She could recall riding the hills with Lorna until their horses were lathered and the wind had carried their laughter south. They would often sit in the grass and look out at the sea, eating lunch from their saddle packs and talking about their dreams. She remembered lying on the floor of the music turret, reading and listening as Lorna practiced on her harp, plucking notes and singing ballads that filled Adaira with courage and nostalgia.
The love Innes was extending was nothing like Alastair’s and Lorna’s.
It was sharp and angular, like the blue jewels in her hair. It was fierce and possessive, built from bloodlines and traditions and a wound that still ached after twenty-three years. And yet Adaira was relieved to finally behold and understand it—to know that affection gleamed within Innes. It was as though the harshness of the wind had carved her down into a spear that could strike but also defend unto death. To be loved by Innes was to dwell behind her shield in a land where thanes poisoned daughters.
Adaira suddenly realized she held far more power here than she had dared to believe. The coldhearted Laird of the West might be desperate to earn her love in return, uncertain if it were even a possibility after so much time and distance.
She also realized that Innes had asked her to arrive late for no other reason than to give her an entrance that would unsettle the thanes, who now had food in their teeth and wine swimming in their blood. A sly but brilliant move.
Adaira reached the chair that awaited her at Innes’s right-hand side.
She sat, and then her father and the nobles followed suit. Innes was the last to resume her seat.
A servant stepped forward and filled Adaira’s goblet with wine. She glanced at the platters that ran along the tabletop like a spine, now holding broken loaves of dark bread, roasted mutton, potatoes and carrots sprinkled with herbs, truffles and speckled mushrooms, wheels of soft cheese, and jars of pickled fruit.
“Help yourself, Cora,” Innes murmured.
Adaira wasn’t hungry—another side effect of the Aethyn—but she filled her plate, feeling the weight of the nobles’ gazes on her. They were watching her every move, and it wasn’t until she had taken her first tentative bite that she understood why some of them were regarding her so shrewdly.
She was sitting in the chair that had been Moray’s.
“Always a pleasure to see you, Cora,” Rab Pierce said, lifting his goblet to her.
Adaira found him across the table, three seats down. She knew full well why he was making a point to speak to her. Most of the nobles gathered that evening had yet to see or meet her, and Rab wanted to show his advantage by calling her by name and addressing her with such familiarity.
His mother, Thane Griselda, sat beside him. She wore jewels in her auburn hair and on every knuckle of her fingers, which cradled a goblet to her chest. Her expression was pinched and her skin pale as cream, betraying how often she spent time indoors. She watched Adaira eat, her hooded eyes glittering like a cat observing a mouse.
Adaira flexed a hand beneath the table, feeling the ice crack beneath her skin.
“Indeed, Rab,” she said. “I hope you’ve settled the trouble that was on your land yesterday?”
Rab was quick and replied, “You’ll be pleased that I have. Perhaps we can speak more of it later?” His gaze dropped to the low neckline of her dress, where her golden half coin rested against her skin.
Adaira knew the Breccans wore rings to represent marriage vows. She knew they didn’t wear half coins around their necks, as some of the Tamerlaines did, but she had also made it clear to Rab that she was married and spoken for. And yet his eyes still lingered, as if he saw a challenge in the broken gold she displayed.
She didn’t have a chance to respond to him. Innes shifted the conversation to other matters, and Adaira chose to sit and listen, trying to pick up on the dynamic of the nobles. Some spoke often, while others were silent and pensive. One of the quiet ones was David, and Adaira caught his eye across the table a few times.
Her father was watching her closely, his brow furrowed.
Maybe he disliked her sitting in Moray’s chair.
She didn’t have the energy to care what he thought as she sipped the wine. Her stomach was beginning to ache. Her hands were going from icy to clammy, and she wondered if the Aethyn was about to finish burning through her.
She almost spilled her goblet when she set it on the table. It clanked against her plate, drawing Innes’s attention.
“I’ve gathered all of you here tonight to make an announcement,” the laird said suddenly, her voice rising above the others until the table froze with silence. “It has come to my attention that crime is growing again as resources become scarce. That the people under your watch are hungry, and autumn’s frost is still weeks from arriving.”