“He did.” Her voice shook now from the strain of finally saying it out loud. “He spoke as if me father nay longer mattered because he had decided he owned the right to protect me. I could hardly breathe because I was afraid. I thought me father was dead in that moment, Isobel, and somehow, he made it into a lesson. I daenae think I can ever forgive him for that.”
The words hung in the air.
Isobel stood and came closer. “Ye werenae wrong to feel hurt.”
Ava let out a mirthless laugh. “That is generous of ye, given that he is yer brother.”
“It is truthful of me, and something tells me that is what ye need at the moment.”
That pulled the corner of Ava’s mouth upward for half a second before it fell again.
Isobel touched her arm. “Ye had a misunderstanding. That is all. Daenae turn this into proof that ye were foolish to hope in the first place.”
“How can I nae?”
“Well, dearie, hope isnae foolishness. Especially here.” She looked around the room as if the whole castle could testify. “The maids like ye. Mrs. Patmore—that woman has made a practice of disliking nearly everyone for twenty years—thinks ye are amusing. The castle has taken to ye already.”
Ava felt something inside her loosen slightly. “Aye, but the castle isnae me husband.”
“Nay,” Isobel agreed. “He is far harder to impress.”
Ava let out a breath and dropped into the chair again. “I am so tired of nae understanding him.”
“That I believe.”
She looked up. “Was I wrong to stay?”
Isobel crouched in front of her so they were at eye level. “Nay.”
The answer came at once, with no soothing delay to weaken it.
“Nay,” she said again. “Ye werenae wrong to stay. Ye were hurt by a man who doesnae ken how to understand fear without being commanding about it. That ishisfailing, nae yers.”
Ava looked at her and felt fresh tears sting her eyes.
When the knock came again, firmer this time, she turned her head sharply. Isobel rose. Both women knew who stood outside.
The lock lifted before Ava could answer, and Ciaran came in carrying a tray.
The sight of him ignited her anger anew. He had not waited for permission. He had not sent another servant. He had come himself, his broad shoulders filling the doorway, a bowl and cup balanced in his hands as if the simple fact of bringing food gave him the right to cross the threshold she had kept shut against him for days.
She rose at once. “I suppose ye have come to order me to eat again, me Laird?”
The question came out sharp and cold. She wanted it to wound him. She wanted him to hear exactly what sat under it.
His gaze went to her face first, then to the untouched tray from earlier, then back again. He shut the door behind him with his foot and set the fresh tray down on the small table near the bed.
“If that is what makes ye eat, then aye.”
Isobel made a quiet sound under her breath.
Ava barely heard it. Her whole attention had narrowed to the man standing in her room as though the days of closed doors meant nothing.
“Ye had nay right.”
“I had every right,” he countered. “Ye have shut yerself away and barely touched yer food.”
“Then ye should have stayed away with the rest of yer good ideas.”
