Kristen kissed her brow, then pressed her lips to the child’s hair and breathed for a moment, steadying herself with the simple joy of it.
She lifted her head, breathless and soft-eyed, and turned toward the table to look at the man who had, against all odds, delivered her scoundrels to their doom.
The space beside the table was empty.
Neil was already at the door, his hand on the handle, his body angled away. He did not look back. His stride was even, almost calm, but too quick to be casual. The noise of ladles and laughter rose to fill the gap he left.
Kristen watched the door swing shut. Her hand rose to her chest, palm pressed over her racing heart.
Finn tugged at her sleeve for more half-kisses, and Anna patted Maggie’s ear and squealed, “Half!” happy as a bird.
Kristen smiled and bent to them, but her eyes remained on the place where Neil had stood. She was not sure which worried her more, his silence or the ache that bloomed at his retreat.
She kissed Finn’s cheek again, then Anna’s, and laughed for their sake. The kitchen bustled around her, safe and warm, full of milk and oats and chatter.
Down the corridor, his footsteps faded.The gnawing feeling at the pit of her stomach, however, did not.
Neil sat hunched over the desk like a man guarding a wound. The smell of beeswax and ink filled his nostrils as he studied the maps spread before him.
Ink rings circled valleys and burns. Names of men he had killed sat beside names of men who had run. Candle stubs leaned in pools of wax. His fingers pressed against his temples until a dull ache became a steady drum.
His focus, however, could not stay on the maps for long. All he could think of was Kristen’s face in the kitchen and how at peace she had looked with the kids.
He couldn’t believe he could feel like an intruder in his own home, but somehow, he did. Seeing them huddled together, with the maids walking past, had hammered that notion home.
He was an intruder. A visitor. A guest who had to earn his place if he intended to stay here for long.
“Good God,” he muttered to himself.
The door creaked open at that moment, and Davina slipped inside, brushing soot from her skirts. “Me Laird, have ye seen Lachlan? He wasnae in the courtyard.”
“He is likely at the training grounds,” he replied, eyeing the maps, though his thoughts were nowhere near.
Davina did not move. She studied the hard set of his shoulders and the restless turn of the quill in his hand. “Ye look like a man carrying a boulder.”
He shifted the quill but said nothing.
She drew nearer. “So tell me, what is gnawing at ye?”
The quill clicked down. “Everything.”
Davina waited. The room held its breath with her. “Would ye like to elaborate?”
Neil exhaled. If he needed to get something off his chest, his sister-in-law might as well be the person to do that with.
“I thought I kent what was right,” he sighed. “Fight the bandits. Protect the clan. Keep me distance. Keep the order.”
“And now?” she prompted.
“Now I feel like none of it fits.” He dragged a hand through his hair. “Kristen. The bairns. The people. Me anger. Me fear. I keep reaching for rules that used to make sense, and me hands close around nothing. It is like living someone else’s life.”
“Ye are overwhelmed.” Her tone was kind. “Adjusting is never tidy.”
“It feels like drowning.” The words scraped out as if they had waited years for a place to land.
She put her hand on his shoulder. “Give yerself time, Neil. Time fixes a lot of things.”
Neil looked up at her, his eyes narrowed. “Time?”
