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I try to pull away and nearly wince as my heel protests the movement.
He notices.
“It’s your feet, aye,” he says, already scanning the yard for something serviceable. “You’ve been on them since dawn.”
“I’ve been on them longer than that most days.”
“And you’ll be off them now,” he replies easily, jogging off and returning with an overturned crate. He sets it down with a decisive thud. “Sit.”
“I dinnae need—”
“Ellen.”
There’s no teasing in it now. Only quiet insistence.
And to my irritation, I’m too tired to argue, so I sit.
Robert crouches in front of me as if this is the most ordinary thing in the world. “Best we take these off before you do yourself a mischief,” he says, nodding at my boots. “You hurt yourself too much and you’ll be no use to anyone tomorrow.”
“I’m not some fragile thing,” I mutter.
“No,” he agrees mildly. “You’re worse. You’re stubborn.”
Despite myself, I huff a breath.
He works the laces loose, quick and efficient. “Though,” he adds lightly, “it would be a terrible shame if you missed something important.”
“Oh?”
“Aye. Something awfully funny, like James’s kilt catchin’ the wind at the right moment.”
The laugh that rolls out of me is proper and loud.
Robert’s mouth twitches. “There she is.”
“Ye’re an awful sneak,” I tell him, shaking my head.
“Me?” He presses a hand to his chest in mock offence. “Those two lassies were bellowin’ their hopes for the whole of Sinclair land to hear. I merely caught it. Along with your response.”
I narrow my eyes. “How much did ye catch, exactly?”
“Enough,” he replies mildly. “Hard not to pay attention when a lady such as yourself is defending a man’s honour like that.”
Heat rushes to my face. “That’s no’ what I was doin’.”
“Alright,” he says, far too satisfied. “If you say so.”
He sits back on his heels. “For what it’s worth, I agree with you.”
“Oh?”
“He’s no prize bull to be prodded and judged. Though,” he adds, glancing toward the yard, “the bull comparison would flatter him.”
“Robert.”
He laughs softly. “I’m only sayin’.”
“Ye’re nearly as bad as Róisín.”
