Scarlett huffed. “Och, so I should take pride in me shadow?”
He leaned slightly, his voice brushing the curve of her ear. “Aye. I’d say few lasses have a shadow so loyal.”
Her belly clenched, traitorous thing. She tried to cover it with sarcasm. “Loyal? Sounds more like a gaoler than a husband.” “Ye’d run wild without me.”
“Aye,” she shot back, chin tilting. “And I’d enjoy every second.”
His laugh startled her. Short, rough, and genuine. She wasn’t sure if it pleased or infuriated her more.
She huffed, crossing her arms as best she could while still holding the reins. “Ye think too highly of yer control.”
Robert glanced at her sidelong, mouth curving faintly. “Ye think too highly of yer freedom.”
Scarlett muttered under her breath, “Better too high than none at all.”
By the time they reached the village, she had nearly gnawed her own tongue to keep from saying something truly foolish. The marketplace was alive with noise and color, a riot against the gray cottages. Children darted between stalls, women bartered over fish, and the smell of warm bread curled through the air, making her stomach twist with sudden hunger.
Sliding off the mare, she steadied herself with a hand on the saddle, legs unsteady from the ride. Robert dismounted after, handing the reins to a stable boy with a curt nod. Folk dipped their heads as he passed, whispers trailing in his wake. Scarlett straightened her spine, refusing to shrink beside him.
“Does it never weary ye?” she murmured as they walked, nods and whispers following them.
“What?” he asked, scanning the crowd with the cool ease of someone who expected obedience.
“Folk treating ye like some walking godstone. Bows and stares.”
He shot her a look, one brow rising. “Better their bows than their blades.”
Scarlett sniffed though his answer lodged uncomfortably in her chest.
Trust him to turn it grim.
They wove through the stalls side by side, Scarlett’s eyes darting everywhere, greedy for the brightness. Bolts of dyed wool, ribbons in blues and greens, pots of pottery glazed with earthy reds. Her fingers itched for parchment and color to trap it all.
“There,” she whispered, tugging at his sleeve before she thought better of it. Heat flooded her face, but Robert followed her gaze without comment.
A small booth stood near the well, its table lined with jars of pigment, reds like crushed berries, yellows bright as sunlight, blues deep as river water. Scarlett was excited.
She stepped closer, almost reverently. “I havenae seen shades like these since…” She trailed off, biting her lip.
“Since Hallow?” Robert supplied, his voice quiet.
Her throat tightened. “Aye.” She reached out then drew her hand back before touching the jars. “I used to dream of painting the walls there with colors like this. To make them come alive.”
Robert studied her then he said, “So buy them.”
She hurried forward, palms trembling as she lifted one jar then another, turning them to the light like precious jewels.
The merchant, a squat man with soot under his nails, grinned. “Fine eye ye’ve got, Me Lady. Best colors this side of Inverness.”
Scarlett clutched two jars to her chest, dizzy with delight. “How much?”
The man rubbed his hands together. “For ye? Two crowns.” Scarlett blinked. “Two…”
A clink of coin cut her off. Robert’s hand slapped the table.
The merchant’s eyes went wide. “A pleasure, Me Laird.” He snatched up the coins as quickly as a rat, bowing until his forehead nearly brushed the wood.
Scarlett turned, scandalized. “Robert! I had the coin.”
