Free Highland Seer by Willa Blair Page A

be just the thing to distract him. Then he’d sleep on it. Maybe a solution would come to him in a dream. That seemed to work around here—at least for the MacKyrie Seer. If not, he’d have to see what the situation was in the morning.

Chapter 5
    The saints be praised, dinner was over. Ellie stalked the halls of her keep, walking off her frustration. Micheil had spent the entire dinner glaring at the Lathans. Bram had reciprocated, glaring back. Neither had dared to make a move in the laird’s presence, but the tension between them had unsettled her nonetheless. She’d barely tasted her food.
    Even Jamie, normally easy going and even jovial, had been uncharacteristically quiet. Reacting to the tension as she had, or did he have something else on his mind? And Donal had been conspicuous by his absence. Where was the arms master?
    She found the answer to her question in the hallway leading past her solar to the guest quarters. He strode toward her, fists clenched at his sides, a fierce scowl on his face. Snow still dusted his shoulders. So he’d been out in the weather for quite a while or all of it would have melted by the time he made it upstairs. He hadn’t seen her. For a moment, Ellie considered ducking into a side corridor out of his view.
    But then she reconsidered. She’d wanted an opportunity to beard the lion. He gave her the perfect one, only she’d do it in her den, not his.
    She pitched her voice low and spoke softly so as not to startle him. “Donal MacNabb, well met.”
    His reaction would have been amusing if not for the seriousness of what she was about to attempt. He halted in mid-stride, right foot levitated above the floor as muscle tension in his strong thighs held it frozen in place. His expression didn’t change, but his hands clenched even tighter before he made the effort to open them and finish taking the step toward her.
    The fact that he hadn’t fallen at her feet impressed her. But nay, this man had too much control to do that—literally or figuratively.
    “Laird MacKyrie.” His greeting was delivered in a gruff tone, as if he had not used his voice for hours yet forbore to clear his throat before speaking.
    “I’d be pleased if ye’d join me in the solar.” She kept her tone neutral, but knew he could tell she hadn’t offered an invitation, rather issued an order.
    He hesitated. She had no doubt he considered the consequences of refusing her. After the brawl this morning, she also knew Jamie had demanded his men be on their best behavior. Refusing their host would not fall into that category.
    Finally, Donal nodded. “Aye, I will.” His shoulders dropped slightly as he joined her.
    Ah, a man of few words. Yet he managed to signal that he was resigned to spending time with her. Not the best start for the conversation she hoped to have. Or a long-term relationship on any footing.
    In the solar, she gestured him to a seat, then poured two generous cups of the twenty-five-year-old vintage of MacKyrie whisky. She wanted to lull him into acceptance. The younger, rawer vintage would not do.
    She offered him his drink, careful not to let her fingers touch his, then chose a chair for herself. She deliberately avoided the laird’s seat she’d occupied when last they’d been together in this room. Instead, she sat next to him, within reach, but far enough apart to converse comfortably.
    Not that Donal looked comfortable. Far from it. He had the look of a man who’d rather be somewhere else, anywhere else, even if it involved swords and bloodshed. Or perhaps especially if it involved swords and bloodshed.
    It occurred to her he was waiting for the laird to initiate the niceties rather than trampling over protocol yet again. Finally she took pity on him and began the conversation.
    “I regret the way we left things last night and this morning,” she began.
    Donal tensed.
    But she’d started down this path and would walk where it took her. “I also regret ignoring yer wishes and