Page 39 of The Laird’s Wrong Wife

Her hair hung loose over one shoulder, and his gaze followed it before returning to her face. He then placed the tray on the table beside her. “Why have ye eaten nothin’?”

“I wasnae hungry.”

“The tray was returned untouched.”

Ceana closed the book and set it aside. “Do ye personally inspect every plate carried through yer castle?”

Oscar shrugged. “I tend to notice what happens in me household.”

The answer warmed a place in her heart, a place she wished so desperately that she could ignore. He had avoided private conversation since apologizing for the kiss, yet he knew how many meals she had refused.

Oscar lifted the bowl and brought it within her reach. “Sit forward.”

“Have ye come as me laird, or are ye still me jailer?”

His mouth tightened at the second title. “I have come as yer future husband, if that would persuade ye to eat.”

There was no playfulness in his answer. He waited with the bowl steady between his hands while she adjusted the pillows and sat straighter.

“What is wrong?” he asked.

“I told everyone I had a headache.”

“That wasnae me question.”

Ceana ran her thumb along the edge of the blanket. “I wanted some peace and quiet.”

Oscar nodded. “Hidin’ in bed is a dramatic way to obtain it.”

“Oh well, I took a page out of yer book.”

The bowl stopped halfway to the table. Oscar looked at her for a long moment, and she saw that her answer had hit its target. He had spent days retreating into his study whenever a conversation pressed too close.

“Are ye ill?” he asked.

“Only tired.”

He set the bowl down and moved closer. Ceana’s breath caught when he leaned over her, though his hand rose slowly enough to give her time to turn away. She remained still as he brushed a loose strand of hair from her temple.

The backs of his fingers rested against her forehead. His skin was roughened by weapons and reins, yet the touch carried such care that her fingers tightened on the blanket. Her lips parted when his gaze dropped to them, and again she could feel the press of his body against hers.

Oscar seemed to notice that because he withdrew his hand at once. However, instead of stepping away, he gripped the back of the nearby chair and drew it beside the bed. The careful movement gave his hands something to do while he restored the distance he seemed determined to maintain.

“Ye have nay fever,” he noted.

“Then ye may report me recovery to the kitchens.”

“After ye eat.”

He sat close enough that his knee nearly touched her covered leg. In the smaller chamber, his body occupied more space than it had in the Great Hall. He was so close that she could see the pale scar crossing one knuckle as he broke a piece from the loaf.

“Me men will escort yer faither back to Morrag,” he said. “If Bryce crosses the border, a messenger will come directly to me.”

Ceana accepted the bread when he placed it near the bowl. “And Daphne?”

“She will have protection if she reaches either clan. Yer parents may remain here for as long as they need.”

He spoke as if these provisions had already become facts. He didn’t boast while speaking, and he asked for nothing in return.