Neil’s arms tightened around her at once. “Easy,” he murmured into her ear.
Her throat worked, and she nodded, though he could not see it.
Her face found his shoulder without her thinking about it. The linen was warm where it touched her cheek. He smelled like lake water and steel and the smoke of torches. She took a deep breath and tried to hold it in the bottom of her lungs.
He did not speak again. His hand slid to her waist, firm and steady. The horse kept a slow pace up the darkened road. The only sounds were the clip-clop of hooves, the creak of leather, and the beat of his heart. It was even and heavy, and it gave her something to focus on.
She tried not to think of the way the men had spoken about Alex, but tears pricked her eyes. She clenched her teeth, refusing to letthem fall. She couldn’t even imagine what Neil was feeling if this was how distraught she was.
After a while, the path sloped upward, and the castle came into view. Torches flared along the battlements as guards moved to open the gates. Light poured across the road and touched them, warm as a soft hand.
Kristen let out the breath she had been holding since they left the village. The sight of the high walls, the arch, the banner on the tower loosened something inside her.
Home.
Neil guided the horse under the arch and into the courtyard. He stayed close to her until the beast stopped. His hand did not leave her waist. He did not rush her. He waited while she gathered the pieces of herself that were still in disbelief as to what had happened in the village.
The night hung thick between them as the gates clanged shut. The courtyard lay quiet except for the soft steps of guards on the wall and the small sounds of the stables.
Her ears would not stop ringing as the relief of seeing her home washed over her once again.
Home would not feel peaceful for a long time.
22
“Fill the lady’s tub. Hot water, now. Move,” Neil ordered, his voice low and hard.
“Aye, me Laird,” a maid answered, and two more hurried off with buckets that knocked against their knees.
His hand remained on the small of Kristen’s back, and each time she faltered, he slowed, letting her find her balance.
The corridor felt too quiet as he opened the door to her chamber and guided her inside. The fire in the grate spat heat into the room while steam rose as the first kettle was emptied into the copper tub.
“Sit,” he murmured.
She lowered herself onto the chair by the fire. Her eyes were wide and unfocused, and a smear of blood marked her cheek like red paint.
Neil set his cloak aside, rolled up his sleeves, and crossed to the washstand. The bucket there was half full, but he dipped a cloth in it anyway. He wrung it once, then went back and dropped to his knees before her.
“Look at me,” he said softly.
Her gaze rose to his, slow as if moving through mud. She trembled, then stilled.
He lifted the cloth and wiped the blood from her cheek in patient circles. The line came away in faint pink swirls that bled into the water when he rinsed the cloth and wrung it again.
“Any pain?” he asked.
She shook her head. The motion was small, but a strand of hair had stuck to her jaw. He freed it with his thumb, and she shivered at the touch. However, she did not pull back.
He took her hands. Blood lay thin across her knuckles and the back of her fingers. Not hers. Not this time.
He turned her palm up. “May I?”
“Aye,” she whispered.
He cleaned each finger, careful as a man handling glass. Dirt from the road disappeared slowly. He ran his thumb along the base of her fingers to chase what was left.
She watched him work as if through fog. The tub behind him filled in soft rushes, and steam rose to the ceiling.
