Fiona turns, her expression shifting rapidly from unguarded to wary. "My lord," she says, offering a curtsy that's just shallow enough to remind me she doesn't truly accept my authority. "Have you come to inspect your investment?"
"I've come to escort my wife to dinner," I correct, stepping into the room. "And to see if the new gowns please you."
"They're beautiful," she admits, running a hand over the rich fabric. "Though I don't need so many."
"A queen should dress like a queen." I move closer, noting how the seamstress hastily gathers her things and retreats to a far corner, giving us the illusion of privacy. "I have more gifts for you in our chambers."
Fiona's eyebrow arches. "More? You'll bankrupt the kingdom trying to dress me."
"I doubt that." My fingers reach out to touch the fabric where it drapes over her shoulder, deliberately brushing against her skin in the process. "Though I confess, I prefer you wearing nothing at all."
Color floods her cheeks, but she doesn't look away. "Is that all I am to you? A body to warm your bed and display your wealth?"
The question stings more than it should. "If that were all, I wouldn't waste time talking to you, would I?" I step back, offering her my arm. "Come. Your father awaits us."
She places her hand reluctantly on my arm, allowing me to lead her from the room. We walk in silence through the corridors, servants and guards bowing as we pass. To anyone watching, we must look like the perfect royal couple—the warrior king and his beautiful queen. Only I can feel the tension in her fingers where they rest against my forearm, the careful distance she maintains between our bodies.
"You've been avoiding me today," I observe as we round a corner.
"I've been busy."
"With what, precisely? Planning another escape?"
She stiffens beside me. "I don't know what you mean."
I stop walking, turning to face her fully. "Don't lie to me, Fiona. It insults both of us." I lower my voice, aware of the guards posted at the far end of the corridor. "My men reported seeing you speaking with a stable boy this morning. The same stable boy who was caught trying to smuggle a message to the northern border last week."
Her face pales slightly, but she maintains her composure. "He was asking about exercising my horse. Nothing more."
"Is that so?" I reach out, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, letting my fingers linger against her cheek. "Then you won't mind if I have him questioned more thoroughly."
"No!" The word bursts from her, too quick, too desperate. She catches herself, attempting to recover. "I mean, there's no need. He's just a boy, barely sixteen."
"Old enough to conspire with my wife against me." My hand slides to the back of her neck, firm but not painful. "What were you planning, Fiona? To slip away during a ride? To meet someone beyond the walls? Tell me now, and perhaps I'll be merciful."
Her eyes flash with that defiance I've come to crave and dread in equal measure. "There is nothing to tell."
I lean closer, until our faces are inches apart. "Then you won't object to being accompanied by six of my personal guard the next time you leave the castle. For your protection, of course."
She pulls away from my touch, anger radiating from her in palpable waves. "Am I your wife or your prisoner?"
"That depends entirely on you." I offer my arm again, making it clear the conversation is temporarily over. "Now, shall we join your father? Or would you prefer I send him my regrets while I question you further in private?"
For a moment, I think she might choose defiance. Instead, she places her hand back on my arm, her touch so light it barely registers. "My father," she says stiffly.
Dinner is a strained affair, with Edgar MacLeod watching me interact with his daughter through eyes heavy with resignation and poorly concealed resentment. I allow them time to speak privately afterward, though I post guards outside the door—a precaution that earns me a glare from Fiona but no verbal protest.
I use the time to review the border reports Callum mentioned earlier, forcing myself to focus on matters of state rather than my increasingly complex feelings for my wife. The southern movement bears watching—a minor lord with outsized ambitions, perhaps, testing how secure my hold is on my newly expanded territories.
Later, in our chambers, I lay out the gifts I've brought for Fiona—a necklace of sapphires and diamonds, hair combs inlaid with pearls, slippers made from the softest leather, embroidered with silver thread.
When she enters, her expression guarded after our earlier confrontation, I gesture to the items spread across the bed.
"For you," I say simply.
She approaches cautiously, as if the gifts might bite. Her fingers hover over the necklace, not quite touching. "Why?" she asks, looking up at me with genuine confusion. "Why shower me with gifts when you know I'm still your enemy?"
The question cuts deeper than she knows. I step closer, close enough to smell the floral scent of her hair, to see the tiny flecks of gold in her green eyes. "Because you're mine," I tell her, the only truth I'm certain of anymore. "And what's mine deserves the best."
