Mack dared to speak again, his voice barely above a whisper. “I… I thank ye, Laird. For the chance.”
Robert’s stare was unrelenting. “Don’t thank me. Do the work.”
Mack bobbed his head and all but fled down the hall, muttering promises under his breath.
Leon waited until the man’s footsteps had faded before letting out a low laugh. “Christ above, Robert. Ye nearly turned his breeches brown. The poor sod will be praying for snow to bury him rather than face ye again.”
Robert said nothing, his jaw set tight.
Leon clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Admit it. Ye could’ve sent any man to the MacEwans, but it wasnae clan business that had ye breathing fire. It was the way he smiled at Scarlett.”
Robert’s eyes cut to him, sharp. “Mind yer tongue.”
Leon grinned wider. “Och, struck the mark, did I? Ye’re green as a lad who has never touched a lass, watching her laugh at another man’s words.” Robert’s voice was low. “Leon.”
Leon leaned in, unconcerned. “Daenae look at me so. Ye can threaten the rest, but I ken ye too well. Ye’ve got her on yer mind day and night. And if Mack’s lucky, he’ll make it to MacEwan lands alive without ye riding him down for letting Scarlett smile at his jokes.”
Robert’s silence was telling. His fingers curled tight at his side, but he didn’t deny it.
Leon chuckled, shaking his head. “Astonishing, truly. Robert McLaren, the man colder than stone, was undone by a woman’s laugh.”
Robert’s lips pressed thin. “Enough.”
“Aye, aye,” Leon said, backing off with both palms raised. “I’ll see Mack off. Ye’ve me word.”
Robert finally let out a breath. “Do it. Tonight.”
Leon started down the hall, calling back with a smirk, “Och, and I’ll tell Mack to count his blessings. Better exiled to the MacEwans than six feet under yer boot.”
Robert stayed where he was after Leon's footsteps faded. The corridor was heavy with silence, broken only by the low hiss of a torch and the muffled roar of the feast below.
He had threatened a MacEwan simply for offering his wife a chair. He let the thought sit in the cold air, the sheer, irrational weight of it. It was a crack in his armor he hadn't seen coming. He didn't dwell on the warning; he didn't give himself time to turn back.
He turned and walked toward her chamber door. He didn't hesitate. He didn't think of duty. He just moved, his boots silenton the stone, pulled toward the one room in the castle he had no business entering.
Scarlett sat cross-legged on the rug before the fire, her sketchbook balanced across her lap. The charcoal smudged her fingertips as she shaded the curve of a horse’s flank, one she’d glimpsed from her chamber window earlier that day, a spirited beast tossing its head as a stable lad clung for dear life.
The firelight danced across the page, making the lines shift like the horse itself had life in it. She leaned back, tilting her head, studying the proud arch of its neck.
Robert had looked the same in the hall earlier. Ready to bite, to rear, to trample any fool who dared come too near.
The memory of him sitting there, silent but seething, set her lips twitching. He’d tried so hard to appear unmoved, yet his jaw had clenched, his knuckles gone white on his tankard. He’d been fuming at Mack, at her, perhaps at himself, and Scarlett, wicked enough, had savored it.
“I swear,” she muttered under her breath, smudging the outline with the side of her thumb, “he looks just like this bloody horse.”
A soft laugh escaped her, the sound bouncing off the stones. She could almost see him now: eyes dark as coal, nostrils flaring, every inch of him bristling with restrained fury. She pressedharder with the charcoal, carving shadow into the beast’s neck, the way her mind carved Robert’s likeness into it.
The keep was hushed tonight. No bawdy laughter spilling from the hall, no clatter of mugs or booming voices. Only the fire’s quiet hiss, the faint whistle of wind through the shutters, and the steady scratch of charcoal across parchment.
Scarlett let her shoulders relax, sinking into the illusion of solitude. Here, with her drawings, she could almost forget the storm that was her husband… almost.
The door clicked open.
Her head jerked up. “Mary?” she called.
But it wasn’t Mary.
Robert filled the doorway, broad enough to block the light from the corridor behind him. His gaze locked on her at once, and her stomach flipped. The latch closed with a snap, and his boots struck the stone in slow, measured strides.
