“Mostly.”
She seemed to consider that. “Ye like solitude.”
“I like quiet,” he corrected.
“Is there a difference?”
“One has less chatter in it.”
She blinked, then gave a short laugh. “That is fair.”
He did not mean to look at her then, not directly, but he did. The firelight caught in her hair, turned the dark strands warm. She had taken off the small circlet and veil, and her face seemed younger without them, less burdened, though the day’s strain still marked the corners of her eyes.
He looked away, annoyed with himself.
She did not seem to notice. Or if she did, she pretended not to. Instead, she kept talking.
“How far are we from McNeill lands now?” she asked.
“A few hours’ ride in the morning.”
“Is yer keep much larger than me braither’s?”
“Larger. Older.”
“Does it have many people?”
“Enough.”
She hummed. “Do they ken about me?”
“They ken their laird rode to fetch a bride.”
“A bride for yer braither,” she corrected.
He said nothing.
She glanced at him, lips pressing together for a moment. Then, softly, “They will be surprised, then.”
“Aye.”
“Do ye think they will like me?”
The question prodded at him. It sounded light, but he heard the thread beneath it. She was trying to fill the air, he told himself. To keep her mind from the fact that she was alone in a remote lodge with a man she had married that morning.
He still missed that she might be nervous.
“They will respect ye,” he said. “In time.”
“Respect is a start,” she murmured.
She fussed with the edge of a blanket, then tried again. “What is McNeill like? The land, I mean.”
“Rock. Hills. Wind,” he said. “The sea, if ye ride far enough.”
“Is it beautiful?”
He hesitated. Then, grudgingly, “Aye. It can be.”
