“Of when I was gone.” The words came out thin. “Of what ye did.”
“I worked,” she replied. “Villagers at the gate. Grain sheds. Goats. I learned names. I learned how to make a hall feel safe. I learned that men listen when ye sound confident even when ye arenae.” Her voice lowered. “I learned how to sleep alone. I learned it poorly.”
Guilt moved through him like a slow knife. “I’m sorry, lass.”
“I ken.” She did not add anything, no mercy and no blame.
The restraint settled over him like a blanket.
Thunder rumbled, distant now. Rain softened on the shutters.
“Try to sleep,” she murmured.
He stared at the ceiling. “I will.”
“If it helps, I can talk more about Maggie,” she offered, a smile lacing her voice. “She once stole half a pie from the kitchen and hid behind Finn’s chair as if nay one could see a dog her size.”
Neil huffed a laugh. “Of course she did.”
“She hates the fishmonger,” Kristen said. “Barks at his cart and then accepts a herring from his hand.”
“She takes bribes,” Neil drawled.
“She iswise.”
The silence lengthened again, and the air cooled.
He finally felt the pull of sleep. He did not slide into it. He chose it, the way he chose to lower his blade. He kept his hand loose in hers and let the room stay like it was.
He didn’t know when he fell asleep.
19
The next morning was immensely bright, a sharp contrast to the storm from the previous night. Kristen swung her leg over the saddle and dropped to the ground before Neil could offer a hand. Her boots met the earth with a soft thud. She kept her chin up, her thoughts sharp, and her list short.
Ribbon and a dress for Anna.
A tunic for Finn.
Thread.
Neil stepped up beside her anyway. His palm settled on her waist for balance, the touch light and polite.
It should have meant nothing. But it lingered a heartbeat longer than it should, and as usual, she pretended not to feel it.
“Ye daenae need to hover,” she said lightly, patting the horse’s neck.
“Aye,” he said, his voice even. “And yet here I am.”
She did not answer.
The door to the dressmaker’s shop stood ahead, varnish shining where many hands had pushed it open for years. Kristen walked towards it, acutely aware of her husband’s proximity.
Bells tinkled as she walked inside, and warmth rose at once. The air was familiarly scented with chalk dust, lavender sachets, and oil rubbed on old oak shelves. Bolts of fabric lay along the walls, and spools of even more material were stacked in painted boxes. Kristen’s eyes flicked to a measuring rod near a glass case full of pins.
The door clicked shut behind them as they walked further into the shop.
“Good morning, me Lady,” greeted the dressmaker, round and rosy-cheeked, her spectacles perched low on her nose. “And Laird Drummond.” She bobbed a curtsy. “What can I fetch ye today?”
