goes?”
“Not to you,” Lydia snapped.
“Aye, ’tis true, that is. He takes from ye so often, ’tis a
miracle ye’re still able to stand upright. Besotted with ye, he is.”
Moira’s open hostility unnerved Lydia. Were the Kilborn
women as wild as the Kilborn men?
And what did she mean by, “takes from ye so often”? “What do
you—”
“He goes to the auld keep.” Moira nodded at the two men, who
still stood near the ancient door, conversing in low tones. As she left, she
flung a final taunt. “Dinnae ye wonder why?”
* * * * *
The next morn, Kier’s footfalls dragged as though he
struggled through a marsh rather than the gentle mist that shrouded the way to
the Great Hall. He glanced at Lydia and saw that a slender line, probably
invisible to anyone but him, had appeared between his wife’s fine, dark brows.
A worry line it was, and he continued to study it throughout their mostly silent
repast. Something was on the lassie’s mind, and he hesitated to ask her what it
might be. What if she asked again about his nocturnal ramblings? What if she
saw him slip inside the keep?
What if she followed?
He couldn’t continue to evade her questions without lying
outright and his feelings for her, as well as his honor, wouldn’t allow that.
He was aware of the gossip. Had she also heard the muttering
and the murmurs? News traveled around the clan in Gaelic so mayhap the blather
hadn’t reached her ears.
What he’d done to the MacReiver had spread among the
crofters like spilled blood and this morning, like every morning at breakfast
in the Great Hall, guards and servants peered at Lydia’s delicate throat,
noting every mark and nibble. He couldn’t stop, not with her tender neck
offered so sweetly and she so eager… The pointing and whispers wouldn’t stop
either. Might as well try to prevent the tide from coming in or the fog
settling on the meadow.
But he could distract his wife. She had shown a love for the
sea. P’raps an outing would shift her attention.
He gestured and a servant hurried to his side. “Owain,
please fetch Niall when he returns from the sea this day.”
“Niall the fisherman?” Lydia asked as Owain left.
“You know of Niall?”
“Yes, he and his family often eat here and I have been to
their croft.”
“Have ye, lassie?”
“Of course.” Her expression became regal and he couldn’t
suppress his grin. Despite that new wrinkle between her brows, Lydia was
adjusting to her new role with grace. “What do you think I do with my days
while you are out hunting, milaird?”
He leaned back in his chair. “Och, I dinnae ken.
Embroidering bonnie pictures in the solar, p’raps?”
Her frown could have soured fresh milk, but not his hopes.
“Dinnae be angry at a bit of teasin’, lass, for we’ll have a
fine day.” Kier winked at her and was pleased when the curve of her lashes
swept her blushing cheek. “Niall possesses the means to a great adventure,
milady wife.”
He enjoyed the way her expressions shifted from annoyed to
confused to delighted. “His boat? His boat! We’re going on his boat!” She
bounced in her chair like an excited wee bairn.
Distracted, she was. So far his plan was working.
* * * * *
Instead of waiting for Owain, Lydia insisted upon going down
to the beach to watch Niall bring in his morning catch. So he wouldn’t miss his
midday meal, servants brought baskets of food for the excursion—ale and whisky,
plus hot bannocks and sausage, venison pie and a fruit tart.
She’d donned her old brown woolen sacque with a plaidie
thrown over for extra warmth. Kieran was in his customary black and the
fishermen’s children, waiting on the beach to help their fathers, wore a motley
assortment of rags and tatters. Had Lydia not been to their crofts and huts,
she would have been disturbed by the sight of so many barefoot ragamuffins. As
it was, she knew they wore their shabbiest garb to bring in the catch.
Like the others, Niall’s boat was
“Not to you,” Lydia snapped.
“Aye, ’tis true, that is. He takes from ye so often, ’tis a
miracle ye’re still able to stand upright. Besotted with ye, he is.”
Moira’s open hostility unnerved Lydia. Were the Kilborn
women as wild as the Kilborn men?
And what did she mean by, “takes from ye so often”? “What do
you—”
“He goes to the auld keep.” Moira nodded at the two men, who
still stood near the ancient door, conversing in low tones. As she left, she
flung a final taunt. “Dinnae ye wonder why?”
* * * * *
The next morn, Kier’s footfalls dragged as though he
struggled through a marsh rather than the gentle mist that shrouded the way to
the Great Hall. He glanced at Lydia and saw that a slender line, probably
invisible to anyone but him, had appeared between his wife’s fine, dark brows.
A worry line it was, and he continued to study it throughout their mostly silent
repast. Something was on the lassie’s mind, and he hesitated to ask her what it
might be. What if she asked again about his nocturnal ramblings? What if she
saw him slip inside the keep?
What if she followed?
He couldn’t continue to evade her questions without lying
outright and his feelings for her, as well as his honor, wouldn’t allow that.
He was aware of the gossip. Had she also heard the muttering
and the murmurs? News traveled around the clan in Gaelic so mayhap the blather
hadn’t reached her ears.
What he’d done to the MacReiver had spread among the
crofters like spilled blood and this morning, like every morning at breakfast
in the Great Hall, guards and servants peered at Lydia’s delicate throat,
noting every mark and nibble. He couldn’t stop, not with her tender neck
offered so sweetly and she so eager… The pointing and whispers wouldn’t stop
either. Might as well try to prevent the tide from coming in or the fog
settling on the meadow.
But he could distract his wife. She had shown a love for the
sea. P’raps an outing would shift her attention.
He gestured and a servant hurried to his side. “Owain,
please fetch Niall when he returns from the sea this day.”
“Niall the fisherman?” Lydia asked as Owain left.
“You know of Niall?”
“Yes, he and his family often eat here and I have been to
their croft.”
“Have ye, lassie?”
“Of course.” Her expression became regal and he couldn’t
suppress his grin. Despite that new wrinkle between her brows, Lydia was
adjusting to her new role with grace. “What do you think I do with my days
while you are out hunting, milaird?”
He leaned back in his chair. “Och, I dinnae ken.
Embroidering bonnie pictures in the solar, p’raps?”
Her frown could have soured fresh milk, but not his hopes.
“Dinnae be angry at a bit of teasin’, lass, for we’ll have a
fine day.” Kier winked at her and was pleased when the curve of her lashes
swept her blushing cheek. “Niall possesses the means to a great adventure,
milady wife.”
He enjoyed the way her expressions shifted from annoyed to
confused to delighted. “His boat? His boat! We’re going on his boat!” She
bounced in her chair like an excited wee bairn.
Distracted, she was. So far his plan was working.
* * * * *
Instead of waiting for Owain, Lydia insisted upon going down
to the beach to watch Niall bring in his morning catch. So he wouldn’t miss his
midday meal, servants brought baskets of food for the excursion—ale and whisky,
plus hot bannocks and sausage, venison pie and a fruit tart.
She’d donned her old brown woolen sacque with a plaidie
thrown over for extra warmth. Kieran was in his customary black and the
fishermen’s children, waiting on the beach to help their fathers, wore a motley
assortment of rags and tatters. Had Lydia not been to their crofts and huts,
she would have been disturbed by the sight of so many barefoot ragamuffins. As
it was, she knew they wore their shabbiest garb to bring in the catch.
Like the others, Niall’s boat was
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