He walked away instead. Behind him, Leon called, “Ye ken I’m right, Robert. Ye just hate hearing it.”
“Aye I do,” Robert muttered under his breath. “But it doesnae change the fact that ye talk too much.”
Inside, the keep smelled of smoke, stone, and something faintly floral, her scent, already woven into the air.
He paused at the base of the stairs, his hand on the banister. Above, faint footsteps receded toward her chamber. He could almost see her, shrugging off her cloak, tracing the edge of that necklace he’d bought her, the one she couldn’t seem to stop touching.
He hadn’t meant to buy it. He hadn’t meant to want her either. But everything about Scarlett—her defiance, her laughter, and her fire—pulled at him like a tide he couldn’t resist.
He climbed halfway up before stopping himself. What was he doing, going to her door like a fool?
He turned sharply, heading for his own chambers instead.
He tossed his cloak aside and sank into the chair by the fire with his elbows on his knees, rubbing a hand over his face. The memory of her came rushing back, the warmth of her bodybeneath him, the sound of her voice breaking against his mouth, the tremor in her breath when she whispered aye.
He swore softly. “Christ, what have I done?”
He’d set rules for a reason. Five nights. No more. It had been meant to protect them both.
But the boundaries were already crumbling.
He was losing control. Of her. Of himself. Of everything.
When Leon appeared in the doorway again, a tankard in hand, Robert didn’t look up.
“Ye’re brooding again,” Leon said cheerfully. “Can always tell. Ye’ve that look like the world’s offended ye personally.”
Robert exhaled. “Go away, Leon.”
“Nay. I’ll stay and enjoy the sight of the mighty Laird McLaren undone by a lass.”
Robert shot him a glare. “Ye think this is a jesting matter?”
Leon smirked. “Aye. Because ye’re not the first man undone by love, nor will ye be the last.”
“Love,” Robert repeated flatly, as if the word itself were poison.
Leon raised a brow. “If it’s nae love, then what has ye staring at her door like a man torn in two?”
Robert said nothing.
Leon clapped him lightly on the shoulder. “It’s nae weakness, me Laird. She’s a good match. Strong. Smart. Reckless as sin, aye, but she makes ye feel alive. That’s nay curse.”
Robert’s voice was quiet. “It could be.”
Leon studied him for a long moment. “Or it could be what saves ye.”
When the door closed behind him, Robert sat in silence. Scarlett McLaren.
The woman he couldn’t tame.
The wife he wasn’t sure he wanted.
And for the first time in years, Robert McLaren was afraid, not of battle, not of blood, but of what would happen when he finally stopped fighting her.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The corridor was hushed, save for the faint hum of hearth fires and the muted clatter from the great hall below. Scarlett wandered, her sketchbook tucked beneath one arm, trying and failing not to think of Robert’s voice that morning. Clipped and cold. As if the night before had been nothing more than a lapse in judgment.
