Ian lifted his gaze slowly, fixing his friend with a cool stare. “We camped. We returned. That is all.”
Flynn’s grin widened. “Aye? And did the Lady McGuire enjoy herself?”
Ian’s mouth twitched despite himself. “She did,” he admitted, though his tone remained clipped.
Flynn pushed off the door and crossed the room, lowering himself into a chair uninvited. “I can see it on ye, ye ken,” he said lightly. “Ye're goin’ soft.”
Ian’s eyes flashed. “Mind yer tongue.”
“Soft,” Flynn repeated, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “Next ye’ll be plantin’ flowers and writin' poetry.”
Ian set down his quill with deliberate care. “I am nae in the mood for yer foolishness.”
Flynn studied him for a beat, the teasing glint dimming slightly. “Ah,” Flynn said knowingly. “So it was a fine trip, then.”
Ian leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly. He would not confess aloud that lying beside his wife in the quiet of the tent had been both solace and torment. Being so near to her warmth, feeling her breath steady against him, and yet holding himself back had tested every ounce of restraint he possessed.
“She is me wife,” Ian said at last, voice low.
Flynn tilted his head. “So ye behaved yerself?”
Ian shot him a look sharp enough to cut. “Enough.”
Flynn barked a laugh. “Saint Ian of the Highlands.”
Ian stood abruptly, crossing to the large oak table by the window. “Come here,” he ordered. “Look at this map.”
Flynn rose and joined him, curiosity replacing mirth. Ian unrolled a wide parchment map of their lands, and Flynn quickly placed a pair of smooth stones at either end to hold it flat. The inked lines of fields, burns, and grazing lands spread before them.
“The western grazing boundary,” Ian said, tapping a marked line, “has shifted. Collin’s cattle were seen too near our stream.”
Flynn frowned, leaning closer. “Aye, I heard the same from the shepherd lads.”
“They claim the markers were moved,” Ian continued. “But I’ve no proof.”
Flynn scratched his jaw thoughtfully. “Collins swears by old stones and fairy omens. He’d blame the wind afore he’d blame himself.”
Ian allowed himself a brief smirk. “And ye’d believe him?”
Flynn straightened indignantly. “I believe in caution.”
“Ye believe in ghosts,” Ian corrected dryly.
Flynn sniffed. “There’re strange things in these hills, Ian. Ye ken it.”
Ian did not argue further. “Strange or nae, our cattle need that water.”
Flynn traced a finger along the map. “If we shift our herd southward for a fortnight, we could avoid a quarrel.”
Ian shook his head. “And yield ground? Nay.”
“So we speak to him,” Flynn suggested. “Man to man.”
Ian’s gaze hardened slightly. “If he’s testing our borders, I’ll nae reward it with meek words.”
Flynn met his stare evenly. “And if it’s a mistake?”
Ian fell silent, considering. Flynn was loyal to the bone, but he preferred peace when possible. “Then I’ll see his markers meself,” Ian said at last. “And if they’ve been moved, we’ll set them right.”
