Page 82 of Auctioned to the Cruel Highlander
The room had gone quiet again, and everything in the tower was exactly where it had been before his father-in-law had climbed the stairs. But for some reason, none of it felt the same. He had been thanked, tested, and measured in the span of a short conversation.
That was the trouble with loving eyes. They saw too much.
By dinner, Ciaran had not found a better solution to the thoughts that continued flooding his mind. He was already at the table when Ava came in with Isobel, and he looked up at once. He had meant to give her no more than the courtesy due any wife entering a room. Instead, he drank her in before he could stop himself.
She was in a bright blue dress, and it fell rather elegantly around her ankles as she walked. He swallowed and turned his eyes to her face. The color in it was so bright that the dim candlelight caught it.
He parted his lips, almost astonished by how sharp she looked that night, but he had barely gotten a word out when he felt Laird MacKenna looking at him. The older man said nothing. He did not need to. Ciaran reached for his cup and kept his face still while Ava took her seat.
The first minutes of dinner passed stiffly. Cutlery clinked against porcelain, and Isobel spoke of the bread. MacKenna asked whether the venison had come from the northern woods, while Ava answered when spoken to and kept her voice level. Ciaran did the same.
Anyone less observant than her father might have thought the meal merely subdued. But her father was no less observant.
Once the first hunger had been satisfied, he set down his knife and cleared his throat. “Ye ken what has been bothering me since the fire?”
All eyes shifted to him, almost as if he were the main authority in the dining hall.
“I have turned the matter over in me head many times, and I can think of nay man with cause enough to set fire to the place.”
“Ye think someone set fire to the castle?” Ava asked, the alarm in her voice clear.
He raised his hand almost in a way that told her to relax. “That is the thing. I cannae think of anyone who would do that.”
Ciaran nodded. “Then it might well have been an accident.”
“Aye.” MacKenna took a drink. “A stupid one, perhaps.”
Isobel drew a breath.
Ava’s hand tightened briefly on the stem of her glass. “At least nay one died.”
MacKenna looked at her for a second, then gave a short nod. “Aye. That alone deserves gratitude.”
“It deservesmorethan gratitude,” Isobel said, seizing the opening with the speed of a woman determined not to let grief dominate an evening. “It deserves music. Or dancing. We used to do worse for far less when we were younger.”
MacKenna’s mouth twitched. “We did, indeed. Though I am too tired to make a fool of meself tonight.”
“That is a disappointment,” Isobel tutted.
“I leave foolishness to stronger legs.” He turned his head toward Ciaran. “Ye, however, have nay excuse. Daenae sit there glowering and ruin yer wife’s mood with it.”
The line came sweetly, but it was also a push. Ava knew it. Ciaran saw that in the quick look she gave her father. He could have refused. He could have claimed he had something to do or was simply tired. Instead, he rose.
The room fell quieter as he crossed to Ava and held out his hand. “Me Lady.”
She looked down at his hand and back at his face. The flush in it was clearer than anything now.
“We daenae want to keep these folks waiting now, do we?”
For one beat, she only looked at his hand. Then, almost reluctantly, she placed her fingers in his palm. The contact sent a jolt through him at once.
He pulled her to her feet and led her into the small open space near the fireplace where Isobel had already begun a low, teasing tune under her breath. MacKenna leaned back in his chair to watch with the expression of a man who had arranged exactly what he wanted and meant to enjoy the result.
Ciaran put his hand on Ava’s waist, and she rested hers on his shoulder. The first steps were proper enough. Measured. Easy to explain. The kind of dancing one might do to satisfy family andpass a few minutes warmly. Then Ava looked up at him, and her face tilted toward his in candlelight with all their private history still alive beneath the surface.
“Ye might try smiling,” she said softly.
“Iamdancing. Is that nae effort enough?”
