“Ye—ye cannae—” she stammered, cheeks flaming.
His lips twitched again, faint amusement cutting through his face. “Pointing yer finger at me, lass? Shall I tremble?”
Scarlett’s face burned hotter, but her chin refused to dip. “Better a pencil than-than standing here like a fool, hearing ye speak of me as if I’m stock to be traded.”
He released her wrist abruptly though his eyes pinned her in place. “Five nights.”
Her brows knitted. “What?”
“That’s all I’ll take from ye. Five nights. Yer body will be mine, and when the duty’s done, ye’ll be free of me.”
Her chest heaved, fury and want clawing each other raw. “And what if five nights isnae enough?”
The words escaped before she could catch them, and the silence that followed was suffocating.
Robert’s eyes darkened further. “Then God help us both.”
Scarlett stumbled back.
The words were still in the room, hanging in the air between them,what if five nights is not enough.She couldn't take them back. She saw the look in Robert’s eyes and knew he had already filed that admission away, locking it somewhere she would never reach.
She didn't wait for him to speak. She turned and walked out. There was no parting shot this time, nothing sharp to hide behind.
The door shut with a heavy thud.
Scarlett stood in the corridor, her back pressed against the cold stone wall. She didn't move. She didn't breathe. She just stayed there in the silence, her hands trembling at her sides.
CHAPTER SIX
Scarlett had not slept.
The sheets smelled faintly of lavender that Marie had fussed about, but all she could sense was him, Robert’s voice, still whispering at her ear. All about just needing five nights from her.
Scarlett dragged the brush through her hair, the bristles scraping her scalp in slow, mechanical strokes. She didn't look away from the mirror. Her skin was pale, her mouth set in a tight line, the face of a woman who had finally said too much.
What if five nights is not enough.
The words felt like a physical weight in the room. She had said it out loud, directly to him, and she’d seen the shift in his gray eyes. He hadn't just heard it; he had recorded it.
She gripped the handle of the brush until her knuckles ached, pressing it hard against her head until it stung. She didn't blink. She stared at her reflection in the glass and stayed silent, waiting for the heat in her face to die down, but the truth was already out there, and she couldn't scrub it clean.
The latch of her door clicked, and Mary bustled in with an armful of fabric, her cheeks ruddy from the climb upstairs.
“There ye are,” she said, a little too brightly. She set the bundle on the bed and unfurled a sweep of green silk. “Yer gown’s nearly ready. I thought I’d show ye before the ceilidh tonight.”
Scarlett didn’t move, only dragged the brush once more through her dark hair.
Mary’s cheer softened. She stepped closer, meeting Scarlett’s eyes in the mirror. “Ye’ll look so fine in this, Me Lady. Gundor will see ye for what ye are, their Lady, and the Laird’s wife.”
Scarlett’s laugh was brittle. “Do ye ken what it feels like, Mary, to be sold to a man colder than ice?”
The older woman stilled. For a long moment, she said nothing. Then she laid a warm, steady hand on Scarlett’s shoulder. “He’s not cruel, Me Lady; he’s careful. There’s a difference.”
Scarlett shook her head with bitterness bubbling up within her. “Careful? Is that what ye call a man who tells his wife she’s nae more than a broodmare for five bloody nights?”
Mary’s lips pressed tight. “I call it a man who fears what comes of giving too much of himself. There are men who wield coldness like a shield, nae a whip.”
Scarlett twisted in her chair to face her, “So I’m meant to thank him for it? Thank him for refusing even to see me as more than the womb he bought from me brother?”
