Scarlett tried to summon indignation, but her tongue was thick. “He’s–he’s only sparring.”
Katie’s brow shot up. “Is that what we’re calling it? Sparring? Saints, Me Lady, the way ye’re looking, if he dropped the sword and beckoned ye, ye’d be over that arch before I could blink.”
Scarlett gaped, scandalized. “I would not!”
Katie grinned slowly. “Then stop licking yer lips.”
Scarlett’s hand flew up to her mouth. She had. She bloody well had, and Robert had seen it.
Robert’s sword slammed against Leon’s with a sharp crack, the sound jolting her. Leon stumbled back, laughing, and Robert didn’t take his eyes off her even as he pressed the advantage.
Katie leaned back, smug. “He’s showing off. For ye.” Scarlett whispered, horrified, “Nae, he’s nae?—”
“Aye, he is.” Katie was merciless. “Ye ken men. They fight harder when a lass is watching. And look at the size of him, all glistening. He’s fair ready to drag ye to the grass.”
Scarlett’s thighs pressed together of their own accord. She wanted to deny it, she wanted to laugh it off, but the ache in her belly betrayed her.
Katie saw, of course. “Look at ye. Ye want him.”
Scarlett rose, her skirts swishing, intending to march back to the keep.
But then Leon’s voice echoed across the garden, deep and mocking. “If ye want time alone with yer wife, just say so.”
Scarlett froze mid-step, glancing back through the hedge. Leon stood with his practice sword lowered, a smirk plastered across his face. He jerked his chin toward her hiding spot, and her stomach plunged.
Robert’s swing came harder; the wooden sword cracked against Leon’s with enough force to rattle her bones from across the lawn.
Katie elbowed her. “The Laird didnae like that.”
Scarlett couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. She watched as the two men circled, sweat shining on their skin, the sound of wood striking wood echoing through the courtyard. Robert pressed harder, driving Leon back step by step until with one final brutal clash, Leon went sprawling in the grass.
Leon’s laughter rang out even as he lay flat on his back. “God’s teeth, Robert, ye’ll break me bones before I’ve the chance to use them again.”
Robert didn’t laugh. He stood over him with his chest heaving and his jaw tight, his sword hanging loose at his side. For a heartbeat, he looked like a man who might never stop fighting, like he needed the clash to burn something out of him.
Then his head turned.
Scarlett’s breath hitched as his eyes found hers through the roses. Grey and stormy eyes.
Her lips parted. She should have run, should have looked away, but she was caught, pinned by the force of that stare.
Katie muttered under her breath, “Saints preserve us, he’s looking at ye like ye’re supper.”
Scarlett’s cheeks burned. She gripped the sketchbook until the charcoal smeared black against her fingers, but her feet stayed rooted to the grass. She was exposed, her morning restlessness laid bare, yet she couldn't force herself to turn away.
Robert didn't move either.
He stood a few paces off, his gaze fixed on her with a weight that made the air feel suddenly thin. Neither of them spoke. The only sound was the wind in the heather, and the steady, heavy thud of her heart against her ribs.
Robert’s gaze didn’t waver. Not until Leon hauled himself up, dusted off, and barked a laugh.
“Saints, man, ye’ll have nae strength left for yer bride if ye keep swinging like that.”
Leon hauled himself up from the grass, still laughing. Robert didn't join in. He offered a curt nod, turned, and headed back toward the practice yard. He didn't look back.
Scarlett didn't wait. She just walked, her pace quickening with every step toward the keep. She pressed the sketchbook flat against her chest, the hard edges of the cover digging into her skin.
She wanted the weight of it to slow her heart. It didn't. By the time she reached the stone steps, her pulse was still racing. The heat of the morning, and the weight of Robert's gaze, clinging to her like a fever.
