She found herself smiling despite her efforts not to, recalling the solid weight of the axe in her hands and the satisfying crack of splitting wood. She had not expected such simple labor to bring her joy, nor had she expected Ian to stand behind her with patience instead of mockery.
It startled her still, that he had not treated her as ornamental or weak. He had corrected her stance, praised her strength, and never once laughed when she faltered. No one beyond her father had ever thought to teach her such things. The memory warmed her far more deeply than the fire she had helped build.
At least here, I am not useless.
She paused outside the solar, smoothing her gown and schooling her features. When she entered, she found Ian leaning against the mantle, a glass of whisky loose in his large hand.
“Arianna,” he nodded his head in greeting.
Firelight gilded the hard lines of his body, catching in his dark hair and glinting faintly off the leather patch that covered one eye.
“Me Laird,” she said returning the greeting.
Her gaze roamed before she could stop it. His shoulders were broad enough to block the hearth, his chest powerful beneath his shirt, scars carving pale lines across his visible skin. His beard was thick and dark, his hair long and black as midnight, and the single brown eye that watched her burned with quiet intensity. He looked every inch the beast the council feared, menacing, scarred, formidable, and yet her pulse fluttered with unmistakable desire.
“Ye look well this evenin’, lass,” he said, pushing away from the mantle.
She dipped her chin slightly. “Thank ye… as do ye.”
A corner of his mouth lifted, and he crossed the room in a few long strides. He pulled out a chair for her at the heavy oak table, the gesture unexpectedly courtly for a man so rough-edged.
“Sit,” he said.
“Ye are full of surprises, me Laird,” she murmured as she lowered herself into the chair.
“Daenae spread that rumor,” he replied dryly. “I’ve a reputation to uphold.”
Before she could answer, servants entered in a quiet procession, bearing trenchers and steaming platters. The rich scent of roasted venison filled the air, seasoned with rosemary and garlic. There were bowls of buttery neeps and mashed turnips, thick slices of oat bannocks still warm from the hearth, and a hearty stew of barley and root vegetables simmered in broth.
A silver dish held smoked salmon caught from the nearby river, alongside wedges of sharp crowdie cheese. A platter of roasted grouse rested near the center, its skin crisp and golden. A flagon of ale was placed beside Ian’s whisky, and a small dish of honeyed berries offered a sweet finish to the meal.
Ian waited until the servants withdrew before lifting his cup. “How are ye settlin’ in at Castle McGuire?” he asked, watching her closely.
She cut into the venison, considering her answer. “’Tis a beautiful place,” she said softly. “The walls feel strong… safe. But I do miss me family.”
His expression softened, though it did not lessen his severity. “They may visit ye if ye please,” he said. “The gates are open to yer kin.”
Her eyes lifted to his, surprised. “Truly?”
“Aye,” he replied simply.
“Thank ye, Ian,” she said, sincerity warming her tone.
They ate in quiet for a few moments, the crackle of the fire filling the space between them. She felt his gaze more than once and pretended not to notice. The air felt thicker than the stew, heavy with unspoken thoughts.
“Are yer demands bein’ met?” he asked suddenly.
She looked up, confused. “What demands?”
He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. “Yer demand that we get to ken each other afore consummatin’ this marriage.”
Heat rushed to her cheeks, and she nearly dropped her fork. “Aye,” she said carefully. “I have come to ken ye a little better. But ye are still… somewhat a stranger to me.”
He huffed, not offended but thoughtful. “Fair enough,” he said. “Then we shall continue remedyin’ that.”
“Oh?” she asked, heart beating faster.
“Be at the entrance hall early in the mornin’,” he said, taking a long swallow of ale. “We’ll have our second outing.”
