Neil stepped inside and shut the door. The sound sat low in her stomach. He looked at the bed, then at her hands, where they curled into her skirt.
“Off,” he grunted, with a flick of two fingers. “It doesnae suit ye.”
“It suits me well enough,” she declared, not moving an inch. “Ye told me to set rules. These are mine.”
“I told ye nay such thing,” he countered.
“Then I told me own self.” She shrugged. “It amounts to the same.”
Neil drew a breath that pulled at his shirt. He crossed to the table and braced both hands on it, leaning just enough to make the wood take his weight.
Kristen itched to hear him say that her rule pleased him. She did not like it.
“Go to bed, Kristen,” he ordered, his voice weary. “I will join ye once I am done here.”
She rose and smoothed her dress, but did not take a step. “What do ye do up here?” she asked quietly.
“Think,” he uttered.
“About what?”
A smirk touched his mouth, sharper than humor. “Ye ken, I liked ye better when ye were too afraid to look at me for more than a second at the altar.”
Her back stiffened. “If ye had stayed, ye would ken this is the real me.”
He looked at her differently then. Not as the girl he had married, but as a woman who might stand in his way and not move.
The candle threw warm light onto his cheeks, accentuating the hollows under his eyes. His gaze softened for a breath and then steadied.
“I will come,” he said. “When I am ready.”
“Daenae make me drag ye,” she warned.
He tilted his head a fraction, the nearest thing he had shown to grace. “I would like to see ye try.”
She meant to answer. Indeed, the words hung on the tip of her tongue. But a dark mark at his shoulder had drawn her eye and would not let it go. The fabric there was wet, and the wet patch seemed to grow.
“What is that?” she asked.
He did not look. “Nothing ye need to worry about.”
“Stand still.” She stepped close without thinking.
The scent of soap fought with a coppery tang that knocked the air from her lungs. She reached and touched the fabric with two fingers, and heat bled into her skin.
Her blood ran cold and hot at once, the way a sea could turn under a boat. She lifted her hand to the candlelight and saw the color on it.
“’Tis blood,” she gasped. “Christ… ’tis blood.”
7
“It is a scratch,” Neil muttered, as if the candle had lied.
“Now is really nae the time to lie to me, Neil. Sit. Please.”
He held her gaze for a heartbeat, stubborn as ever. But then her hand found his forearm, and he let the fight drain out of his shoulders. He sat on the bench by the table.
“Ye should have said something,” she chided, scrambling for the ewer and a clean cloth. “Ye shouldnae walk around with a wound like that. Men think that pain makes them grand.”
