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It was near midnight when I ascended the stairs to return to my room. The celebration below didn’t seem to be ending anytime soon, but I’d no desire to be a part of it. The week of profound grief and tension had left me exhausted, and I was still feeling the effects of Bridget’s special poppy seed brew, though nearly two full days had passed since I’d consumed any.
I’d done my best tonight to meet members of my own clan and to welcome the MacDonalds, doing my best to act as the lady of this castle and my clan. The last I’d seen of Ian, he and a group of men had been headed outside, presumably for the watch. As before— the first time I’d wed— it seemed I was to be granted a night to myself.
I opened my door and stepped inside, then turned to secure the bolt behind me. When it was in place I pressed my forehead to the cool wood and released a weary sigh.
“Was it that awful?”
I whirled to find Ian lounging casually on the bed in the near dark— legs crossed, hands behind his bald head. A low fire burned in the grate, and two glasses stood beside a tall bottle and a tray of bannocks on the table.
“You hardly ate anything tonight,” he said, following my gaze. “I thought you might be hungry.”
“I’m not.”
“In that case.” He lowered a hand and patted the spot beside him. “Change out of your gown and come to bed.” It was an order, not a request.
“I’ll do no such thing. Not with you.” I reached behind me for the crossbar.
Ian’s brows rose. “You prefer sleeping elsewhere? With someone else?”
“The man I preferred is dead.”
“Be that as it may,” Ian said. “It is within my rights to order you to come to bed with me.”
I stared at him blankly, doing my best to conceal my fear beneath a mask of anger. “I need not stay with you.”
“True enough,” Ian said. “In a year’s time you may choose to end our agreement. But until then...”
I was as good as wed to him and subject to his law. I’d just hoped he wouldn’t care to impose it quite so soon. So much for his promise to Alistair.
Ian uncrossed his legs, and I caught him wince. His injuries still pained him. There was something in my favor at least. My fingers closed over the bar, and I pushed it up.
“Change and come to bed, Katherine.” He spoke more sharply than before, as if he had guessed my intent. “If you try to leave this room, I’ll only come after you. And neither of us ought to be chasing about while we’re still healing. Not to mention that I doubt you’d like putting on a show for the crowd downstairs.”
And no one will dare to help you, he might have said. Bridget the brave feared him, and Alistair had bade me to do Ian’s will. What closer allies did I have? I let the bar fall and crossed the chamber to the dressing screen, grateful for what little protection it offered. At least I wouldn’t have to look at Ian for a few minutes.
Or a few hours... a few days. It would probably take that long for me to figure out how to get out of this gown myself, one-handed as I still was.
I stood in the dark, hugging myself, shivering with cold and trepidation and trying to calm my racing heart.
Even if Bridget wasn’t in bed already, I doubted Ian would allow me to call for her. Why had I come upstairs? Why had I imagined for a minute that Ian would be the gentleman his brother had been?
“Head up.”
I startled at and instinctively obeyed Ian’s command, looking up as a bundle of cloth fitted over my head and slid to my shoulders. I reached up to touch the fabric and realized it was my sleeping gown. At the feel of Ian’s hands on my waist I started to turn.
“I wouldn’t do that,” he warned. “Unless you want to be facing me when your gown is loosened and comes free. Hold still.”
I did as he instructed, hardly daring to breathe as he worked awkwardly at first the buttons and then the laces of the gown, petticoats, and corset.
“Fool bandages don’t help,” he muttered.
“What happened to them— your hands?” When our tricolor of wraps had been undone after the handfast, it was to find that the first, the white one, was bright with spots of his blood. Ian’s soft voice and eloquent words had belied the pain he must have felt during the ceremony, but his white face and set jaw revealed it fully afterward.
“Wasn’t it obvious when you saw my hand tonight?” Ian asked. “They’ve been burned.”
I rolled my eyes, exasperated with his response. “Yes, but how?”
“Fire,” he said in a droll tone. “It’s very hot.”
I attempted to glare at him over my shoulder before remembering my ribs and their aversion to movement. Fine. I would play along. If nothing else, his annoying banter was keeping me from being completely flustered. Perhaps it would prolong the inevitable as well.
“Let me guess... You were cooking over a fire and in your ravenous state forgot that the kettle was hot. The aroma of stewing oats became too much, and you clasped your hands around the base, scalded them terribly, and sent a pot full of mush skyward.”
“That’s better than the truth.” He paused, then quieter. “I like you— Katherine. I am looking forward to many lively conversations.”
“Don’t,” I warned. “No platitudes or niceties. We know each other too well for that already. I am the means to an end for you. That’s all. Nothing more.”
“What end would that be?” he asked, all humor gone from his voice.
“Revenge. Conquer. Taking what is ours and making it yours.” I shrugged.
“If this was about revenge, why did I not simply remove or murder the Campbells that remained when we came?”
“With your army of women and children?” I scoffed. “You are fortunate the Campbells did not do away with you.”
“Possibly. Though I choose to believe they did not fight because I brought hope. Is it not better now that Brann and his followers have gone? Or would you prefer I leave and allow them to return?”
I didn’t answer. What was I to say? What I truly wanted I could not have.
“All done.” Ian braced his hands on my shoulders.
I tensed and clutched the front of my gown.
“Believe what you will,” he said. “Time will prove you right or wrong.” Ian stepped away. “Hurry and finish now before you catch your death of cold.”
I waited, listening to his retreating footsteps and the sound of wine being poured into two glasses.
The dress slid from my shoulders and, with a bit of tugging to get the sleeve over my splint, fell in a silent heap on the floor. It was all I could do not to follow. Our polite, almost friendly conversation unnerved me more than his angry ultimatums. His kindness confused and left me even more wary.
I stepped from the petticoats and leaned forward, letting the corset drop on top of those. The nightgown he’d placed over my head slid in place to cover me with little effort on my part, and I felt the slightest bit of gratitude at his small courtesy. With nothing more to delay me, I stepped from behind the screen.
Ian crouched by the fireplace, a pained look upon his face as he carefully picked up wood, one piece at a time, and added it to the fire. “Come warm yourself.”
A chair by the fire being an obviously safer choice over the bed, I complied with his suggestion and slid into the closest one. There were two again now, the one he’d broken having been replaced sometime during my sleeping episodes.
With a groan Ian stood then backed into the other chair. He took one glass for himself and handed me the other. Looking at me, he held his aloft. “To Mrs. and Mr. MacDonald, lady and laird of the Campbell keep.”
“To peace between our clans,” I added, not quite agreeing with the titles he’d assigned us.
Our glasses clinked briefly before we brought them to our lips. Ian drank deeply while I took only the tiniest sip. It had been one thing for me to seek refuge in sleep, but it seemed quite another to not be in possession of all my faculties for the night ahead.
I stared at the fire for some time, aware that Ian studied me instead, until I could ignore him no longer.
“Hasn’t anyone ever taught you that it is rude to stare?”
“Is it?” He poured more wine into his glass and swirled it around. “I thought it rather complimentary. At all costs, you avoid looking at me, hideous as I am with these scars and bruises. But I cannot seem to keep my eyes from feasting on you. Your hair, your face— the effort it takes you to stay angry, the intensity in your eyes when you are, the way your lips pucker and your eyes squint when you are puzzling something out. I find you utterly fascinating.”
“Pity the feeling is not returned,” I said coldly. “I avoid looking at you in attempt to forget your face as it was at the river, when you nearly ended my life.” I slammed my glass on the table and stood more quickly than I should have. Spots swam in my vision, and my first step away was unsure.
He was at my side instantly, one hand on my arm, the other at my back to catch me if I fell. Silently I cursed my bruised ribs and my own foolishness with the tea.
“You can let go of me,” I said after my vision had cleared and the room steadied. “I’m not going to fall.”
“You’re right,” Ian said. “I won’t let you. Don’t move.” He released me, then crouched down, reaching for a folded blanket on the floor near the fire.
“You’re still cold.” He shook the quilt open and draped it over my shoulders, then proceeded to wrap me snuggly in it. “Better?”
I nodded, unable to deny the soothing effects of warmth. He startled me then when he stepped closer, close enough to put his arms around me. Too late I realized mine were pinned helplessly beneath the blanket. Panicking, I tried to squirm away.
“Shh,” Ian said as if he was soothing a little child. “I only want to get you warm. You’ve had a terrible week. Give yourself a moment. Just one. To be comforted.” With a gentleness reminiscent of his brother, Ian pulled me gradually closer.
I stood stiff and unmoving, more off balance than when I’d stood too quickly. What were his motives?
“A minute of comfort. That is all.” His hushed voice sounded so like Collin’s. A wave of anguish broke over me, tears falling before I’d felt them gather. Grief-filled sobs wracked my fragile body. Ian cradled my face against his chest, and I allowed it. He held me tightly against him, a solid block of warmth in the chill night. I felt powerless to leave his grasp and more powerless yet to cease my wailing. Anyone listening outside our door would either think me the greatest coward or that Ian was torturing me— possibly both. But I had no care for others or Ian or even myself.
“Cry it out,” he whispered. “You’ll feel better for it tomorrow.”
I wouldn’t. Not ever again would there be a better day. Not with Collin gone. I couldn’t bear it. With my eyes squeezed shut, I imagined it was his heart beating in my ear. Collin telling me that everything would be all right. Collin holding me in his arms. Collin...