Page 80 of Auctioned to the Cruel Highlander
“Aye,” Ava responded, the excitement that he was alive still thrumming in her blood.“Me father is here now.”
CHAPTER 23
Ciaran had goneto the tower for silence after leaving Ava’s chambers, but he found none.
The room usually gave him enough distance to think clearly. The telescope stood by the window, and the piano sat closed, its keys hidden.
He had work below, and he knew that. He had come up anyway, bringing with him a ledger he had not opened and a mind that kept wandering where he did not want it.
No matter how hard he tried, he simply couldn’t stop thinking about Ava. Even now, he couldn’t stop thinking about her face and how she had stared at him when he pushed that door open.
He was still trying to get her out of his head when a knock sounded at the door. He turned at once, already irritated with himself for not wanting company and for knowing exactly who stood outside before a word was spoken.
“Come in.”
Laird MacKenna stepped into the room, a small smile on his face.
Ciaran swallowed and watched the older man as he stepped in and closed the door behind him. He still bore the marks of the fire. The skin on his neck and the side of his face were healing slowly but they weren't as bad as they had been the day he arrived.
He moved carefully when he crossed the threshold, and a part of Ciaran almost wondered if he should help him to the nearest chair. Eventually, he found that he did not. The older man moved further into the room, with that small smile still on his lips.
“Laird MacKenna,” Ciaran greeted.
“That sounds far too polite for a room this high,” MacKenna replied. “Have ye a moment?”
Ciaran gestured to the chair by the wall. “Of course.”
MacKenna sat.
Ciaran remained standing for a second, then thought better of it and took the chair opposite him.
MacKenna looked around once, taking in the telescope, the piano, the books—the room in general. A man like him often missed nothing, Ciaran could tell.
“I came to thank ye properly,” MacKenna began. “Ye took us in without hesitation. I daenae forget such things.”
“There was nothing else to be done.”
“There is always something else a man can choose,” MacKenna countered. “Ye chose well.”
Ciaran lowered his head once and then lifted it again. He had no wish to spend long on gratitude. It made him uncomfortable when offered plainly.
MacKenna seemed to know that already.
“Me maids tell me they willnae have much to do here,” he said, glancing toward the window as if remarking on the weather. “Yer people run a tight ship. They say little will change.”
Ciaran looked at him. “Change?”
The older man’s mouth twitched. “Aye.”
The word hung between them with more weight than the remark warranted. Ciaran heard it clearly enough.
MacKenna had not climbed the tower to discuss mops and folded linens. He was speaking of his daughter’s world entering this castle. His servants. His habits. His daughter herself. How much would change. How much would be allowed to.
Ciaran’s voice cooled by instinct. “Is there something ye want altered?”
MacKenna held his gaze with mild interest. “Is that a problem?”
There it is.
