But alas, it wasn’t as if his brother would blurt out—
“Ian, what the bloody hell is wrong with ye?”
Or maybe he would.
“What?” Ian scoffed, lifting his wine glass for a heavy drink.
“I’ve no’ seen ye so quiet, nor so broody, in all my damned life.” Then Alistair glanced at Rhiannon. “Apologies for my language, my lady.”
“No apology necessary,” Rhiannon grinned.
“I’m no’ broody,” Ian growled, which only made Alistair laugh.
“Och, nay, no’ at all.” Alistair’s sarcastic tone caused a few snickers up and down the table, and Rhiannon had to force another piece of bread into her mouth to keep from laughing.
Alistair leaned toward her and, with his hand cupped over the side of his mouth as if he were going to tell a secret, said loudly enough for Ian to hear, “Normally, my brother is the jovial one, cracking jokes.”
“Is that so?” Rhiannon acted surprised. “I can’t say I know that side of him.”
Ian glared at her, and she laughed.
The jovial atmosphere continued, and after supper was done and a few games of dice played, exhaustion settled on Rhiannon so heavily she feared she’d not make it upstairs if she didn’t go now. However, the idea of going alone left her longing to remain behind.
Alas, it wouldn’t do to ask Ian to accompany her. Rhiannon excused herself to go to bed, and Ian stood abruptly, eyes on her, his face flashing several emotions she couldn’t quite decipher before he washed them all away. Had he, too, been thinking it would be a shame for her to go to bed alone?
Everyone stilled, watching their interaction—especially Alistair. Rhiannon paused, for it seemed he had something to say. Too much to hope that Ian would ask her to stay up a little longer.
And then, as if Ian were choking on the words, he said, “Goodnight, my lady.”
Rhiannon smiled softly at him, wishing she could tell him to relax. Wishing she could rub the tension from his shoulders. “Goodnight, my laird.”
12
Ian woke the next morning with a headache.
Unlike many mornings when he woke at Alistair’s with a headache, this was not from too much drink. He’d taken only a few sips of wine at dinner—albeit a few more like gulps—and realized that if he had any more, he was liable to end up in Rhiannon’s bedroom, having thrown caution to the wind. At that point, he’d stopped imbibing completely.
And he was glad for it because as she’d stood to leave, every inch of him had commanded he go with her. Wherever the willpower had come from that bid him remain behind, he was glad for it, as he almost hadn’t been able to summon it.
Nay, the headache he awoke with this morning was from frowning so damn much. Saints, but that was not the type of man he was. And his brother called him out for being broody because of the three triplets, Ian was usually the most jovial of them all.
Alas, being jovial, while typically second nature for him, was impeded when he was concentrating so hard on not being interested in the woman that he was extremely interested in.
Bloody hell… Rhiannon had well and thoroughly gotten under his skin. Both good and bad.
A splash of cold water on his face helped, as did the tisane he begged Cook for, who thought his condition was from too many spirits. Fine by him, as long as he got rid of the infernal pounding behind his eyes before Rhiannon joined him at the table for breakfast.
Their meal was a simple fare of berry porridge drizzled with honey and a dollop of butter, but one of Ian’s favorites. There was even a trencher of bacon, which he took a healthy portion of. By the time he’d had his fourth slice, he was feeling marginally better, the pounding gone and replaced by a dull ache somewhere on the back of his skull.
And then Rhiannon appeared as he refilled his trencher. Dressed in another borrowed gown that showed the curves of her hips, the fabric bringing out the sky blue of her eyes, and her red-gold hair shined. Ian would have liked not to notice such things, but alas, it was impossible not to notice.
She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.
When he thought of a painted portrait hanging over his hearth—she was what he’d like to see, the way she was now, entering a room, fresh-faced with a slight curl to her lips and a teasing sparkle in her eyes.
He stood, as did every other man at the table, watching as she approached. The dainty swish of her hips, her skirts flowing about her long legs. As she took her seat, Rhiannon stared at him. His throat was tight, too tight.
“Good morrow, my laird,” she said, and he felt like a cad for not having addressed her first.
