Scarlett tilted her head, curious despite herself. “Is that so?”
“Aye. I’ve seen it,” Mary insisted. “Caught him looking at the stables once, watching the colts chase each other. He had thesmallest smile, right at the corner of his mouth. Saints forgive me, I near fainted from the shock.”
Scarlett pressed her lips together, hiding a laugh. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”
“Ye’ll see it soon enough,” Mary promised, bustling toward the fire again. “Now, let’s get ye settled. Do ye like the room? Too drafty, maybe? I’ll see about heavier drapes if it chills ye at night.”
Scarlett looked around, taking in the tapestries, the carved bed, and the flickering hearth. “It’s finer than I could have imagined. Hallow feels smaller now.”
Mary softened, her hands pausing on the mantel. “Leaving home is never easy. Ye’ve left more than a castle behind, I reckon.”
Scarlett’s throat tightened. She thought of Edith’s tears, of Aaron’s blank stare. “Aye. More than I care to speak of tonight.”
Mary nodded, her eyes kind. “Then daenae speak of it. Rest. Tomorrow is another day, and ye’ll need yer strength.”
Scarlett managed a small smile. “Thank ye, Mary. I’m glad to have ye here.”
“And I’m glad to have ye, Me Lady,” Mary said warmly. “This castle’s been too quiet. We’ll make it sing again.”
She fussed with the linens one last time then dipped a curtsy. “Sleep well, Me Lady. Ye’ll need it, with that laird of yers.”
Scarlett chuckled though her heart still beat unevenly. “Goodnight, Mary.”
“Goodnight, Me Lady.”
When the heavy oak door finally clicked shut, the sound echoed like a gunshot in the sudden silence. Scarlett let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, her shoulders sagging as the mask of Gallaway ice began to fracture.
The chamber was still, save for the rhythmic, predatory crackle of the peat fire. Her gaze drifted, almost against her will, to the connecting door. The wood looked ancient and impenetrable, yet it felt dangerously thin.
She could still feel the phantom weight of his gaze, the way his eyes had darkened and dropped to her lips with the deliberate intent of a man marking his territory. Her mouth felt parched, her pulse a frantic, trapped bird beneath her ribs.
She pressed her palm flat against her chest, the silk of her chemise a poor barrier against the thudding reality of her heart.
Slow down, it was just a look.
But as she stared at the sliver of light beneath the door connecting her room to his, Scarlett knew she was lying.
It wasn’t just a look.
The chamber was quiet save for the soft scratch of charcoal on parchment. Scarlett sat cross-legged on the bed, and her hair was loose about her shoulders with her nightdress thin against her skin. The fire had burned low, but she hardly noticed; her focus was on the storm-gray eyes she was sketching with almost desperate precision.
Robert’s eyes.
She sighed, pressing the edge of her thumb to blur the line o a brow.
Saints, what am I doing?
A sound broke her thoughts—a knock but not on the main door. The rapping came from the smaller one, the one that connected her chamber to Robert’s.
Her heart lurched. Quickly, she shoved the sketch beneath a pillow, with her hands trembling. “Enter.”
The latch clicked, and the door opened. Robert stepped inside, and Scarlett’s pulse raced.
This is it. He’s come to claim his night.
She rose from the bed, smoothing her nightdress down though it did little to hide the hard peaks of her breasts pressing against the fabric. She felt his eyes catch there, just for a heartbeat, before he dragged them back to her face.
She licked her lips, emboldened by the heat sparking in his gaze. “So,” she said, her voice breathier than she meant, “is it time, Me Laird? Time for me to surrender to ye?”
