“Aye.”
Neil looked at the clothes. The linen was fresh and white. The coat had been brushed, and the boots had been polished with care enough to reflect the morning light.
“Put them there,” he ordered. “Then go.”
“Aye, me Laird.” The footman laid the pile on the chair, then fumbled a bow. “Welcome home,” he added quickly, as if the wish might bite.
Neil held his stare a beat too long. The footman swallowed, then backed out of the room and gently closed the door.
Neil stood still. He had learned to own silence with his body when the rope took his hands.
He tried the shirt first. The linen slid over his shoulders and settled as if it had always meant to be there. His old shirt, still in a heap by the fireplace, had not felt like clothing. It had felt like a tale told by other men.
This new shirt felt like his. Like his old self. Histrueself.
He put on the trousers and drew the belt snug. Then he took the coat and slid his hands down the sleeves to smooth the fit. For some reason he couldn’t explain, he resented the part of him that liked the weight of a good coat on his back.
He gathered his hair and tied it, then ran the comb through it until it lay where it should. He set the comb down and did not look at the mirror again.
Another knock sounded at the door, thought it was not as light. It sounded familiar. Quite fascinating that Lachlan still knocked the same way he had before Neil disappeared.
“Come,” Neil called.
Lachlan entered and closed the door behind him with easy care. He took in Neil; beard gone, hair tamed, clothes set right. The corner of his mouth tipped as if he remembered a private joke.
“They will scarcely recognize ye,” he remarked. “Ye look almost civil.”
“Almost,” Neil said.
“Giles said ye burned yer old clothes,” Lachlan added.
“I have yet to do that,” Neil grunted. “Mind doing the honors?”
“Later,” Lachlan responded quietly.
He made a small sound that might have been a laugh and stepped closer. Neil eyed him narrowly as he reached for the cravat on the dressing table.
“May I?”
Neil stood still, letting him secure the cloth around his neck.
Lachlan’s fingers worked quickly, and the knot settled evenly. Neil did not like the touch, yet he did not shake it off.
“Ye will want the belt,” Lachlan said. “And the sword. Folks feel more at ease when a laird puts the steel where they can see it and nae under his tongue.”
Neil took the belt. “I ken ye have a lot of questions.”
“Ye’ve just arrived,” Lachlan responded evenly. “There will be time for that later.”
“I see yer wife is looking well,” Neil noted. He buckled the frog and hung the sword. The weight pulled at his hip. It felt honest.
Lachlan nodded. “Davina has been the biggest help to yer wife over the years.”
“And I thank ye to thank her for me.”
Lachlan leaned a shoulder against the wall. “Things are different now. In the castle and in the village.”
“I have eyes,” Neil muttered. “I can see that.”
