Page 122 of The Laird’s Wrong Wife

The maid’s hands tightened around the wooden handles.

“She did as I instructed,” Oscar said. “Ye have done nothin’ wrong, Alura. Set it there.”

The maid obeyed and then withdrew quickly.

Ceana laid down her quill. “Ye ordered the servants to report what I eat?”

“I asked to be told if ye were sick, tired, or unable to finish a meal.”

“And what? Asking me personally wasnae an option?”

“Ye would say ye were well so ye could continue workin’.”

He trusted reports gathered around her more than the answers she might give him. Ceana didn’t yet know whether she should feel offended.

Mairi drew the petition nearer. “Shall I have the timber released, me Lady?”

Ceana signed her name and pressed the paper into Mairi’s hand. “Aye. Both roofs. The guest chamber can wait.”

“I will send the order now.”

Mairi left with the signed instructions before Oscar could close the matter for the day. He shut the ledger and placed the tray in front of Ceana. The smell of roasted mutton reached her first, and her stomach lurched.

“Oh, wow, I cannae eat that.”

Oscar removed the plate at once. “The oat bread?”

“That will stay down.”

He broke a small piece and held it toward her. Ceana accepted it from his fingers. His thumb brushed the corner of her mouth, and his breath hitched. For one heated instant, she saw the man who had held her in their bed.

His gaze remained on her lips until he pulled his hand away.

“Finish what ye can,” he urged.

Ceana studied him. It was clear that his tenderness had become another method of measuring her. A part of her hoped it wouldn’t turn into a means of control as well.

“Will every servant tell ye when I eat, sleep, walk, or open a ledger?”

“They will tell me if ye tire or become ill.”

Ceana cocked her head. “I like to think me weariness belongs to me to report.”

“I will take nay chances.”

Muriel entered, carrying a cup of mint tea. Her gaze flicked from the closed ledger to the tray. “Ye already finished yer work, Ceana?”

“She has done enough,” Oscar said.

“Pregnancy isnae an illness, Oscar.” Muriel set the cup beside Ceana. “She needs movement and useful occupation. Let her eat what she can tolerate and sleep when she is tired. I cannae promise how every month will pass. At present, I see nay cause to confine her.”

“She was dizzy. She could scarcely keep food down, and she lost weight.”

“Those symptoms have improved.”

Oscar considered. “Two hours of work each mornin’. She may walk in the lower garden with someone beside her. The stairs remain forbidden.”

Ceana pushed the tray away. “Muriel advised ye. She didnae grant ye the right to ration me life.”