She was about to pop another piece of bread in her mouth when the doors at the far end opened. A gust of wind drifted down the hall, and the murmurs died down.
Kristen did not turn at once. Instead, she felt the shift touch her like a cool hand on the nape of her neck. She looked up eventually, and her eyes caught Neil as he walked in.
Clean skin. Freshly shaven. Hair tamed and tied. A dark coat that fit his broad shoulders and a linen shirt, white at the collar. His hands had been scrubbed to a new color. For a heartbeat, she forgot how to breathe.
The man looked too much like the laird she had married, and nothing like the half-wild stranger from last night. He carried the room without even trying.
That was the Laird Drummond she remembered.
Kristen set her cup down, lest it betray the tremors in her fingers. She held still and listened for her breath until it came back small and steady. She did not look at Davina. Instead, she did her best to keep her expression neutral.
Neil crossed the floor at an easy pace, and a boy with a tray stared and nearly tipped the pears.
Kristen placed another slice of pear on Davina’s trencher just because she needed to do something. She pressed her palm flat against the table.
Neil did not look at her at first. He looked around the hall the way one would examine the remnants of a building destroyed by fire. Then his gaze found her and held.
The distance between them seemed to shrink, even though he was still halfway across the hall.
She remembered every rule she had set. She remembered the razor she had ordered him to find. Thin pride rose within her and steadied what had been shaken.
The hall seemed to wait with her for the breath to come. She eventually lifted her chin and breathed.
He was back. Her husband was well and truly back.
5
Pale light filtered through the narrow window and drew a thin blade across the washbasin. Steam rose as Neil stood with a razor in his hand. The edge caught the light and waited.
“Off with it,” he said to the mirror, his voice rough.
He lathered his jaw with soap and set the blade. The first stroke took the worst of the wilderness from his face. The next made room for his mouth.
The razor traveled from ear to chin in careful lines. He rinsed and drew again. The washbasin smelled of soap and iron. The mirror clouded when he breathed, then cleared to show a man who looked like a shape being carved out of a trunk.
He worked the razor along his throat, then under the jaw. Every steady stroke felt like a bit of ground reclaimed. He would not gointo his hall wearing prison on his face. He would not leave his enemies and his scars to tell his story for him.
“Again,” he whispered to the room, to himself, to no one in particular.
He drew the razor until the rasp turned smooth. Lather went pink where it nicked a softer part of his skin.
He rinsed and leaned in to check his handiwork. The polished lip of the washbasin threw back his skin with more honesty than he would have liked.
Burns had healed to pale ridges along the neck and ribs, and a band of twisted skin tugged when he swallowed. He did not look at it long.
He looked away and reached for a towel. Cloth rasped, and the heat in the room pulled at every mark.
A light knock sounded at the door, followed by another.
“Come in.”
The door creaked open just a little, revealing a young footman. It was clear he was uncertain as to what to do, but Neil had already exhausted all of his patience with being careful while shaving.
“In or out, lad,” he grunted. “Daenae hover.”
The footman stepped further inside, carrying a pile of clothes. He bowed, then looked down at his own toes. “Me Laird,” he said, his voice thin. “From Giles. He thought ye might wish to have something decent for breakfast.”
“This came from Giles?” Neil asked.
