I blinked up at him, startled by the question, by its accuracy. Slowly, I nodded, unable to deny the truth he’d somehow divined from my story.
“Aye,” I whispered.
He clenched his hands at his sides, and he began to pace before me. “Ye can nae live yer life so rigidly!” he exclaimed. There was a passion in his voice I’d never heard from him before. “It does nae leave room for real living, for spontaneity, for joy! For possibility!”
He stopped abruptly, turning to face me, his eyes burning with an intensity that made my breath catch. “Plans will nae keep ye safe, believe me,” he continued, softer now but no less fervent. “I’ve seen many men die in battle trying to stick to the original plan when they should have adapted.”
His words struck at the very foundation of the careful, measured life I’d built since Lisette’s death. A life where surprises, where deviations, where spontaneity led to disaster, just as making that choice to steal the goblet had. And yet, had I not made that rash choice, my mama would have died.
Still, I didn’t like the way he was pushing at the boundaries I’d created for my life. “Ye’re a fine one to give advice,” I retorted, rising to my feet to face him, my own passion kindling in response to his. “Ye live drowning in rage and sorrow. That’s nae a life at all. Ye might as well be dead!”
The moment the words left my mouth, I regretted them. They were too harsh, too cutting, too close to the bone for this man who had lost so much. I expected anger in return, perhaps even an order to leave his lands immediately. Instead, his lips twitched, almost imperceptibly.
“Aye, well, ye, too!” he retorted, the words so childish coming from this warrior that for a moment, I could only stare at him.
“Ye, too?” I repeated, incredulous. “Is that truly the best ye can manage? Ye, too?”
His eyes widened slightly, as if he were as surprised by his response as I was. Then, to my further astonishment, a low chuckle escaped him.
“It seems ye’ve reduced me to the wits of a lad,” he said.
Before I could respond, Bess said, “Ye two like each other!” It was announced with the simple confidence of a child stating an obvious truth.
“Aye,” Guinn agreed immediately, her eyes dancing with mischief. “Just like the stable master and the baker’s daughter. They yell at each other too, and then they sneak kisses behind the grain store.”
Both girls dissolved into giggles at this observation, their laughter ringing in the quiet.
“We do nae!” Munro and I protested in the same instant, our voices blending in unified denial. We glanced at each other and then quickly away, the synchronicity of our response only adding credence to the lasses’ observation.
Heat rose to my cheeks, I could feel but couldn’t control. From the corner of my eye, Munro shifted uncomfortably and fixed his gaze firmly on the ground as if the patterns of roots and fallen leaves held some fascinating secret.
“Yer face is all red, Da,” Bess pointed out, which made Guinn laugh harder.
“That’s quite enough,” he said, but there was no real anger in his tone. He glanced at me, then away again just as quickly. “The sun will be setting soon. We should return to the castle for the evening meal.”
He offered a hand to help me rise, and I took it without thinking. His palm was warm and calloused against mine, thetouch sending an unwelcome flutter through my stomach. I withdrew my hand as soon as I was standing, smoothing my skirts to hide my discomfort.
“Thank ye,” I said.
“For what?” he asked, his voice gruff but not unkind.
“For…” I hesitated, unsure how to articulate what I was feeling. For understanding? For not condemning me? For making me understand, however inadvertently, that we were both struggling to find our way back from loss?
“For nae sending me away,” I finally said, the closest I could come to the truth without revealing too much of my heart.
Something unreadable flickered in the depths of his eyes. “Aye, well,” he said, clearing his throat. “Let’s get the lasses back.”
As we walked toward the castle, Bess and Guinn skipped ahead of us, and I found myself wondering about the path that led me to this stronghold, to this broken family, to this man who seemed to understand loss as intimately as I did. Perhaps Morgana was wiser than I’d given her credit for. Perhaps making Munro feel again would possibly not only break my curse but heal something in me as well.
At supper, I kept my eyes fixed on my trencher, pushing the food around without eating, acutely aware of Munro and how he was avoiding me just as I was him. We hadn’t spoken since we’d sat down. It was as if the afternoon’s conversation had left something sensitive and exposed between us, like skin rubbed raw from a long day’s ride. I wasn’t eager to examine the wound, and clearly, he wasn’t either.
Guinn and Bess, however, showed no such restraint. They cast knowing glances between us throughout the meal, occasionally dissolving into poorly concealed giggles. Each time, Munro cleared his throat and took another long drink from hiscup, while I found some fascinating detail in the tablecloth to study.
“Ye’ve barely touched yer food,” Lady Magdalene observed, her sharp eyes missing nothing. “Are ye unwell, Murieall?”
“I’m fine,” I replied, forcing myself to take a bite of the venison to prove it. “Just tired from the day’s events.”
“Indeed,” she said, her gaze flicking between Munro and me. “Word travels quickly about such dramatic events. A fall from a tree, a headlong flight across the grounds, a touching scene beneath the old oak.” She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “How fortunate that our laird was there to comfort ye. There’s nae been such castle gossip about Muro since he courted Isabella.”
