Cautiously, he made his way towards the table. She softened her gaze as he approached, a small smile on her face; there was something slightly guarded about it, as though she imagined he might turn around and toss all this to the ground in a moment of rage. But, instead, he took it as the peace offering it was and sank into his seat.
“Let me pour the ale for you.” She made her way around the table with an easy, soft movement, carrying herself with the confidence of any well-mannered noblewoman.
She reached for the jug and poured a generous amount into his cup, and he could not help but notice the way her fingers wrapped around the handle, imagining what they might have felt like on him instead.
She withdrew to her seat, taking a sip of her tea. Her braid was carefully arranged over one shoulder. Had she woven it with flowers, as she had on the day of the wedding? He could not tell in the dim light, the scent of the blooms filling the air.
“You were out all day,” she remarked carefully, lifting her cup to her lips. “It must have been urgent business for you to spend so much time far from the Keep.”
“Just a land dispute,” he assured her, and he glanced back towards his satchel where he had left it at the door.
He hesitated for a moment. When he had picked up the gift for her, he had imagined handing it to her the next day, once she’d had a chance to rest. But she had shown him such kindness in making sure that he had food and a warm welcome to come back to, perhaps it was time that he offered her what he had been keeping to himself.
He rose to his feet, pulling open the satchel and reaching inside. She peered past him, trying to see what it was that had so taken his attention.
“I got you something. A gift.”
She looked a little startled. Was he getting her a gift such a surprise?
He turned to her, the present clasped in his hands. It was a book, a journal, to be precise; leather-bound and imprinted with the Fraser clan crest. When he had seen how well-loved her journal from home had been, he had seen the chance to gift her something that would make her feel a little more comfortable here, something to signify her new life under his roof.
He handed it to her, suddenly wondering if she would even like it. For a moment, he felt daft for even bringing it to her.
Why would she want another journal?
But when she lifted her gaze back to him, her eyes were shining as though she could scarcely believe what she was seeing.
“You… you got me this?”
“Aye. Fer yer drawings and notes. The one that you had from… the other one you had, it was near to falling apart.”
She traced her finger along the spine, a smile turning up the corners of her lips. It looked, at least to him, entirely genuine, one that he did not have to second-guess.
“Thank you.”
“Dinnae think too much of it,” he added gruffly, reaching for his ale and taking a long sip. “Just a small purchase fae a local maker.”
She moved towards him, casting the journal on the table beside her. Her eyes were locked on his now, and something seemed to have shifted from when he had first arrived. Something in her eyes, different from what it had been, some care and caution fallen away like drapes.
“It’s very kind of you, husband,” she remarked as she drew closer to him.
He let out a sound deep in his throat, something between a laugh and a grunt.
“Ye speak as though ye did not think me capable of such things.”
“That was not my intention,” she quickly responded.
She paused before him, and he leaned back, looking up at her. Being so close to her, he could smell the sweetness of her skin; he could recall, with almost too much ease, the way she had sounded when his fingers were moving between her legs, when he had guided her to the release she had so clearly ached for.
And then, seeming to gather all her boldness in one motion, she slipped into his lap. He caught his breath, his hands movingto her waist at once, catching her, holding her there. If she were to draw any closer, he was not sure that he would be able to restrain himself, nor did he feel he wanted to.
“Careful,” he warned her, voice low. “Ye dinnae want yer Laird to lose control of himself, lass.”
She looked up at him, that deep, piercing gaze that carved away so much of what he had put up between them.
“Maybe… maybe I dinnae want you in control, my Laird," she breathed, and she ducked in closer, their faces so near to each other now he could almost taste her breath. He didn’t know if this was an offer or a warning, a threat or an urge.
Or if all she truly wanted was for him to take her, right then and there, as he should have done on their wedding night.
