Arran turned to see his uncle striding toward him, a half smile on his face. “Why is that?”
“That wife of yers. I would have imagined she would keep ye busy for at least a fortnight.”
“Things have changed,” Arran grumbled before taking a sip of the potent liquor.
“Eh?” Uncle Fergus asked as he helped himself to the whiskey.
Arran sighed. “She’s McDougal’s sister.”
“Oh,” his uncle said, his glass near his lips. “Well, then that does change things.”
Arran downed the rest of the liquid before setting the glass aside to refill once more.
“She claims that he tried tae kill her.”
“Do ye believe her?”
Arran thought back to the hesitation in Ainslee’s voice when she told him her story.
“Aye, I do.”
“Then it doesnae matter who she is, lad.”
His uncle was right. It did not matter who Ainslee was. The entire time he had been in her presence, he had not seen her approve of her brother’s ill treatment, nor had he seen any interaction that would say that she wasn’t frightened of the laird. Now she was Ainslee Mcaiwn. It was his job to protect her.
“I dinnae know what tae do with her,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck.
Uncle Fergus chuckled. “Tell her that ye will protect her. Tell her that she has nothing tae fear from ye, and everything else will come with time.”
Arran had never had any interaction with lasses in a romantic sense. His time had been more spent to relieve his needs in the back of a barroom and not wooing a woman to be his wife.
Now he had a wife that he had to woo if he wanted their future to be solid. She unnerved him. She made him feel as if he had no confidence in his ability to be her husband. He knew how to command warriors, but he didn’t know how to communicate with his wife.
Arran knew he would have to go at this carefully, as much had been said between them. He had told her he could never trust her, but it wasn’t true.
He had just been hurt that she hadn’t told him the truth from the beginning.
“Go tae her, lad,” Uncle Fergus urged as he took his glass with him. “And quit stalking the halls as if ye are a lovesick fool.”
His uncle’s words haunted Arran as he made his way to his chamber, suddenly feeling older than his years. His body needed a good night’s rest, and spending last evening in the warrior bunks had not helped his still aching body. Arran was going to sleep in his bed tonight, with or without his wife.
Arran was surprised to find the door open easily under his weight, and he stepped into the darkened chamber, the fire illuminating his familiar surroundings. He found Ainslee curled up in his bed, the tartan draped over her slim frame, and his heart contracted in his chest. She looked so innocent, so fragile.
This was the woman he had to protect, but who was going to protect him from her?
After stripping off his tunic, Arran kept his breeks on and removed his boots instead. He wagered that Ainslee would not like to wake and see him naked, though he would much prefer to sleep that way.
Next to her, it might prove to be a bit difficult to keep his hands to himself.
Arran succeeded in climbing into the bed next to her, easing the furs over his body before settling into the mattress. Ainslee made a sound but did not wake, turning away from him. The tartan slipped and Arran swallowed as her creamy shoulder came into his view.
Christ, she is lovely.
He closed his eyes, forcing his breathing to even out and his body to relax. He could not allow himself to be distracted by what was to come. This time when he faced McDougal, he would not be the one who was captured. He would avenge the deaths of Alistair and the others, the warriors that had entrusted in him to have them safely come home.
They had come home, just not in the way that Arran would have wanted for them.
He would avenge the wrongs that had been done to him while a prisoner of McDougal’s.
