Chapter 11
When Kenna woke the next morning, her head aching after a restless night plagued by dreams in which her sisters were lined up to face Ashbourne’s brutality one by one, she found the man in question waiting in her antechamber.
Her husband did this sometimes. He showed up without notice, seeking some kind of private audience with her. She knew that he didn’t do it because he liked her company.
No, he did it to remind her that there was nowhere she could go that was safe from him, that he owned her completely.
That he could get to her even while she slept.
The worst part, of course, was that it worked.
“Good morning, wife,” he said, all smug satisfaction when she startled upon seeing him waiting for her.
Still, she gathered her composure quickly. She had plenty of practice at it.
“Good morning, my lord,” she said, bobbing a quick curtsey before sliding into place across the small table already set with breakfast. “Did you sleep well?”
He rolled his eyes expansively. “You always talk about such drivel, Makenna. Are you stupid? Just shut your mouth.”
Kenna nodded, trying to look chagrined. Inwardly, though, she smiled. Ha! Now she didn’t even have to talk to him.
Anna approached, an unusually wide smile on her face. Kenna’s maid usually did her best to pretend that she didn’t exist whenever Ashbourne was in the room, an impulse that Kenna understood explicitly.
“I have your tea, my lady!” Anna said brightly, holding up a tin that Kenna didn’t recognize. “The one that helps ye—”She shot a nervous glance at Ashbourne at the indelicate topic—“produce an heir.”
Despite the diplomatic phrasing, Anna blushed brightly. Kenna would have sent her maid a reassuring look if she weren’t so busy staring at the tin, entirely agog.
“You have the tea,” she echoed.
Anna’s smile returned. “Indeed, I do, my lady. I, ah, found it.”
This was a lie, and not one that had been delivered particularly smoothly. But Anna was smart. She knew better than to mention Arran in front of Ashbourne.
“Shall I brew you a cup?” she asked.
“Please,” Kenna said, feeling relief wash over her. It wasn’t as uncomplicated a feeling as she would have experienced the day prior, though, not with her father’s threat hanging over her head.
He must have been bluffing, though, hadn’t he?
Nobody would grant her an annulment, not after three years of marriage, and Ashbourne would never go through the public humiliation of a divorce, even if he could get Parliament to agree to such a thing.
For all Ashbourne’s sins, he wasn’t a bigamist, if only because he would insist on his heir being legitimate.
So it would be fine. It had to be just fine.
Ashbourne watched this exchange with vicious amusement.
“Oh, yes,” he drawled. “Drink up your tea, little wife. Use your heathenish magic brew to pretend that you can fix what is faulty.” He snorted into his own tea, amused with himself. “Lord knows that I’ve done my part. What I have done to deserve such a useless woman I cannot imagine.”
This was such an absurd statement that Kenna could not even counter, so she just decided to ignore it instead. She lowered her eyes, hoping that her husband couldn’t see the gleam of relief in them.
“Of course you are right, my lord,” she said demurely. “But I have hopes yet. So I will drink the tea, and perhaps this time, there will be success.”
There certainly would not be success.
She was becoming a very good liar.
Ashbourne laughed a very mean sort of laugh. No matter. Kenna drank her tea.
After spending a while pontificating on why all the other members of the Alliance were useless fools who refused to see the wisdom of his guidance, Ashbourne left to go bother someone else.
Kenna knocked back the last few dregs of her tea. It tasted appalling, but she didn’t really notice it. It tasted like freedom and that was what mattered.
Only when they were both certain that Ashbourne was really, truly gone did Anna approach with a piece of paper tucked in her hand.
“This came for you with the tea, my lady,” she said quietly.
Kenna felt a thrill as she opened the folded note. It was as simple and straightforward as the one she’d dropped for Arran.
Midnight. West wing.
She smiled and hugged the paper to her chest as though it was a passionate missive from a lover, instead of three simple words that held no personal information whatsoever.
Anna watched her, a worried look on her face.
“Are you sure that you know what you’re doing, my lady?” she asked quietly. “Are you sure that this is a good idea?”
“Of course,” Kenna answered, but this was a lie, too. It was just so good a lie that she was starting to believe it herself.
She went through the day without noticing much of the world around her, her mind already in the abandoned corner of the Keep.
The west wing had been damaged by the explosion—not enough to make it unsound, but enough that the clan had simply stopped using that section of the building rather than try to repair it.
Kenna could only imagine that it held bad memories, too.
She grew more and more consumed with nervous energy as the day went on, and though it might have been wise to try to get a little bit of sleep before her appointed meeting time, she found herself far too restless to do anything except watch the hands on the small mantel clock tick closer and closer to midnight.
Finally, when the time was nigh and the Keep asleep, she slipped from her bed, careful not to wake Anna, less out of secrecy than because her maid deserved her rest. Kenna put on her softest-soled shoes, finding herself grateful for the thin English-style slippers for the first time.
The shoes might have been unhelpful and impractical when it came to protecting her feet, but they were quiet as a whisper as she moved through the hallways.
The west wing was choked with dust, its rooms and corridors long forgotten.
A broken window made the wind whistle eerily, putting Kenna in mind of the gothic novels that were so popular among the ladies of the ton.
Kenna had always scoffed at the books—real terror was a cruel man taking over your life, not ghosts—but she felt a chill go down her spine as she padded silently through the neglected space.
Maybe it was easier to believe in ghosts now that she was back in Scotland, now that her father was in the building. Her own personal ghosts come home to roost.
Kenna was not normally fanciful. That was for people who could afford to let their minds wander. But the atmosphere made every shadow look like a threat. She was not immune.
Which meant that, even though she did not expect to be alone, even though she specifically knew Arran would be waiting for her, she still nearly jumped out of her skin when his hand reached out to cover her mouth.
She released a muffled little cry of alarm… which, she supposed, justified his reasoning for putting his hand there in the first place.
His low laughter rumbled behind her, highlighting how her back was pressed up against his chest.
“Sorry, lass,” he said, sounding far more entertained than truly regretful. “I didnae mean to startle ye.”
She yanked his hand off her face and whirled to glare at him, even though she did not truly want to step away from his touch.
“Nay,” she said sarcastically. “Ye just grabbed me out of the dark because ye thought it would put me at ease.”
His grin was bright even in the dim of the abandoned room.
“I thought ye might scream,” he said. “I didnae think it wise to bring people down on our heads, aye?”
“Och, ye thought I might scream,” she returned. It felt good to be prickly and sarcastic, to know that he wouldn’t rage at her for it. “Why? Because ye chose this pleasant place to meet? Was the graveyard nae available?”
He chuckled again. Even though his presence made the room a bit less alarming, Kenna still found herself stepping back into his space, clutching at the front of his shirt to make certain that he didn’t abandon her.
Aye. That was why she pressed close to him. Because she was afraid.
It didn’t sound right even in her own mind.
Still, Arran didn’t push her away. Instead, he let his arms settle loosely around her waist, anchoring her even more firmly.
“Tell me, lass,” he asked, voice serious now.
She liked the way it rumbled as much as she had his laughter. It was soothing, like the purring of a cat—only far better, because no cat had ever protected her the way Arran had done.
“What did ye need those herbs for?”
Something in his tone told her that he suspected, if he did not know outright.
But the habit of keeping it a secret had dug its hooks into her. The habit of keeping everything a secret had dug its hooks into her.
She tried to tug away from his hold, but he held her tight.
“It isnae your concern,” she said brusquely. “The only thing that I needed from ye was to get them—and I thank ye for that. But the rest of doesnae matter, not to ye.”
“Kenna,” he murmured, and she fought hard against the appealing lure of that gentle call. She couldn’t afford to let him closer. That kiss had been bad enough. It had reminded her that romance and love were real.
But they couldn’t be real, not for her. Ashbourne would never let her go, and even if he did, it would just put one of her sisters as the sacrifice on his wretched altar.
“It isnae your concern,” she repeated.
She could feel the patience leeching out of him. That was good, though. The sooner he got tired of her, the sooner he would let her go back to the only life she’d ever be allowed to have. The sooner she would stop feeling that awful, hideous hope.
“If it is what I think it is…” he said lowly. “That’s verra dangerous. Such herbs… are a risk to the woman, ye must ken that. And that’s before even considering what may happen if Ashbourne finds out.”
It was the closest he had ever come to outright admitting that he knew her husband was a brute. In turn, she came the closest she’d ever been to admitting it.