Journey to Bongary Spring by Kasey Stockton
Chapter Three
Kieran was prepared to train even the dullest of creatures in the art of combat, but he found immense difficulty with forced dinner conversation. He would much rather be outside with the animals or practicing his technique with a broadsword than sitting at the long oak table listening to Ian boast about his skill loud enough for the women nearby to hear.
If Ian wasn’t careful, he’d invite Mrs. Christie and her daughter into their conversation, and then they would begin speaking to Kieran, too. He suppressed a shudder.
Ian’s chest shook as he threw his head back and laughed at something Hugh said. He was making up for his poor performance on the lawn earlier by puffing his chest now. Kieran could only shake his head. He’d never felt the personal need to impress others in that excessive manner. People either liked and appreciated him, or they didn’t.
“Kieran had ye on the ground in two minutes flat,” Young Rupert said, his grin revealing a chipped tooth.
Ian’s smile tightened. “Aye, and tomorrow when it’s yer turn, he’ll have ye down in two seconds.”
Young Rupert nodded in agreement, his laughter ringing through the great hall and bouncing from the tall stone ceiling. He lifted his mug to Kieran in a salute and took a long swig, eliciting a chuckle from Kieran’s chest. Young Rupert’s straggly, light brown hair was long and tied in a queue, and his rounded cheeks gave him a youthful, cherubic smile. Rupert had been worried about his son’s ability to learn the art of close combat, but in Kieran’s eyes, the lad was doing well enough. A few more months of training and he’d have control over his sword, too.
The McEwans would hopefully never be called upon to utilize their combat training, but if they needed it, they would be ready. It was Kieran’s job to ensure as much.
A prickling sensation ran down his neck, and the feeling that he was being watched descended upon his shoulders. Lifting his head, Kieran scanned the perimeter of the room, but all appeared as it should. Tables formed a large rectangle in the center of the great hall, the McEwan chief and his family situated at the head table, the wall behind them lined with enormous fireplaces and roaring fires. Marion leaned over to speak to her mother, and the chief listened intently to something Hugh was whispering in his ear. Everyone else was scattered about the remaining tables, laughter and conversation flowing neatly through people who had long lived and worked alongside one another, but none of them were watching Kieran.
His years under his father’s tutelage learning to watch and glean information from others had taught him to pay close attention to anything outside of the ordinary, anything which might present a threat. Something was not quite right, but Kieran found no evidence to back up the prickling sensation of foreboding. He must be losing his touch.
Perhaps he’d spent too many years at Castle Moraigh biding his time. He needed to consider if it was time to take a more active approach in seeking justice for his father’s death. He’d spent so many years listening carefully to reports about the Duncan disputes and training himself to be a supreme warrior so that when he faced the man who killed his father, he would be prepared and physically capable of exacting his revenge. He’d trained hard, but perhaps it was time to put his training to use. To actually find the man would take a hunt. It was too much to hope that the Duncan brute would willingly fall into Kieran’s hands at the McEwan seat.
A flash of movement caught his eye, and he looked up at the open corridor that lined the side of the great hall above him, but it was empty. A balustrade ran the length of it, high above the diners and stretching from one end of the room to the other, and shadows fell behind the columns that punctuated the long, open space.
“We havna spent enough time with broadswords if ye think ye can take me down,” Ian said, pulling Kieran back to the conversation occurring around him.
“Not yet,” Young Rupert said, his cherubic cheeks rosy and round. “But someday, I willna be the weakest man. Someday I will be strong enough to take down the fiercest Duncan brute.”
Shaking away the discomfort of being watched, Kieran clapped Young Rupert on the back with a conspiratorial smile. “And I’ll help ye get there.”
* * *
The great hall was filled with the din of conversation and the clinking of forks against plates. The day had long since ended and despite her efforts, Marion had been unable to pull a smile from Isobel’s troubled countenance since their conversation that morning. Isobel was reserved by nature but had been unnaturally quiet all day. Her distraction had been evidence that her mind was working. She was clearly up to something, but Marion couldn’t quite figure out what it was.
Marion sat at the head table beside her mother, her gaze tripping on the exposed walkway that ran along the top of the far wall and the slender woman standing in the shadow of a column. If Marion hadn’t chanced to look up when Isobel walked by, she would have missed her completely. But now Isobel stood, guarded by the shadows of the central pillar, her pale face directed at Kieran Buchanan who sat at the far table amidst his friends, seemingly without any idea there was a woman watching him from the walkway above.
Marion studied Kieran’s face amongst the crowded diners, but his expression lacked suspicion.
Was the man daft? Anyone could plainly see that Isobel had been mooning over Kieran since she’d arrived at Castle Moraigh eight years before, and the oaf had never once looked at her beyond a friendly greeting or a passing smile. He was blind. He had to be. Marion was sure of it.
Any sane man would be glad to receive the enchanting calf-eyed expression Isobel so often threw Kieran’s way. She was beautiful, with her pale blonde hair and deep brown eyes, and she possessed a calm loveliness that was simple and steady, not likely to dim with age. It would puff up any man’s pride to be the object of her affection…though Kieran had never been the sort of man to need his pride puffed up by another, had he? He was one of the rare exceptions of Marion’s acquaintance who was self-assured while lacking conceit.
If only there was a man of similar character for her. Even if Isobel hadn’t been desperately in love with Kieran, Father would never permit such a lowly match for Marion. He was her cousin on her mother’s side, and no man without a McEwan surname could be her husband. But no matter; she could never desire him in that way. He felt too much like a brother.
If she could only think of some reason to convince Father to allow Isobel to marry Kieran instead of the Duncan laird. But Kieran had nothing to offer McEwan that he did not already give the clan—nothing by which he could make his suit attractive.
The more she considered that, the heavier her chest grew. Kieran already gave of his time and his talents. He trained the younger men and worked with the seasoned McEwans to improve their skill. Kieran’s experience training under one of the fiercest warriors the McEwan clan had ever seen and his loyalty to the clan were all he had to provide the chief, and he gave them in spades. If Isobel was going to marry Kieran, she would need help. Marion needed to find a way to make the match appear beneficial to Father. It would have to be something that rivaled the worth of marrying the laird of Dulnain. But what?
Marion pulled her bottom lip between her teeth and chewed, pushing her fowl around her plate with the tines of her fork.
“Ye’ll have a swollen lip soon if ye aren’t careful,” Mother said, leaning slightly toward her.
Marion nodded, lifting her glass and taking a sip of wine.
Mother studied her closely, her clear blue eyes narrowing over her long, straight nose. She was undoubtedly the most beautiful woman in the room and always would be. “What is it that’s bothering ye?”
Father’s loud, booming laugh echoed through the cavernous hall, and Marion instinctively quieted. He’d been acting strange of late. Long, lonesome hours in his study, quiet conversations with this man or that, and now forcing Isobel to marry a Duncan laird. What was his aim? “’Tis naething, Mama.”
“That frown on yer brow says otherwise.” Mother’s slender fingers reached forward and brushed a thumb over Marion’s forehead as if she meant to erase the lines creasing in worry. “Do ye wish to unburden yerself?”
Marion shook her head. She would speak to Mother, but not here, and not until she had time to consider Isobel’s options. Isobel was like a sister to Marion, and though she would need to marry in some way to benefit the clan—Father would not permit otherwise—there had to be a way to change his mind about the Duncan laird. But Isobel would need to be wise and avoid rash decisions in the meantime. Until they knew what reason Father had for wanting to form the alliance with the Duncans, they would not be able to devise a better deal to offer him. They could only outsmart the men if they were crafty—if they worked together.
Marion glanced up to the overlooking corridor, and Isobel was gone.