Scarlett froze. Her breath hitched so faintly Robert doubted anyone else noticed. But he did. He noticed everything. She forced a smile, inclining her head politely. “Thank ye.”
Her eyes flicked to him then, almost hesitant.
Robert found his eyes fixed on her longer than he should have allowed. There was something in the way the light touched her face, in the faint flush that lingered on her cheeks. Her lips parted as though she meant to speak, but no words came.
For a heartbeat, the hall’s noise dulled to a blur at the edges. All he saw was the quick pulse at her throat, the curve of her mouth, and the way she held herself as if torn between composure and flight.
Scarlett was the one to look away. She raised her cup, taking a sip too slow, as though the wine were a shield she could hide behind.
Robert kept his face free of emotion though he wanted to curse, to snatch her from her seat, to make her hold that gaze until she understood what smoldered between them, but the hall was watching.
Mack leaned closer to Robert, his voice booming above the music. “A fine match, aye, Laird McLaren? Gallaway’s no small ally to claim.”
Robert’s mouth was a hard line. “Gallaway is a man I’ll deal with when I must. Tonight belongs to Gundor.”
Mack chuckled, sloshing ale onto the table. “Aye, but alliances are won or lost at tables like this, mind. Yer wife’s kin will prove useful if?—”
Robert cut him off, his voice sharp as a blade. “Enough, Mack.”
The clansman blinked, taken aback, but Robert was already rising to his feet.
He turned to Scarlett. “Come.”
She looked up, startled. “Now? The feast?—”
He did not repeat himself. His hand closed around hers, and he drew her up beside him. Conversation faltered as they moved through the hall though no one dared stop them.
Robert led her out into the corridor, and the door thudding shut behind them, muting the roar of pipes and voices.
Scarlett tilted her face up to him, her cheeks still flushed from the hall. “Why leave so sudden? Folks will think us rude.”
“Folk will think what I tell them to think,” he replied curtly.
Her lips parted, ready to fire back, but the words tangled in the space between them. He had stopped walking and turned to face her fully, their hands still joined.
He felt the old restraint pulling tight inside him, the battle between duty and want.
Five nights. That’s all ye promised her. Five nights and then distance.
But God help him, he could take her now.
His gaze flicked down, just once, to the curve of her mouth.
Scarlett sucked in a breath, as though she had felt the touch he hadn’t given.
Robert’s hand tightened around hers, a single, sharp pulse of pressure, then he let go.
"Good night, Scarlett."
He turned before she could find her voice. He didn't look back. Not at her, not at the door, not at the end of the stone corridor. He kept walking until the noise of the feast faded into nothing.
He stopped in the shadows of the passage, the air cold against his face. His palm was still hot where her skin had touched his. He stayed there, rooted to the stone, and did not move for a long time.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Scarlett stared at the ceiling until the shadows began to gray. By the time the first light hit the window, she was already dressed in a plain gown, her sketchbook gripped in one hand.
She didn't head for the gardens because she wanted to draw. She headed there because she couldn't stay in that room another minute. Every time she looked at the connecting door, her skin felt too tight. It was a physical weight, silent and immovable, and she had to get out from under it.
