He kept his breathing even.
Eventually, the fire burned lower, and her breathing shifted. Not sleep, but slower. The shivering was gone long ago. The warmth between them had become a thing of its own, steady and unspoken, built naturally without effort or words.
He lay awake, looking at the ceiling, and did not think about the granary wall at all.
Hours later, the light came gray and thin under the shutters. Fergus was on his feet before it was properly there, moving quietly, reaching for his clothes. He dressed with his back to the bed.
"The mist will have lifted," he said. "We should move."
"Good mornin' to ye as well," she said, her voice low and unhurried with sleep.
He adjusted his belt. Behind him, the quiet sounds of her beginning again filled the space. The small noises of a woman putting herself back together—finding her pins, working the laces—were clear to him in a way that would be a problem for the rest of the journey.
"Fergus."
He turned. Her hair was loose over one shoulder, not yet pinned. Her cheeks were flushed from the warmth of the bed. She waslooking at him with the steady, clear-eyed attention she always brought to everything, the look that carried no pretense.
"Thank ye," she said. "For the river."
He held her gaze for a moment. One breath of it.
"Daenae mention it," he said.
He grabbed his plaid, moved to the door, and stepped out into the cold morning before the room could turn any further into what it already was. The air outside was crisp and clear. The mist had lifted, just as he said it would. The road heading north was visible all the way to the ridge, gray and open under a sky that had finally settled.
He stood in the yard, took a deep breath, and reassured himself that he was ready for the rest of the journey.
He was not entirely certain that was true.
Chapter Five
"She hasnae stopped since yesterday evenin'."
Mrs. O'Halloran delivered this report before Fergus had fully dismounted, before the dust had even settled around his stallion's hooves.
Not a single word of welcome had been offered.
The housekeeper stood in the middle of the muddy courtyard. She looked as if she had been through a siege, her apron crumpled and her hair falling out of its pins in frantic wisps.
"She cried through the night, me Laird. Cried through the mornin'. Cried through me attemptin' to feed her, which she did eat, mind ye, but cryin' throughout as if the very porridge were an insult. She is currently in the kitchen because that is where Maisie is, and Maisie is the only soul she'll tolerate, and the poor lass has been on her feet since."
"Mrs. O'Halloran." Fergus swung down from the saddle, his boots hitting the earth with a heavythud.
"Aye, me Laird."
"This is Lady MacKenzie."
The housekeeper turned, her eyes widening.
Margaret had come to stand at Fergus's shoulder. Her cloak was still travel-worn, the hem stained with the mud of the river crossing, and her hair was pinned back into something that approximated order after the morning's disaster.
She did not look like a woman who had just traveled for days; she looked like a woman who was taking a mental inventory of the stones beneath her feet. She met Mrs. O'Halloran's gaze with a calm, level attention that seemed to immediately recalibrate the older woman's entire assessment of the situation.
"Where's the bairn? What's goin' on with the lass?" Margaret asked.
Her voice was steady, cutting through the housekeeper's frantic energy like a cool breeze.
Mrs. O'Halloran blinked, her mouth snapping shut before she found her voice. "Been yellin' all day, me Lady."
