“Ah, we’ve heard much about ye. Lady Douglass was singing your praises when first we met.” Alistair approached her side of the horse and held out his hand, a friendly smile in her direction. “May I help ye down, my lady?”
“Thank you.” Not wanting to be rude to their host, she took Alistair’s calloused hand and allowed him to help her down. “A pleasure to meet you.”
From behind Alistair, Ian’s face was blank; the only thing giving away a clue of how he might feel was the subtle twitch of his eye.
Rhiannon hid her smile, confirming in that subtle twitch that he did indeed harbor something of her feelings. Or, at the very least, he was jealous she’d taken Alistair’s hand when she mostly fought against Ian’s. Well, perhaps he needed to recognize his emotions toward her in his own good time. She was a patient woman. Sometimes.
Alistair took Rhiannon’s arm and led her into the great hall, Ian following behind. Their host introduced her to the housekeeper, who led her toward the stairs. Rhiannon glanced back to where Ian stood talking with his brother, eyes on her. Heat infused her cheeks at the intensity of that stare, the way he followed her with his gaze. It was only at the nudging of the housekeeper that she turned away to concentrate on the stone circular stairs.
She was shown to a chamber, and a bath was procured. Her clothes were taken to be cleaned, and in the meantime, a spare gown was given to her to wear along with clean underthings.
The bath itself was luxurious. A ball of soap scented with lavender soothed her skin, and the scent calmed her. She stayed in the water until it turned tepid and then chilled, finally forcing her out. Gooseflesh covered her skin, which she rubbed away with a soft linen towel, grateful that some of the aches in her limbs had dissipated.
After dressing, she brushed her hair before a warm fire, feeling more alive than she had in days. It was amazing what a good scrub could do for the body, and what a hot bath could do for sore muscles.
A knock sounded at her door, and she called for the housekeeper to enter, but it wasn’t the housekeeper.
Ian stood in the doorway, taking up all of the space. She swiveled to face him, brush in hand, which she almost dropped, catching it at the last second. All the breath left her as she watched him, that look on his face again, made her entire body tingle. He, too, had cleaned up, hair still damp at the ends where it hung loose around his face. Gone were his breeches, replaced by a full plaid, his knees naked at the hem, and stockings up over the thickest part of his calf. She imagined she could smell his spicy, clean scent across the room—in fact, that wasn’t her imagination at all. She sucked in a deep breath.
“I thought I might escort ye to supper,” he said.
“Oh?” She set the brush down and started to plait her hair.
Ian watched her nimble movements, his gaze concentrating so hard on her fingers so that he didn’t look at any other part of her, including her eyes. He didn’t set foot in her room, his boots firmly planted on the other side of the threshold.
“Aye. Alistair insists we feast together.”
At the mention of a feast, her belly grumbled. There was a very good chance she’d out-eat every man at the table. “Hmm. I am rather ravenous.”
Ian grunted. So, they were still doing that. Rhiannon bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. If he wanted to grunt instead of speaking, she’d let him do it for a little longer.
She finished plaiting her hair, tying it off with a ribbon that matched the light blue gown she’d borrowed, then sauntered toward Ian, who stared at everything in the room but her.
When she reached him, touching his arm, he jerked back as if stung.
“Usually, an escort allows the lady to hold his arm, but I can see you don’t want me to do that. Perhaps I should walk behind you?” There was a subtle hint of annoyance in her voice. She’d been patiently dealing with his prickly demeanor for longer than she might have ordinarily gifted someone with her patience. His showing up at her chamber had made her feel as though they were finally crossing that threshold.
“Aye.”
“Aye, what?” She crossed her arms and tapped her foot. “Walk behind you?”
“Nay, ye may hold my arm.” He stuck out his elbow and nodded toward it.
Rhiannon rolled her eyes. “Why, my laird, thank you ever so much for the kindness.”
“My pleasure.” He grinned.
Goodness, but she wanted to pinch him to make him wake up. Instead, she threaded her arm through his, trying to ignore the ripple of muscle beneath her touch, the heat of his body next to hers. She supposed if he were trying to ignore her completely, he wouldn’t have come to her chamber to offer her an escort. She’d have to take the small win where she could.
The great hall was bustling with servants and Sinclair clan men, women and children. She was introduced to many who remembered her cousin Douglass and were happy to meet her. Surprisingly, no one seemed to mind that she was English, which had been something she’d worried about. Ian stood like a statue beside her the whole time, which was clearly not his normal way, as his brother Alistair and the other warriors kept giving him funny looks.
At last, she was seated opposite Ian, with Alistair at the head of the table between them.
The man would have to either keep his gaze on his trencher the entire meal or be forced to look at her. She rather liked that he might be tortured during the meal. And so, as she feasted on leek soup, roasted goose, Scotch pies, a thick slice of goat cheese, and freshly baked bread followed by a sweet Cranachan, she watched him closely.
Each time Ian met her eyes, he quickly looked away until she was certain her face was redder than flames, as each look sent a fresh wave of emotion—desire, irritation, yearning, all bundled up neatly into the heat of her cheeks.
Alistair filled her wine and his brother’s, watching the two of them with interest. Funnily enough, though they were identical, she could tell the difference between the two of them with ease. Ian, for one, had a faint scar in the middle of one eyebrow and another along the right side of his jaw. Alistair had scars, but one was in the center of his forehead and another was on his chin. Ian’s blue eyes were a little darker with a hint of sapphire around the rim, and he wore his dark hair longer. She wished she knew what Alistair was thinking.
