Chapter 12 #3
When Arran glanced further down the table, though, he froze.
Captain MacFarlane looked back in his direction.
Arran didn’t flinch away, he didn’t want the captain to think there was anything amiss.
He offered a cheerful nod and pushed his gaze to sweep further down the table, as if he’d just been stealing a glimpse at his betters.
Internally, though, he felt like a rabbit, quivering its nose, trying to scent a predator in the air.
Arran recognized the captain. It would be hard not to.
The man was built like a bloody mountain, and his shock of red hair rose half a head taller than anyone else in the room.
More than that, though, Arran had known MacFarlane in another life.
The captain had always been strangely present amongst the clans.
Surely it had been too long for MacFarlane to recognize him in return, though, right? Arran had just been a lad when they’d last encountered one another, scarcely old enough to shave, and even then, MacFarlane had been spoken of in awed whispers that were half fear, half admiration.
The last goddamned thing that Arran needed was that particular shadow creeping up his back.
Though everything in him wanted to look back at MacFarlane, to search for a glimpse of recognition in the man’s eye, he knew it was wiser to go on pretending that there was nothing amiss.
Besides, Arran didn’t want the man to see his eyes, with their Lennox gold hue.
A smile crossed Arran’s face without his permission when his gaze landed on Kenna, standing off to the side with Lady Adaira MacDara. Kenna and Adaira had their heads conspiratorially bent together, both enjoying themselves.
Good, he thought. Kenna needed something simple and lovely in her life.
Once he’d looked at Kenna, though, he found it nigh impossible to let his attention move on.
She was wearing a horrid gown, one that was clearly expensive and well-made, but which did not flatter her in the least. Beside the vivid greens of the MacDara plaid, which adorned Lady Adaira’s ceremonial dress, Kenna’s gown looked like a wilted flower.
He wanted the thrill of seeing her in a proper frock again. Or, hell—out of it.
But those kinds of thoughts were not going to send him anywhere good. It was bad enough that he had kissed her again the other night. They were both flirting with trouble.
That was the problem with thoughts, though. You couldn’t just make them stop. Or at least Arran couldn’t, not when it came to Kenna.
When Kenna waved over Declan, he felt a twinge of jealousy. Until he saw that she was urging him to dance with Adaira. From the smug smile on Kenna’s face, she was playing matchmaker… and from the besotted look on Declan’s, he’d bet his right hand that this was the MacDara lass that he’d mentioned.
“Why ye sly fox,” Arran muttered to himself, grinning. “Ye didnae say that it was the Laird’s daughter ye fancied.”
They made a bonny couple as they spun around the room.
Their dark hair was a matching set, though Declan’s blue eyes gleamed more brightly than Adaira’s brown ones.
The part that made them loveliest, though, was that they were both so visibly pleased to be dancing with one another. Their happiness made them beautiful.
Suddenly, he could not bear to be away from Kenna for a moment longer, even if he absolutely refused to think why he felt that way.
Doing was better than thinking. He waved over one of the boys who had been promoted from their kitchen duties to serving duties just for the evening.
“What do ye need, sir?” the lad asked, practically bouncing on his toes with excitement—not necessarily about Arran, but about the festivities in general.
Arran supposed it was a great deal more entertaining to get to hear the music and see the celebration than it was to work down in the hot kitchens while everyone else enjoyed themselves.
“See to it that Lady Makenna’s gown has an accident,” he instructed, slipping a coin into the lad’s palm. “Something that requires her to change.”
If the lad thought this was a strange request, he didn’t let on. Indeed it absolutely, positively was; Arran had clearly gone mad in the last few minutes.
“Ye got it,” the lad said, pocketing the coin and then offering a kind of salute that would not pass muster with any military on earth.
He slipped away before Arran had a moment to consider if this might possibly have been a bad idea.
When he saw Ashbourne’s hand rise to strike the boy, his question was answered.
Aye. That had been a terrible idea.
But Kenna—sweet, bright, beautiful Kenna—intervened, smiling up at Ashbourne as if he were the brightest star in the sky.
Arran watched her place her hand on Ashbourne’s arm, watched her carefully manipulate his rage until it was no longer directed at the child.
He watched and hated himself for being the reason she had to do this for what was clearly the millionth time.
It paled in comparison to how much he hated Ashbourne, though.
He tried not to dwell on it. There was nothing he could do. The helplessness made him feel sick to his stomach.
He couldn’t fix Kenna’s marriage. But tonight, he could make her smile.
When she slipped out the door, he waited but a moment before rising and heading after her.