His heartbeat steadied beneath her cheek. Her breathing slowed. And that was how they fell asleep in each other’s arms.
CHAPTER 21
Morning crept into the chamber like a shy guest, slipping pale gold across the floorboards and over the edge of the bed. Baird felt it before he saw it, that familiar ache in his shoulder, that faint pull of healing skin along the wound Davina had tended the night before.
He drew a breath, letting the weight of the moment settle.
He had slept the previous night, not lightly and not half-alert as he usually did, but once again soundly, like the night before, with Davina’s head on is chest and his arm wrapped around her waist as though he’d always held her that way.
Dangerous.
Dangerous in a way swords and Sinclairs were not.
He dressed in quiet motions, mindful of the softness behind him. He reached for his shirt first, easing the linen over hisinjured arm with a muttered curse, then belted his plaid and strapped on his dirk. It was his armor of habit, against what waited below and, in honest God’s truth, against the woman still tangled in the covers.
He had almost lost her yesterday. The thought cut sharper than the wound.
He buttoned the last of his cuffs before glancing back toward the bed. Davina still lay beneath the blankets, her hair a spill of gold against the pillow. Only her eyes peeked out.
“Are ye going tae interrogate the scout?” she asked, with a voice that was still rough with sleep, but softer than dawn.
Baird’s throat tightened. Even half-awake, she unsettled him.
“Aye,” he managed only a nod and nothing more. Anything else felt too revealing.
Davina shifted, pulling the blanket higher as though cold, though he suspected it was nerves.
She met his gaze. “Be careful, Baird.”
It was nothing but a simple phrase, which any wife might say. But from her, after everything, it struck with the precision of an arrow. Something warm and fierce unfurled in him, curling tight in his chest. He turned fully, unable not to, his eyes drawn to her like a man to a fire on a winter night.
He wanted to cross the room, to cup her face in his hands, to kiss her slowly and with certainty before he faced whatever truth the prisoner held. His body shifted a fraction toward her before he caught himself. He swallowed, tamping down the impulse with effort that bordered on pain.
“I’ll be careful,” he said instead, offering more of a vow than reassurance.
Her lips parted, as though she might say more, but she didn’t. She only watched him in a way he did not deserve and could not withstand. Before he betrayed anything further, Baird turned toward the door.
“Rest,” he ordered, though the command came out quieter than intended. “Ailis will bring ye breakfast.”
Davina gave the smallest nod from beneath the covers. Then he forced his feet forward, but each step felt heavier than steel. Outside the chamber, the corridor felt too empty after the warmth he’d left behind. He squared his shoulders, letting the laird settle over him like armor. There was a traitor’s ally bound in the cells, a clan depending on him, and answers needed before any more blood was spilled.
He headed through the keep, which was already stirring as he descended the stairs, but as he reached the lower level, the noise faded beneath stone and shadow. The dungeon corridor was cold enough to sting. Two guards straightened at his approach.
“Is he awake?” Baird asked.
“Aye, me laird,” one answered. “And foul-tempered as ever.”
“Good,” Baird murmured. He preferred his enemies conscious. It made the fear that followed all the sharper.
He stopped before the iron-banded door and glanced at the guard. “Open it.”
The lock scraped. Hinges groaned. The stench of damp earth and rust drifted out. Inside, the Sinclair scout hung from chains bolted into the wall, with his arms stretched high enough to keep him from standing fully upright. His cheek was swollen, and his lip split from the fight the day before. But his eyes were still hard and spiteful with defiance.
The moment he saw Baird, he straightened as best he could.
“Nay bow fer ye,” he spat. “Nae even in the gallows.”
Baird stepped inside, motioning for the guards to remain outside. The door closed behind him with a final, metallic thud. He stood before the man, with his arms folded behind his back and his posture composed despite the dull ache in his injured arm.
