Free Highland Fire (Guardians of the Stone) by Tanya Anne Crosby

least Lael did not mince words.
    Listening to the evocative sound of the reed, Lìli drew her arisaid higher over her shoulders, mesmerized by the dancing flames. Watching the crackling timber, she remained rooted to the spot, thinking of her son—the look upon his face as she’d left him alone—and she swallowed a knot of grief that arose in the back of her throat.
    Suddenly she felt more than heard the presence at her side and turned to find Aidan dún Scoti standing beside her. She had not even heard him approach.
    He was no longer bare-chested, nor was he painted, and he had traded his claymore for a simple dirk that he had sheathed within his belt. Wearing an unstained tunic along with his breacan, there was nothing savage about the man’s appearance now save the look in his eyes. They were cold and hard, and for the longest instant, he held her gaze transfixed, then he eyed her arisaid with narrowed eyes.
    Lìli pulled the cloak around her shoulders defensively and met his gaze without flinching. “’Tis cold, my lord. I have no other.”
     
    Was she baiting him?
    Aidan wondered.
    Clearly she did not come to him with open arms, but neither did she strike him as being a contrary wench, despite her earlier mettle. And yet she stood before him, wrapped in MacLaren colors for everyone to behold.
    Was it a message for him perhaps—that she might wed him but her heart would always belong to another? Or was she simply cold, as she'd claimed?
    He reminded himself that until they were wed she had a right to wear whatever she chose, but it rankled nonetheless. For all his outward calm, he felt like stripping off her accursed MacLaren cloak and covering her with his own. But to do such a thing had far greater consequence than simply assuaging his wounded pride. The women of his clan would as soon box a man’s ears than to put up with his jealousy, and yet he felt a twinge of it now. Still he held his tongue, battling through strange emotions that assailed him. In all his years he had never felt possessive over any woman. Foreign as the feeling was, he recognized it nevertheless and didn’t like it one bit.
    He couldn’t see much beneath the arisaid, but she had changed into a simpler gown. He spied a glimpse of the dark-blue wool beneath the plaid. His sisters, Cailin and Sorcha, had changed, as well, although Lael had refused. The eldest of his sisters was as stubborn a wench as any who had ever breathed—even more headstrong than their mother had been, but Aidan could barely recall much else about the woman who had borne him. That fact alone rankled, and his new bride—the woman who would share his bed—was the daughter of the man he held responsible for her death.
    “Widowhood suits ye,” he remarked. “Though dinna become accustomed to it, for I dinna intend to be so accommodating as your first husband.” He crossed his arms, his countenance dark as he again fixed his gaze upon her odious MacLaren cloak.
    Averting her gaze, Lìleas peered across the bonfire, where her companions stood huddled together. She seemed to be weighing her words, her jaw working slightly as she stared at her companions. “I am no more responsible for my husband’s death than you are for your father’s,” she suggested.
    “Is that so?”
    Her violet eyes snapped up to meet his. “Aye, my lord, it is.”
    “My name is Aidan,” he corrected her. “Here we do not adhere to haughty English customs as the rest of Scotia seems inclined to do.”
    “Mayhap,” she allowed. “But ye are now my keeper and thus my lord, are ye not?”
    Mo chreach! The wench was no more subservient than his bloody sisters! And yet though he felt a stab of anger over her words, he did not truly wish her to be anything less, he realized. He took a deep breath, summoning patience before speaking. “I am neither your keeper nor your husband as yet, mo chroí—my heart. And, in fact, I am reconsidering the wisdom of inviting the woman whose hands bear the