelling on her disappointment that her sisters had not been permitted to join their father.
She had experienced another brief flare of hope when Laird MacAllan arrived, his wife on his arm…
but he had not brought Katrina, his daughter, with him, either.
From the extremely cautious way he regarded Kenna’s husband, as if he was not certain how he wished to handle this latest English incursion into his territory, he’d left Katrina home to protect her.
That must be nice, to have a father who cares to protect ye, Kenna thought, disappointment making her inward thoughts bitter.
Laird MacDara had brought his daughter, Adaira, though. But Kenna had not yet had the chance to speak with her because she had been too busy getting paraded around on her husband’s arm, like she was a particularly charming pet. One that could do tricks, perhaps.
“This is my wife, Lady Makenna Ashbourne,” her husband said time and again, gesturing to her. “She is from these parts, don’t you know.”
The same phrasing with each person he met. As if this encompassed everything that she was. As if the assembled lairds were too stupid to see through his obvious gambit.
Look at my Scottish wife. You should give me everything I want because I have a Scottish wife!
It was almost funny how she found new and exciting ways to loathe him.
Most of the men ignored Ashbourne’s transparent appeal, but Captain Blake MacFarlane—a quiet, watchful, feared man—tilted his head, his sharp eyes on Ashbourne.
Kenna could admit that she really liked watching her husband squirm under that gaze.
“Ye say that like I should care,” he observed coolly. “But what do Lady Makenna’s origins say about ye?”
Kenna scarcely paid any interest to her husband’s flustered reply. It was just so nice to see him get flustered that she didn’t want to ruin it by actually listening to what he had to say.
She took the first available opportunity to slip away from Ashbourne. She fluttered her hand at herself, as though she was overheated, and slipped away to stand near a window. She grabbed a cup of wine to sip, then looked coolly around.
“Oh, good evening,” she said when she realized that she was standing not too far away from Adaira MacDara. “Are you enjoying the festivities?”
It was an errant comment, made primarily because Kenna wanted to talk to someone who had no reason to care about Ashbourne, someone with whom Kenna would not have to pretend. But Adaira gave her a shy, encouraging smile.
She was a tall, slender woman, all dark hair and dark eyes. She had three minute freckles near her mouth, which made her look a little mischievous.
“Does it count if I am trying to enjoy the festivities?” she asked with a little laugh, scrunching her nose in self-mockery.
Kenna’s laugh was genuine. “Aye, it certainly counts,” she agreed. “Take it from someone who kens— knows,” she amended quickly.
If Adaira noticed the change, she didn’t comment upon it.
“I have sat through a thousand dinners where the menfolk talk politics or strategy. Trying to enjoy things is the best way.”
Adaira’s laugh was a little braver this time.
“Ye are Lady Makenna, aye?” she said.
“Kenna. Please.”
“Kenna,” Adaira agreed. “And I’m Adaira. Ye have been staying here at Callahan Keep, aye?”
“Aye,” Kenna said, her eyes out on the room as the musicians began to play. “Have ye ever been here before?”
She thought it was just idle talk, just something to pass the time. But there was something intent in Adaira’s eyes as she, too, looked out over the room.
“Nay,” the woman said quietly. “Nay, but… I ken someone from here. The Laird’s nephew. Declan. Do ye ken him?”
Adaira’s tone was casual, but suspiciously so. Excessively so.
Oh my. The MacDara lass was smitten.
“I do ken him,” Kenna said, trying very, very hard not to sound like she was laughing, even though she absolutely, definitely was. “He seems nice. And verra braw.”
“He is,” Adaira said dreamily. Then, she caught herself. “Nice, that is. He is… nice.”
“And very pleasing to look upon,” Kenna added seriously, just to see how brightly Adaira could blush.
Very brightly, it turned out. Very brightly indeed.
“Och,” Adaira said. “Aye. I mean. I havenae noticed. But. Ye ken. Now that ye mention it.” She pressed her hands over her face and ducked her head. “Goodness me,” she mumbled, clearly aware just how obvious she had been.
“Dinnae fash,” Kenna said, laughing. “It isnae a bad thing to find a kind, suitable lad to be… pleasing to the eye.” She couldn’t resist teasing just a little. “Ye should talk to him.”
If Adaira blushed any harder, she was going to faint for lack of blood in other parts of her body.
“Och, I couldnae,” she demurred, though a brightness in her eye suggested that she liked the idea. “He seems occupied—”
“Declan Callahan!”
Declan was not far off, but Kenna raised her hand and her voice to make certain that he heard her when she called. He looked over in her direction, his face open and inquisitive. She beckoned him over.
“What are ye doing?” Adaira asked under her breath.
But there was no time to answer, because Declan was already standing in front of them.
“Did ye need something, Lady Makenna?” he asked, every inch the polite guard.
Adaira had gone very still, but Kenna assumed that the MacDara lass was inwardly plotting her murder. It was fine. Adaira would thank her later. Probably.
“I did,” Kenna said imperiously, summoning every ounce of self-importance that she’d ever seen the most proper English lady deploy. “Ye need to dance with Lady Adaira.”
Adaira fumed… right up until Declan looked at her, a smile on his face.
“I would be most pleased to take ye for a turn about the room, Lady Adaira,” he said, bowing. “But I wouldnae wish to leave ye deprived of such a pleasant conversational partner, Lady Kenna.”
Kenna brushed him off, feigning unconcern.
In truth, she couldn’t dance, not with her husband here.
She wished she could, she had always enjoyed parties at her family’s home, and the fetes at Clan MacBrae had never been quite as jovial as the feast at which she currently found herself.
But Ashbourne would be utterly furious if she let herself do something as uncivilized as dance in the Scottish way.
But Adaira could. She could dance with the man that she fancied.
It was something that mattered. Kenna was all the more pleased to give it to someone else, since it was something that she could never have for herself.
She had to fight not to look for Arran in the crowd. She’d been struggling against the impulse all night.
“I am an old married woman,” she said teasingly. “Lady Adaira is a maiden. She is needful of a bracing dance, not me. Ye will indulge me, won’t ye?”
Declan looked more than happy to comply. Adaira didn’t hesitate an instant before putting her hand in his.
She did shoot Kenna a look over her shoulder that said that she either planned to kill Kenna or offer her undying thanks as Declan led her out to the dance floor. Undeterred, Kenna sent the other woman a minute wave, then wound her way back to the head table.
Laird Callahan gave her an amused look as she took her seat. She was only two places down from his spot at the head of the table, and neither her father nor her husband—who typically occupied the two intervening seats—was seated at present.
“Playing matchmaker, Lady Makenna?” Callahan asked, but there was no censure in his tone. Instead, he seemed amused.
Kenna ducked her head against her smile. “Merely helping Lady Adaira have the courage to do as she wished,” she ventured modestly. “She and your nephew make a bonny pair, do ye nae think?”
“Ye will have to forgive my eldest daughter, Laird Callahan,” came her father’s sneering voice from behind her.
Kenna whirled to find Laird MacBrae, looking as though he’d had a bit more to drink than was strictly wise, coming up behind her.
“She forgets that she owes loyalty to her own family first. Of course, it would also benefit your clan to wed into the MacBrae family rather than those MacDara weaklings. I have other daughters, ye ken.”
Callahan looked unperturbed. “But none that are here, Laird MacBrae,” he said evenly. “And therefore none that are available to dance with my nephew this night.”
Kenna’s father grumbled the kind of agreement that meant that he didn’t actually agree, strictly speaking, but simply could not think of another argument in his favor. Kenna, who knew all too well the anger of men, kept her gaze averted, knowing that she was not yet clear of her father’s wrath.
Indeed, the moment Callahan’s attention was elsewhere, he whirled on her.
“Ye stupid cow,” he muttered to her under his breath. “Can ye do nothing right?”
Kenna didn’t answer. There was no point. It only ever made things worse.
She tried to keep her focus on Declan and Adaira as Ashbourne returned to his seat, as well, seeking to enjoy his supper. The young couple had found themselves in an out-of-the-way corner, and their heads were bent together as they whispered and joked with one another, smiling all the while.
Kenna borrowed hope from the sight of them. At least someone was having a lovely evening, she told herself.
She would have liked to know where Arran was; she could imagine exchanging an amused glance with him, then watching Declan and Adaira together, even if from afar.
Arran knew what it meant to her to be able to steal little moments of fun.
He would give her one of those grins that meant that he was trying to hide it, but that she’d lured it out of him anyway.
She was so distracted by these pleasant imaginings that she didn’t even notice the serving boy who had come to refill her glass of wine until a few fat, red drops landed on her pale pink skirts.
“Oh,” she murmured in surprise and then immediately wished she hadn’t.