Page 52 of Twelfth Knight’s Bride

He cut himself short. No more sentimental nonsense. After all that had passed and their passionate embrace now, as he whispered sweet nothings like a milksop to his mistress, she hadn’t corrected him about her intent to leave. Yet she was smiling warmly at him. Sakes, she was in sore need of washing, as was he.

“Look at ye,” he murmured playfully, “covered in blood like a hellion delivered from battle.”

“Go on, man,” she said with a giggle and pushed him away. “We make a scene, and ye no doubt have work to do in the aftermath of this reave. It always took my brother days to refortify…”

She looked away, catching herself, and he tried to swallow the distaste of her remark.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, unable to look back up at him. “I always speak before thinking, and forget how my words might be received.”

She maneuvered around him, breaking contact, and began collecting her salves and supplies into her basket. Guardsmen were helping the injured stand and hobble to their barrack.

He forced a smile, following her, coming up from behind as she hoisted the basket onto her arm.

Guiding her face over her shoulder to his, he leaned down and placed a peck upon her lips, his other hand resting on her hip. “I’ve helped yer people. Ye’ve helped mine. I ken ye didnae mean to spike me with barbs and wish nay to dwell on it. The past is”—he looked away, too, then nodded—“painful. But the future doesnae need to be.”

She nodded, squeezing his forearm, then strode across the bailey. He walked beside her, up the steps, and opened the door since his usual guardsmen were occupied elsewhere.

She stopped in the doorway, smiled, and fingered his bejeweled brooch clasping his tartan at his shoulder as if it needed intense inspection, then a droplet of blood onto his shoulder caused her brow to crease.

“Ye’re bloodied as well.” Her fingers splayed into his hair, over his temple.

“I’m fine,” he assured her, basking in the gentle inspection of a woman concerned for his well-being.

“Ye’re nay injured elsewhere, are ye? Do ye need me to tend a wound?”

“Should I injure myself, then, so as to have yer hands upon me?” he teased, another smile shimmering across his lips.

She blushed. Sakes, this lass—bold one moment, blushing the next. He chuckled as she batted his arm.

“Ye promised my family ye’d take no liberties,” she warned him, and yet a cheeky smile danced upon her lips as she glanced up from beneath her lashes.

“In sooth, ye seem to have a taste for such liberties, too, lass. Do nay blame it all on me,” he jested.

She giggled. “True, aye. It’s only taking liberties if a woman rejects yer advances…”

She sashayed away, a coy smile upon her lips as she glanced back at him.

He cupped his hand around his mouth. “And do ye reject them again?”

Disappearing into a corridor across the hall, she paused, flashed him another tantalizing smile, then left him rooted like an eejit, deciphering what it meant.

“Are ye all right, laird?” Anag curtsied to gain his attention.

“I…what?”

How long had he been blocking the door? She was waiting before him, clearly trying to exit, with an armload in hand.

“Aye.” He stepped aside so she might pass, and the meaning of Aileana’s smile finally struck like a kirk bell.

Did it mean she wanted him? At least, wanted more of him? Had his gesture of goodwill affected her that she would give this marriage consideration now? Fool that he was, he pivoted to return to his men and establish a tally of damages and depleted supplies with a merry skip to his heart. Mayhap this would all work out in the end, and he’d create the peace his father had seemed to want toward the end of his life. An alliance. Mayhap she would choose to stay.

Chapter Twelve

3rd of January

“It’s good to see my wee brother so happy,” Brighde said at Aileana’s side, and Aileana hid her amusement at the thought of a wee James. “He cannae keep his eyes from ye for long, and when he does look at ye, he cannae seem to wipe that smitten look from his face.”

Aileana waved her off as they sipped the potent mead, a cask tapped tonight to celebrate their victory yesterday that had taken well into the night to recover from. She inched closer to the smoldering Yule log to feel the heat warm her skirts and back while Jamie talked with Angus across the hall, idly stroking one of his wolfhound’s heads. Her basket of ashen twigs lay unfinished beside her, but she and Brighde had long since abandoned the task.