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“Gillian, nay.”

They’d entered the doors of The Wild Boar just before sunset. And for some reason, Gillian refused to dine in their room.

“But there are women in the hall. I saw them. Surely—”

“Not the kind of women . . . not like you.”

She, of course, refused to listen to reason. And so he found himself following his wife into the rowdy hall, which showed no signs of becoming tamer. While The Wild Boar had a decent reputation as a safe retreat for both Englishmen and Scotsmen, its hall was surely not a place for a gently bred lady such as his wife.

Everyone in the room turned to stare. Gillian garnered attention everywhere she went, even if she didn’t seem to notice. He sat with the rest of his men, pulling his wife nearly onto his lap.

“Do move over,” she said, pushing him aside.

“You don’t care to sit next to your husband?”

“I know what you’re doing Graeme, and you can just stop right now.” Though she said it in a whispered hush, surely the others could hear. Not that he cared much. But it amused him that Gillian had suddenly shed her usual reservations.

Since leaving Lyndwood, she had been different. Whether it was her father’s confession or the hope that her sister might very well be safe from Covington’s clutches after all, he couldn’t be sure. But the slightly worried, reserved woman he’d married had given way to one who stared brazenly at all The Wild Boar’s hall had to offer. And though he liked the change, Graeme wasn’t quite sure how to handle it.

“My lady,” Malcolm addressed her. “Yer sister’s quite beautiful.”

All of the others laughed at his nerve as a serving woman dropped mugs of ale on the trestle table. The woman winked at Graeme when he looked at her, so he turned away immediately.

“Aye, Malcolm, she is,” Gillian agreed.

Graeme moved one of the mugs in front of her. She looked at it and then up at him.

“Is something wrong?” he asked.

“Nay,” she said, her hair falling over her shoulder.

Graeme moved it back.

“’Tis just . . .” She looked from him to the men.

“What is it?”

“My father,” she said finally. “He says women don’t drink ale.”

The men laughed, but Graeme wisely did not join them. “That’s enough,” he told them. Turning to her, he said, “Gillian, is your father here now?”

She looked around as if making sure. “Nay.”

“You asked to eat in the hall for a reason, did you not?”

The others, momentarily distracted by another serving woman, this one with very little clothing to speak of, ignored him and Gillian.

“I did.”

Ah. This was not about wanting to eat in some dirty hall. Gillian was finally beginning to move out from under her father’s rule, and Graeme could have kicked himself for not seeing it earlier.

And for trying to stop her. He’d been wrong to attempt to shield her from the hall.

In attempting to protect her, he’d taken away her choice . . . which was the same thing her father did. That was why she’d been so angry back at Lyndwood. Marriage was a complicated dance, he realized, and he had yet to learn the steps.

“Graeme?”

He wouldn’t give Gillian permission to drink the ale. She didn’t need it. His wife needed to decide for herself. Instead, he lifted his own mug and drank deeply.