Page 14

“’ T is alright, Thistle.”

Keira frowned. Thistle? Did he name the goat? And after a flower?

“We shall get yer house ready in nay time. Ye’ll see.”

Keira remained frozen by the wall, the morning sun unwavering across her face and his skin. He leaned forward to adjust one of the posts he had erected, and her eyes followed, no matter how hard she tried to stop them.

She watched the curve of his side, the V of his waist, and the way his back flexed even if subtly.

She let herself wonder for a brief second what it would feel like to trace those lines in his back with her fingertips. His back was broad and carved, like stone. She watched him grab the hammer one more time and begin to pound at the post, the muscles shifting beneath his skin with each strike.

His shoulder blades flexed as well, and sweat glistened along his spine. It gathered in tiny droplets at the small of his back, before disappearing beneath the waistband of his trousers.

His movements somehow made the knot in her stomach twist even tighter. She hated the rawness about him. From here, he looked completely relaxed and quite unguarded. There was no tartan or title to him. Just skin, sweat, and silence, and Keira hated how long her gaze lingered.

This wasn’t her. This was completely far and different from her, and she needed to do something about it. The last thing she needed to be doing was imagining what it would feel like to run her hands down some man’s back despite how callously he had treated her over the past few days.

He spoke to the goat again, maintaining the soft cadence he had used earlier.

“I reckon this is coming well together, do ye nae?” he asked, gently stroking the back of the goat’s neck.

The small creature gently rubbed its head against his leg.

Keira gritted her teeth. She shouldn’t find this amusing. She wouldn’t . She hated herself for lingering this long in the first place.

The man had claimed her home, her lips, and now he wanted to claim her goat? She must do something to protect herself.

He had kissed her and hadn’t brought it up ever since. He didn’t deserve any form of apology from her, and she wouldn’t offer any either.

She took one last look at his back, the goat, and the posts he was erecting—which were now beginning to take a shape—inhaled shakily and walked back the way she had come, leaving him behind.

She moved across the castle, past the courtyard, and back to the safety of the dining hall. She had lingered for too long, and she decided to make sure that it would never happen again, no matter how tempting he looked in any light.

He had refused to speak to her. She was well within her rights to do the same to him.

“Almost ready, Thistle. Ye’ll have yer home in nay time,” Evander whispered to the goat.

He drove another post into the ground, pounding hard at the surface with his hammer. The baby goat let out another bleat, and Evander felt the sun rays warming his skin further.

A mild smirk crossed his face. He hadn’t become the Laird of one of the major clans on this side of the Highlands without becoming a powerful warrior. And one of the very first things he had learned was to always know what or who was around him, even if he had his back turned.

He could sense Keira the entire time she stood there and watched him build the small house. Half of him wondered if she was going to come up to him and deliver one of her saucy remarks, and possibly even poke some fun at the activity he was engaged in. But she didn’t.

He could tell she wanted to, but held herself back at the last minute. He didn’t blame her. Their kiss still lingered in the air, and as long as none of them was ready to talk about it, it would only continue to linger.

He drove some nails into the plank, feeling beads of sweat gather on his forehead.

“M’Laird?” Rory’s voice rang out behind him, and his grip on the hammer slackened.

“Do we have any fruits?” Evander asked, not turning to look at his man-at-arms.

“Fruits?”

“Thistle hasnae eaten anything this morning, and I suppose he is feeling famished.”

“Thistle?”

“’Tis what I named the goat,” he grunted, deciding to turn around with those words. His eyes landed on Rory, whose body partially blocked the sunlight. “I dinnae reckon ye have a problem with that?”

“Nae at all, M’Laird.”

“Good. Now, fetch me some fruits.”

“I came here to inform ye about the?—”

“Is someone dying?”

Rory swallowed. “I dinnae understand?—”

“Is someone dying? Do they need medicine?”

“Nae that I am aware of, M’Laird.”

Evander clenched his jaw, his eyes narrowed on Rory, whose eyes darted between him and the hammer he held in his hand. “And is someone going to die in the next twenty minutes?”

“I dinnae think so.”

“So ye can fetch the fruits. Inform the maids that I need some fruits for Thistle.”

A resigned sigh escaped Rory’s lips, and he nodded.

Soon, the sun beat back down on Evander as his man-at-arms made his way out of the courtyard and back into the castle. He continued to work, driving nails into the planks with more vigor than he had done before.

He needed to get this finished before the sun reached its peak, as he had some people he needed to visit in the village.

Rory returned barely ten minutes later, a small basket filled with fruits in his hand. He handed it to Evander, who began slowly feeding the goat after dropping the hammer to his side.

Part of him wondered if Keira had ever expected this. Had she ever imagined a world where he began to take care of the goat she had sent to his room in order to anger him?

“What was it ye wanted to talk to me about?”

“Aye, I just received word from our people. They mentioned that they may arrive here sooner than scheduled.”

Evander paused and watched the goat nibble on the berries in his hand. “And how soon is ‘sooner than scheduled?’”

“Very soon, M’Laird. Yer sister will arrive with her son tomorrow. Others will come right behind a few days after, at the very most.”

Evander nodded. “That is wonderful news, is it nae?”

“Aye. It is.”

He had thought the transition from his destroyed castle to this one would take longer than necessary, but if they were ready to relocate to Blythe Castle, he needed to celebrate that. Which meant he could start organizing the cèilidh immediately.

“How soon can ye send word? I need invitations sent out as soon as possible, as I shall be hosting a cèilidh by the end of the week.”

“A cèilidh,” Rory echoed—not a question, but merely a statement.

“Aye. I’ll need to send word to me friends. Duncan, Hector, Arthur, and Gerald. Oh, and Marcus as well.”

“I shall send them as soon as possible, M’Laird.”

“Good. We cannae afford to waste any more time. Are ye going to send a carriage for Shona and Tommy?”

“I already did, M’Laird. The footman should return with them by tomorrow.”

“Good.”

“I shall go get started on the invitations,” Rory declared, before turning around.

Evander watched him walk away, leaving him once again to the home he was building for the goat.

He resumed his work, thoughts of Keira slowly creeping into his mind despite him trying his best to push them away one hammer swing at a time. The thoughts were stronger, more insistent. He was not surprised. She was that kind of woman anyway.

A while later, as the sun rays grew stronger, he finally hammered the last nail. He watched Thistle walk into his new home and studied the roof and wooden walls. It was perfect.

He rose to his feet and walked back to the castle, wiping the sweat from his brow as he did. His eyes caught Keira in the Great Hall, talking with one of the councilmen—a man with glistening red hair.

Part of him wanted to go and ask them what they were discussing, but he was not in the mood to do so. He passed by and continued on to his quarters, hoping she didn’t see him, as he wasn’t ready for another confrontation of any kind.

He found his bath ready, and an array of bathing oils had been placed by the tub for him. He shook his head and swiped all the vials to the side. With one hand, he grabbed them all and placed them in a cabinet near the window.

He reached underneath his bed and pulled out a purple vial—the one Keira had handed to him the previous day—before heading back into the bathing chamber.

As he submerged himself into the cold water, thoughts of the cèilidh crossed his mind. It shouldn’t be hard to find a new husband for the widow.

What he needed to control was the knot in his stomach that continued to tighten at the mere thought of Keira with another man.

Harold had left barely a few hours ago, and Keira found herself alone once again. Lesley had gone into the village to treat some woman who fell from a tree the previous night and had not been able to walk ever since.

She had grown used to silence in the castle for quite some time.

There were some days when she would just watch the trees and feel the wind blow in rather harshly from the courtyard.

But for some reason, today’s silence felt completely different.

It was as if she had never experienced silence before, and this was her first time.

Was this another effect Evander had on her? Was he the cause of this? Had this man somehow made his absence boring and even more incredibly so for her?

This couldn’t work. She would rather find something else to do than submit to that fact.

She asked her maid to fetch her gloves and garden shears. She might as well tend to her garden anyway.

Stella returned just a few minutes later with the necessary materials.

“How are Kincaid’s people settling in?” Keira asked, sticking her hands into one of the gloves as she awaited a response from her maid.

“Very well,” Stella responded.

A beat of silence followed her words. Something about it made Keira realize there was more. There was more to be said and her maid was refusing to speak.

“What?”

Stella frowned. “What?”

“That look on yer face tells me that’s nae everything. So, what is it?”

“It is nay matter. The Laird had dealt with it.”

Keira frowned.

Dealt with it?

“Stella, if something is happening under me roof and ye refuse to tell me, do ye ken how that might look?”

Stella looked down and swallowed as Keira reached for the second glove.

Another beat of silence followed—one Keira drew out as long as possible. If there was one thing she had learned about her maid in the past few months, it was that she hated uncomfortable silences.

“Do ye remember that… night?”

Stella swallowed, and Keira could tell she knew what she was talking about.

“The night we—I found Fletcher’s body.”

A mild shudder ran through her as she recalled the tragic scene, the same one that had solidified her place as the lady of the castle nonetheless. Yet, whenever she remembered it, she couldn’t help but feel a chill run down her spine.

“I didnae speak that night,” she continued anyway, pushing away the images of her dead husband before they turned into something that would scar her soul. “Ye were so uncomfortable that night. Ye kept speaking to me, asking if I needed anything, and every time, I would tell ye nay.”

“That was quite the horrible night for everybody,” Stella mumbled.

Keira laughed. The one thing she had been mostly worried about that night had not been Fletcher’s death.

She barely knew the man. She got betrothed to him mainly out of duty.

She was one of those women who had married to secure an alliance.

Her father was a Lowland laird who had never been satisfied with what he had.

“Me faither had died two years before I met Fletcher. I dinnae think I’ve ever told ye that story.”

“I dinnae recall, M’Lady.”

“Well, ye’re about to hear it today,” she muttered.