Anger rose to his throat, and his hands balled into fists. A low growl escaped his lips as he slammed both fists on the table.
The plates flew up and clattered to the ground. The cups toppled and shattered, the sound echoing through the empty hall and coming back jagged.
Kristen gasped and took a half step back, then stopped herself. Outside the doors, guards shuffled and shifted their weight as if they had long learned to stand but not to intrude when their Laird’s temper rose.
“Look at what ye do,” she said quietly.
“I am looking,” he answered, his voice shaking.
Silence thickened between them, and she put her hand on the table where his blow had fallen, near the shards of a broken plate.
“Ye arenae the only one with ghosts, Neil,” she murmured. “But I learned how to speak kindly so I wouldnae make more. Ye could learn that, too.”
He stared at her hand. His eyes traced the small crescents her nails had dug into her skin. His throat worked, and his jaw relaxed a fraction. She felt the shift like a light breeze.
“Step away from the shards.”
“Oh, now ye care?”
“Kristen, please.”
“If ye daenae want to deal with the aftermath, then mind where ye swing yer fists.” Her mouth trembled into the smallest curve before she caught it.
His gaze fell to that curve and held as if it were the only thing left in the hall. The onlywarmthing left in the hall.
He rounded the table, his breathing ragged, his eyes churning with more than anger. Each step felt like a crack in the surface of a frozen lake, one stride further across thin ice. He stopped close enough to feel the heat of her skin and the quiver in her breath.
“Do ye still think I daenae care?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Kristen looked deep into his eyes. “I think ye should care more.”
The hall held its breath.
18
Neil moved before thinking. He reached for her, caught her by the waist, and lifted her onto the table. His hands were firm and sure, but not cruel. Never cruel.
Kristen gasped as she landed half sitting, half reclining, her elbows braced on the wood and her hair tumbling over one shoulder, her breath coming in quick bursts.
Neil planted his palms on either side of her hips and leaned in, his breathing harsh in the silence.
She stared him down, her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright. “If ye regret yer choice of wife, ye should have thought about it a little bit sooner.”
“Regret.” The word came out raw and nearly pained. His mouth twisted into a smile. “Is that really what ye think I feel? Regret?”
Her chin lifted. “Aye,regret. Ye would save us both time if ye’d speak plainly.”
He bent slowly, as if a rope was pulling him and he could not cut it. His knuckles grazed her cheek, the touch featherlight, so gentle that it put the broken plates at his back at odds with the man above her.
“Lass,” he whispered, “ye were right. Ye daenae understand anything.”
Her lips parted. His eyes snagged on the movement, dark and steady, then dragged up to meet hers.
“Then tell me,” she challenged, her voice laced with both defiance and heat. “Or let me go.”
He breathed outhard,and the sound scraped the air. “The thought of another man touching ye makes me go mad,” he rasped.
A flush crawled up her throat. “I havenae let anyone touch me,” she whispered. “Nae once.”
