Chapter 13
Kenna stopped to inspect every single picture hanging on the walls of the Keep merely because she could.
They mostly depicted horses but she had no objection to this.
Pictures of horses never mocked her. Pictures of horses had never left bruises on her.
Pictures of horses never tried to hit children.
It was, all in all, a nice time.
When she passed a shadowed corridor, an arm surged out of the darkness and dragged her inside. A hand clapped over her mouth before she could scream.
She sucked in another breath, preparing to scream again—and to kick at the same time—before recognizing this touch.
This man.
The warm, soapy scent of him.
She let out a slow huff of air instead, then smacked at his chest until he dropped his hand.
“Can ye please stop doing that?” she hissed, more amused than irritated. “Ye scared the life out of me.”
He chuckled. The sound was barely audible, but he was pressed tight up against her, so she could feel every tremble of his body. Her body had recognized him before her mind.
“I didnae want ye to scream,” he said, then paused. “Or, at least, I didnae want anyone to hear ye screaming.”
She shoved at his shoulder again, though she did not truly want to get away.
“Ye ken that a good way to avoid women screaming at ye is to nae attack them in the dark.”
Her ire wasn’t very convincing, not when her laughter was breaking through.
His hands settled on her shoulders, then traveled lightly down her arms to cup her elbows.
“I had thought tae catch ye a little closer to the stairs,” he said, his thumbs tracing a maddening pattern over the silk of her sleeves. “But ye were taking too long.”
His touch was so distracting that it took Kenna a minute to truly understand the importance of what he’d said.
When she did, she frowned.
“Ye arranged for that lad to spill wine on me?” she asked.
There wasn’t much light coming in from the larger room beyond, but she could still see the rueful pull of Arran’s mouth.
“Aye,” he confessed. “I clearly didnae think that Ashbourne would react in such a way.”
She could hear the regret in his voice, but worry still made her tone sharp as she retorted.
“Ashbourne always reacts in such a way,” she told him. “Ye must promise—promise me, Arran—that ye willnae ever involve an innocent with my husband. He is too cruel. He will always take the opportunity to hurt someone. So promise me, Arran. Not ever again.”
He nodded.
“I willnae,” he said solemnly. His hands squeezed tightly, then one fluttered up to touch against her cheek, the caress light as a feather. “I’m sorry that I ever thought ill of ye, Kenna. That I ever thought ye aligned with Ashbourne… with your father…”
She smiled at him. She had been so angry with him when he’d misjudged her, but now she knew him, too. She knew he was fierce and caring, protective of the people whom he considered his. It was nice to think that she might be in that group, at least for right now.
“It’s all right,” she said. “It’s a role I have learned how to play well.”
He sighed. That sigh said all the things they couldn’t say out loud. That it was wretched that she had learned how to pretend. That she would have to keep going. That this time between them was stolen, and that it wouldn’t last forever.
His fingers landed more firmly on her cheek. He coasted a thumb down the shape of her face.
“Nae more talk of wretched things, aye?” he said. His smile was a touch fragile, but it grew with time. “Come along then, ye difficult wee thing,” he said. He grabbed her hand and pulled her down the corridor, away from the noise of the party that still echoed behind them.
“Where are we going?” she asked, trying to suppress her delighted laughter. “I cannae just disappear, ye ken! I will be missed.”
“Ach,” he huffed dismissively, still tugging her along. “Ye have to change your frock, aye? Who can say how long that takes? Yon English dresses are too complicated for our scattered Scottish minds to comprehend, aye?”
He shot her a wink over his shoulder.
She rolled her eyes.
“My English maid is actually quite familiar, I’ll have ye know,” she retorted.
But she didn’t pull away.
He led her to a small courtyard. One side of the stone square was illuminated with torchlight, but the rest was in shadow.
Flowers had grown along the outer wall, vines twining themselves through the stonework.
She couldn’t see the blooms in the darkness, but she could smell them.
And that was enough—the scent of the flowers, the half-illuminated square.
The proof that life could survive in the shadows.
“Will ye do me the honor of this dance, my lady?” Arran asked. He held out his hand to her, waiting for her to accept. It had been a long time since Kenna had heard herself referred to as my lady without resenting it.
She put her hand in his.
“Aye, Master Burns,” she said. His fingers twitched in hers. “The honor would be mine.”
He didn’t give her a chance to second-guess it. He used their joined grips to tug her close until his other arm could come around her waist. And then he spun her and spun her around the room dancing with no music but the beat of their hearts.
It took Kenna a moment to regain the tempo of the steps.
It had been a long time since she’d danced like this, with her feet moving so quickly that they barely touched the ground, her wine-stained skirts spinning playfully about her.
But Arran was a steady partner, and he kept his footing until she found hers, and then they were dancing, and Kenna felt almost as though they were flying.
Her heart raced in her chest. She’d forgotten that could happen because of joy, rather than fear.
They danced until they could dance no more, until even Arran’s steady gait was faltering a bit, until Kenna was gasping for air around a smile so broad it made her cheeks hurt.
The music playing in Kenna’s head must have followed the same tune as whatever Arran heard, because they stopped dancing in synchrony, slowing as though the musicians only they could hear were drawing out their final notes.
In the feast hall, they would have been forced to step away from one another at this point, even if Kenna had been permitted to dance. Hell, she would have been forced to step away from him ages ago.
But here, she did not have to step away.
Here, she could remain in his arms just a moment longer.
She didn’t care about the music or the lighting or the fact that the night was growing rather chilly, now that she was no longer heated by their movements.
This was perfect.
Arran smiled, then bent his head to press one sweet, soft kiss to her lips. It was far more chaste than the kisses they’d shared before, but equally lovely.
“Thank ye for the dance, my lady,” he said, ducking his head like he really was a proper suitor and she could ever be a potential bride. Kenna’s heart ached.
But that was just fine. That was perfect, too.
For the rest of the night, Arran’s mind whirled with those stolen moments with Kenna. The feel of her in his arms, the taste of her on his lips.
Something else nagged at him, though. I’m sorry that I ever thought ill of ye, he had said, but it wasn’t really about the unkindness of the thoughts, not really. It was about not trusting her.
He wanted to trust her now. He wanted to tell her the truth about him.
The idea terrified him as much as it thrilled him.
He found himself prowling the halls long after the rest of the Keep had laid their heads down to rest. To his surprise, as he passed a sitting room off the Great Hall, he saw Declan standing inside, looking out the window, a faintly dreamy look on his face.
“Declan.”
His friend startled, the bleary look in his eye and the rumpled mess of his hair suggested he had been deep enough in thought that he hadn’t heard anyone approaching. Arran winced a little; Declan did not look like a man who was looking for interruption.
“Christ, ye surprised me,” Declan muttered.
“Sorry,” Arran said immediately. “Ye were… occupied.”
Declan waved off the apology.
“Dinnae fash,” he said. “Ye wouldnae be wandering about at night unless it was for something important.”
Declan understood him, even with Arran keeping him at arm’s length.
“What is keeping ye up?” Arran asked.
Declan gave him a rueful smile. “Would ye laugh at me if I said it was a lass?”
Adaira MacDara. Despite his own worries, Arran felt his lips twitch into a smile.
There was a tortured sort of look on his friend’s face, as if the grip of love was a painful place to be.
But Arran doubted that Declan would find himself on the wrong side of romance for very long.
The MacDara lass had glowed as brightly as the sun when she’d danced with Declan at the feast.
Arran’s own situation was not nearly as optimistic. He swallowed hard against the thought.
“Nay, of course I wouldnae laugh at ye. By the by, ye didnae mention that your lassie in Clan MacDara was the Laird’s daughter. She’d make a good match.”
Declan’s face lit up. “Aye, she’s splendid, isn’t she? So bonnie and clever, too, and—“ He cut himself off. “But ye didnae come to hear me bleither on. Come now. Sit.”
Arran sank into one of the worn, old chairs as Declan grabbed a poker to stir the fire back to life, taking comfort in the knowledge that countless pairs had held friendly discourse in this precise location over the years—these chairs, this fireplace, this room.
That was the history of clan life. That was a history that he could never get back for his family.
But he could borrow some of Declan’s, just for a while.
“So,” Declan said when the flames climbed high again, sinking into his own chair. “What did ye need?”
Arran licked his lips, his mouth gone suddenly dry.
“What do ye ken of the… the night of the disaster?” he asked, his voice catching unexpectedly.
Declan blinked; Arran could see that he’d taken his friend by surprise.