Chapter 12 #2
The boy startled, sloshing a little bit more wine on her—no more than a thimbleful, really, but enough to horrify him. His eyes went enormous and he clutched the pitcher to his chest.
“Ach, I’m so sorry, my lady,” he stammered. “I didnae mean— I’m so sorry.”
The boy’s dismay attracted Ashbourne’s attention. His eyes jerked to Kenna, then to the lad, and finally, with a darkening of his expression like the gathering of a storm, to the stain on her skirt.
“You clumsy oaf!” he snapped at the lad, who looked to be no older than twelve or thirteen. Old enough to help serve at the Laird’s table, certainly, but not old enough to deserve to be shouted at by a full-grown man—if there was anyone who deserved that.
“Have you never been around a lady before? Do you not know finery when you see it? How much do you think that frock cost, hm? It’s more money than you and your entire moth-eaten family have seen in your lifetimes, I’d wager!”
The boy went pale.
“I am sorry, my laird,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper. Kenna watched Ashbourne’s fury grow when the lad used the Scottish form of the title, rather than the English one. “It was an accident.”
“You’re not nearly as sorry as you’re going to be,” Ashbourne snarled, drawing his hand up to backhand the boy.
Kenna put her hand lightly on her husband’s arm, not allowing herself to flinch even when his heated gaze snapped to her instead. That was fine. She could take it. The boy didn’t deserve it.
“If you really think about it, my lord,” she murmured, casting her voice low and coy, as though they were in on a private joke. “This is really an opportunity.”
She paused long enough to gauge his interest, dropping her hand as the tension went out of his raised arm.
“After all,” she went on, “this isn’t my finest gown, not really. Did you not say before that you thought it did not flatter me?”
Actually what he had said was that the gown made her look as pink as a pig in the sty, and she had worn it tonight specifically to irritate him.
She didn’t wait for his answer before forging ahead.
“So now, this is just a chance to wear something even finer. To show everyone here what proper fashion looks like.” She arched a coy eyebrow. “What do you think? The blue silk? The one from Paris?”
The stays that went with that dress had one spot that always poked Kenna unmercifully right above her left hip, so she did not wear it very often.
She didn’t want to wear it now. But she wanted the boy—who’d possessed enough good sense to flee while she was talking—to get beaten right in front of her even less.
Ashbourne smirked at her, as though she was finally seeing sense. At least his sky-high self-regard made him easy to fool, Kenna thought. He was always all too willing to believe that someone agreed with him even if they’d never done so before.
“How very clever of you, my dear,” he said.
Kenna had often wondered if he truly thought that such endearments were a reward for good behavior.
That seemed to be how he doled out his thin veneer of affection.
“Yes. Go wear the blue dress. We shall show these savages what a true lady looks like. Perhaps if we show them some form of luxury they can understand, they’ll finally become less obstinate about agreeing to my plans. ”
He didn’t even bother to lower his voice. Laird MacAllan’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. Captain MacFarlane on the other hand looked like he was imagining throttling Ashbourne.
Well, he would have to wait in line. She imagined such things nearly every day.
“Wonderful,” she said to Ashbourne, smiling broadly at him, as if she thought him terribly clever. “I shall return as quickly as I can.”
How easily the lies dripped from her tongue these days.
She made her steps slow as honey, absorbing every wonderful moment of this reprieve.
Arran’s mouth went dry as a bone as he watched Ashbourne yell at the lad.
That had… not gone according to plan.
Arran had spent the festivities in a secluded corner, watching from afar.
He’d told Declan that he had no interest in the political blathering of the Alliance as a reason for why he’d hidden himself amongst the local crofters and their families, instead of eating at the front table as he usually did, as one of Callahan’s preferred guards.
“Aye,” Declan had said, clearly not believing him. He’d glanced sidelong at Kenna. “The politics. Aye.”
That wasn’t precisely the reason, either, but it was one of the reasons, and one that Arran didn’t worry about Declan suspecting.
Arran had seen his friend watching Lord Ashbourne with disgust and thinly veiled hostility anyway.
He wished, deep down, that he was brave enough to trust his friend with his true identity as well.
But that was about more than him. It was about his clan, his family, his history. His legacy. He could not go sharing his deepest secret because, what? He felt a little lonely, bearing it alone.
Nay. Tonight, he would watch and listen. He would gather information and he would do it by himself, as he had always done, ever since that horrid night.
It was clear, as he watched the gathered lairds, that MacBrae was positioning himself as the leader, though he deferred to Ashbourne quite often. The power of silver was mightier than MacBrae’s convictions, if he even had any. It was certainly stronger than the man’s sense of paternal duty.
MacDara and MacAllan seemed like they were leaning increasingly into MacBrae’s sway, though MacAllan in particular seemed to dart frequent looks toward Callahan’s steady presence.
Whenever Callahan spoke, which was not frequently, MacAllan hung on his every word, MacDara seemed intrigued, and MacBrae scowled.
Interesting. It was all very interesting.