The noise struck harder than it should have. In the study, there had been low firelight, Violet’s uneven breath, a fallen pin in his hand, and the discipline it had taken to step aside when she fled him.
Here, the hall had no patience for silence. The fiddle scraped bright above the stamp of feet while cups struck tables. The men around the hall laughed too loudly because ale had made them generous with themselves, while the servants moved between bodies with platters of roasted meat, fresh bread, and steaming broth. The air held the thick warmth of smoke, drink, and celebration.
Connor had crossed battlefields with a steadier pulse. He stopped at the threshold and watched as the first guest noticed. him, then looked past his shoulder. Another did the same.
A woman sitting at the nearest table turned slightly to see around him while one of the older men lowered his cup. The dancers continued skipping and twirling for two measures too long, unaware that curiosity had already shifted through the hall like a hand passing over grain.
They were looking for Violet.
Connor felt the question form before anyone dared to ask it. He glanced toward the space where she should have stood beside him. The space was empty, and that absence landed too sharply, bringing with it the memory of her straightened gown, her shaking hands, her restored hair, and the tremor she had tried to hide when she stepped through the study door.
He decided to speak before anyone else could come forward to ask him questions he did not wish to entertain.
“Lady Moore was overwhelmed by the day,” he announced, rather evenly. “And she has retired for the night.”
He did not explain or even try to soften the words into an apology. He made the answer as respectable as he could since he gave no other option.
A few women’s faces warmed with sympathy, while one murmured something to her companion and pressed a hand briefly to her chest. The older man lifted his cup again, slower this time, and nodded as if resting was a sensible choice for a bride after such a day. Near the benches, two men who hadbegun to whisper felt Connor’s gaze on them and suddenly became fascinated with their ale.
The musicians found the tune again, though the first bars limped before recovering, and the dancers moved back into place. The servants also resumed their work.
All in all, everyone tried to act normal, as if this were nothing but harmless news.
Hannah stood across the hall near Aiden, half-turned toward the doorway. She had heard him. Connor saw her face smooth just a little, enough to know that she understood the protection and trusted it no further than necessary.
Fair enough.
Alex appeared at his side while the celebration continued all around them.
“Overwhelmed, is she?” he asked quietly.
Connor did not look at him. “Choose yer next words with care.”
“I was only repeating what ye said.”
“Repeat something else.”
“Aye.” Alex nodded. “Safer.”
He stayed for a moment, his attention too sharp.
Connor could feel the question in his eyes. Alex had seen Violet cross the hall and drag him from the cèilidh. He had seen Connor return alone with his collar wrinkled and his temper held too carefully in place. He was loyal enough to know the lie had a purpose and wise enough to leave it standing in public.
For once, he chose wisdom.
Connor swept his gaze across the hall, stopping on the passage that led to the study, then on the stairs that would take Violet to her chambers. No one watched those directions too closely now.
Good.
He had barely finished his assessment when Aiden approached.
The man did not storm toward him, and frankly, Connor would have preferred that, as men who stormed in anger were simple. They just needed to be pacified.
Aiden, on the other hand, crossed the hall with the measured calm of a laird who knew his place and did not need to prove it. He carried no open anger, which made him more difficult to dismiss.
“Laird Moore,” Aiden said.
Connor nodded his head. “Laird MacBain.”
