“Sleep well, Scarlett,” he said at last. “I’ll trouble ye naymore tonight.”
“Robert…” she began, but he was already moving toward the door.
He hesitated there with his hand on the latch.
Then, without looking back, he said, “I never meant to make ye doubt what ye are. Or what ye do to me.”
And with that, he was gone. The door closed softly behind him.
Anger warred with something softer, something she didn’t dare name. He had come uninvited, kissed her without warning, and still somehow left her wishing he had stayed.
When she finally lay back, the pillow cool beneath her cheek, the storm outside had quieted. But inside her, it still raged, wild, restless, and far from over.
Would she ever truly understand him?
Or worse, would she ever stop wanting to try?
CHAPTER TWENTY
The next few days slipped past in a hush that gnawed at the edges of Scarlett’s patience.
Robert buried himself in ledgers and councils, his voice reserved for orders or the occasional clipped remark at supper. He spoke to her as though nothing between them had changed, as though he hadn’t kissed her breathless in the dark or left her lying awake afterward, listening for his steps that never came.
Scarlett had learned to wear indifference like armor. She smiled when spoken to, laughed lightly with the servants, and kept her chin lifted at meals. Beneath the calm, though, her chest ached with a silence that shouted.
The castle, once merely cold, had grown cavernous, filled with echoes that belonged to no one.
So she began to fill them.
Each morning, after breaking her fast, she took her sketchbook and charcoal and slipped into the gardens. The autumn air had turned sharp enough to mist her breath, but she didn’t mind. The quiet suited her.
At first, she drew what she saw, the hedges, the slope of the hills beyond Gundor’s walls, the wildflowers clinging to life along the garden’s edge. But as the hours stretched, her hand began to wander, her lines softening into something far more dangerous.
A broad shoulder. The strong curve of a jaw. A mouth she knew too well.
The realization struck her one afternoon. She had been lost in the rhythm of shading when the image appeared clearly, Robert’s profile, familiar and unmistakable. Even on paper, he managed to invade her thoughts.
Scarlett stared at the drawing for a long moment before tearing the page free. The parchment ripped clean in her hands. Folding it small enough to hide in her palm, she dropped it into the fountain. The water caught it, pulling the ink apart until the face disappeared.
“Fool,” she muttered though she wasn’t sure whether she meant him or herself.
By the fourth day, her restlessness had grown worse. The air felt thick with what neither of them said. At supper, Robert kept his eyes on his cup, asking after provisions and winter stores while ignoring the woman across from him. She matched his calmwith her own though her appetite vanished with every silence between them.
When he rose at last, bowing slightly before leaving, Scarlett watched him go with an ache she refused to name.
Let him, she told herself. If he wants distance, I’ll give it to him.
Yet the next evening found her wandering the gardens long after the maids had lit the corridor torches.
The sun had long since slipped behind the western ridge, leaving the sky washed in violet and rose. The fountain shimmered faintly in the half-light, its surface rippling with the soft breeze. Scarlett settled on the stone ledge, her sketchbook across her knees though she hadn’t drawn in an hour.
She told herself she was waiting for the stars that she liked this hour. But she knew the truth.
She was waiting for him.
A rustle in the ivy startled her, and her heart leapt before she realized it was only the wind. She exhaled slowly and pressed the charcoal to the page, sketching without thought. When she glanced down again, her pulse faltered.
It was him once more, Robert’s eyes.
