Chapter 16
Connor returned to the Great Hall alone.
The noise struck harder than it should have. In the study, there had been low firelight, Violet’s uneven breath, a fallen pin in his hand, and the discipline it had taken to step aside when she fled him.
Here, the hall had no patience for silence.
The fiddle scraped bright above the stamp of feet while cups struck tables.
The men around the hall laughed too loudly because ale had made them generous with themselves, while the servants moved between bodies with platters of roasted meat, fresh bread, and steaming broth.
The air held the thick warmth of smoke, drink, and celebration.
Connor had crossed battlefields with a steadier pulse. He stopped at the threshold and watched as the first guest noticed. him, then looked past his shoulder. Another did the same.
A woman sitting at the nearest table turned slightly to see around him while one of the older men lowered his cup. The dancers continued skipping and twirling for two measures too long, unaware that curiosity had already shifted through the hall like a hand passing over grain.
They were looking for Violet.
Connor felt the question form before anyone dared to ask it.
He glanced toward the space where she should have stood beside him.
The space was empty, and that absence landed too sharply, bringing with it the memory of her straightened gown, her shaking hands, her restored hair, and the tremor she had tried to hide when she stepped through the study door.
He decided to speak before anyone else could come forward to ask him questions he did not wish to entertain.
“Lady Moore was overwhelmed by the day,” he announced, rather evenly. “And she has retired for the night.”
He did not explain or even try to soften the words into an apology. He made the answer as respectable as he could since he gave no other option.
A few women’s faces warmed with sympathy, while one murmured something to her companion and pressed a hand briefly to her chest. The older man lifted his cup again, slower this time, and nodded as if resting was a sensible choice for a bride after such a day.
Near the benches, two men who had begun to whisper felt Connor’s gaze on them and suddenly became fascinated with their ale.
The musicians found the tune again, though the first bars limped before recovering, and the dancers moved back into place. The servants also resumed their work.
All in all, everyone tried to act normal, as if this were nothing but harmless news.
Hannah stood across the hall near Aiden, half-turned toward the doorway. She had heard him. Connor saw her face smooth just a little, enough to know that she understood the protection and trusted it no further than necessary.
Fair enough.
Alex appeared at his side while the celebration continued all around them.
“Overwhelmed, is she?” he asked quietly.
Connor did not look at him. “Choose yer next words with care.”
“I was only repeating what ye said.”
“Repeat something else.”
“Aye.” Alex nodded. “Safer.”
He stayed for a moment, his attention too sharp.
Connor could feel the question in his eyes.
Alex had seen Violet cross the hall and drag him from the cèilidh.
He had seen Connor return alone with his collar wrinkled and his temper held too carefully in place.
He was loyal enough to know the lie had a purpose and wise enough to leave it standing in public.
For once, he chose wisdom.
Connor swept his gaze across the hall, stopping on the passage that led to the study, then on the stairs that would take Violet to her chambers. No one watched those directions too closely now.
Good.
He had barely finished his assessment when Aiden approached.
The man did not storm toward him, and frankly, Connor would have preferred that, as men who stormed in anger were simple. They just needed to be pacified.
Aiden, on the other hand, crossed the hall with the measured calm of a laird who knew his place and did not need to prove it. He carried no open anger, which made him more difficult to dismiss.
“Laird Moore,” Aiden said.
Connor nodded his head. “Laird MacBain.”
“Is Violet well?”
“She is.”
Aiden studied him. His gaze moved once over Connor’s face, then past him toward the door Violet had not returned through. “That isnae the same as saying she is happy.”
Connor’s jaw tightened. “Ye ask bold questions in another man’s hall, MacBain.”
“Aye. And the questions are about me wife’s sister. I like to think I have earned the right,” Aiden responded, his voice as calm as it had been earlier.
The answer was clean. Connor disliked it more because of that.
Aiden was standing where Violet’s family should stand, close enough to warn and steady enough not to make himself the center of the warning.
Connor did not speak for a while.
Aiden took it as permission. “Violet smiles when she ought to ask for help,” he said. “She makes light of pain until folks believe there is none.”
Connor’s attention sharpened as the hall moved around them. A servant passed with a platter, and someone laughed near the far table. The fiddle rose into a livelier tune, but none of it touched the place where Aiden’s words had settled.
“Me advice? Daenae believe her too quickly,” Aiden continued.
Connor thought of Violet in the study, shaking from the aftermath of her climax and still holding herself together with sheer pride.
He thought of the way she had said she could not, then offered no answer that would satisfy either of them.
He thought of the smile she wore when everyone in the hall called her Lady Moore and the stiffness beneath it.
Aiden spoke like a man who had watched stubborn women bleed behind smiles and learned to look twice. It must have been how he was able to captivate Hannah.
Connor swallowed but did not soften his expression. He would not make a public confession to another man, even one who had earned the question. But he held the warning and knew he would not forget it.
“I hear ye,” he offered.
Aiden’s expression shifted faintly. He had not expected that answer. Or perhaps he had expected a fight.
“I expect ye to care for her,” he said.
Connor stepped half a pace closer, enough to make the words private without making them a challenge. “I’d take care of me wife even without ye saying so, MacBain.”
Aiden held his gaze, but Connor knew he was right. Violet was his wife now, and whether she fled his study, denied his touch, or hid behind John, she was under his protection.
Aiden seemed to read enough of that to accept it for the moment.
“See that ye do,” he uttered.
“I intend to.”
Aiden nodded once, a temporary peace between two men who both understood that Violet would resist being protected if she sensed it coming.
Connor lowered his head in return. It was nice to come to an agreement.
The hall had almost settled again when the musicians played a livelier tune. The dancers found their rhythm again, and the guests loosened back into laughter.
The initial curiosity around Violet’s absence began to thin under the weight of food, drink, and Connor’s refusal to feed it. For a brief minute, everything felt peaceful and orderly.
Until a familiar voice cut through the din.
“Am I welcome to me brother's wedding?”
The music faltered, and one fiddle dragged half a note before stopping. Conversation also died in pieces around the hall as Connor went still.
That voice. He knew that voice.
Before him, every soul in the hall waited for his answer.
Eventually, he turned.
He stood beneath the archway as if he had wandered into the wrong feast and meant to charm the room into forgiving him for it. He was travel-worn, his coat decent once and poorly kept now, his dark hair disheveled around a face that still held enough beauty to anger Connor.
Lachlan.
For the next minute, Connor couldn’t move. All he could do was study his brother.
Shame had not managed to ruin him, but Connor could tell wine and ale had tried. The result was worse because the old charm remained in pieces, bright enough to catch the eye and broken enough to cut.
His smile moved first to Connor, then to the hall, then back again. His gaze did not settle properly. He seemed to take in the garlands, the tables, the guests, the guards, the cupbearers, and Connor all at once and fail to hold any of it in the right order.
A young footman carrying cups froze near the closest table. One cup tilted until the ale touched the rim. Alex shifted closer to Connor’s right. Quietly. Without drawing attention. Connor felt the movement anyway.
Aiden stood a few paces behind him, silent now. The warning he had given moments ago still hung between them, and now he would see what Connor did with his brother if it came to that.
Connor had imagined meeting Lachlan again with steel between them. He had not imagined wedding garlands over their heads and half the clan waiting for blood.
Lachlan’s smile faltered. Then, before anyone could speak, he dropped to his knees.
Murmurs rippled through the hall and died at once.
“Brother,” Lachlan said, his voice carrying in the torn silence. “I ken I am the last person ye want to see, but I promise, I am nae here for trouble.”
Connor narrowed his eyes.
“Let me stay for a few days,” Lachlan continued. “Only long enough to congratulate ye. I’ll cause no trouble.”
Connor did not answer. Old anger flared so quickly, it felt familiar enough to be welcome.
Lachlan’s mouth, Lachlan’s excuses, Lachlan’s drinking, Lachlan’s exile. Jane dead in England. John asleep in the nursery upstairs because Lachlan had loved badly, fled badly, and probably left the baby at the gate of the castle.
Connor’s mind drifted to the letter he had received from him.
Please be gentler with him than ye were with me.
Connor walked toward him slowly. The hall watched his hand. It remained at his side.
Lachlan looked up when Connor stopped before him. For the first time, the smile was gone. Without it, his face looked younger and more ruined.
“Stand,” Connor ordered.