Page 91 of The Laird’s Wrong Wife

“I like wakin’ beside him,” she said. “The children come in before we have risen and speak to us as if they have always seen us together. He listens to Tommy’s long explanations, and Paisley asks his opinion after she has made her decision.” She ran her thumb along a fold in the linen. “At night, I listen to his breathin’. I didnae ken how much I would depend on that sound.”

Muriel studied her face. “So he is happy, then.”

“He is… restrained.”

“Oh well, that has always been his identity. Oscar has been restrained since birth. Ye could tell me that he frowned at the midwife, and I would believe ye.”

Ceana laughed, then pressed a hand to her side until the lingering tenderness beneath her ribs subsided. “I like to think his present restraint is more troublesome.”

Muriel’s eyebrows rose. “Ah.”

“Daenae look so pleased. Ye daenae have to share a bed with him.”

“Oh well, I have only been here a week, and I can tell he is much calmer with ye around.” Muriel picked up another yarrow stem. “He may become insufferably proud when ye give him another bairn though, so if I were ye, I wouldnae look forward to that.”

Ceana’s hand stilled on the cloth. “Oscar doesnae intend to have more children.”

The stem broke between Muriel’s fingers. “What?” She blinked. “He told ye that?”

Ceana nodded. “Aye. Before we wed, and again on our weddin’ night. He has kept to it since.”

Muriel looked toward the door, as though her brother might be standing beyond it with an explanation. “So what in God’s name do the two of ye do in the same bed every night?”

Ceana held her solemn expression for as long as she could. “We sleep. And suffer.”

Muriel laughed first, and Ceana joined her, lowering her forehead to her forearm when her ribs began to ache. Once she could breathe comfortably, she raised her head and found Muriel wiping moisture from beneath one eye.

“I suppose he is much more restrained than when he was young,” Ceana added. “After the bath the other day, all he did was lie beside me.”

Muriel covered her mouth, her shoulders shaking.

“I am his wife,” Ceana continued. “I want him, and he wants me. Every night he holds himself away until sleep takes him. Then he reaches for me. By mornin’, his restraint has returned.”

Muriel lowered her hand. “When we were children, I used to climb the orchard wall after he forbade it. Once, he saw me at the top and went so quiet that I climbed down simply to make him speak. He didnae scold me until both me feet touched the ground.”

Ceana pictured Oscar beside her in the dark, his body tense and his answers reduced to a few rough words. “Fear makes him quiet.”

“It always has.”

At that moment, a loud bang sounded in the passage. Ceana pushed back from the table, while Muriel reached for the small knife beside the herbs. The bang came again, like wood striking stone.

Muriel raised one finger and crossed to the door. Ceana followed, and a gust of wind moved through the narrow passage when Muriel opened the door. When they saw no one, Muriel slowly lowered the knife. Ceana held the shutter while Muriel fitted its hook into an unbroken eye.

“What was that?” Ceana asked.

“Probably the wind,” Muriel responded, brushing rust from her fingertips. “I suppose the rainy season is drawin’ near.”

Soon enough, they were back in the surgery, and Ceana reclaimed her seat among the linen bundles.

“I spent years expectin’ an empty bed for the rest of me life,” she said. “I could picture it without fear.” Muriel took the chair across from her as she pressed her nearly healed palm to the linen. “Marriage taught me to listen for Oscar. I wake up when he turns away from me. If he chose another chamber, I would lie awake listenin’ for footsteps that never came.”

Muriel reached across the table and covered Ceana’s hand with her own. “Then tell him. He may think stayin’ away is another way to keep ye safe.”

“Oh, he kens,” Ceana responded, looking up at the ceiling.

“Maybe he doesnae,” Muriel whispered. “Men can be incredibly clueless.”

“Trust me,” Ceana sighed, looking back at her. “He kens.”