Chapter 25
Frederick stirred beneath the warmth pressed against him. The weight of her, the soft curve of her body fitted along his side, the steady rise and fall of her breath against his chest, all of it held him in place more firmly than any sense of duty ever had.
Iona had not left.
For a long moment, he simply watched her.
The early light crept through the narrow window, casting a faint glow across her features.
Her hair lay loose about her shoulders, a dark spill against the linens, and one of her hands rested lightly against him as though she had reached for him even in her sleep.
I should rise. There were matters that required his attention. There were men to speak with, lands to oversee, and a council that would expect him before long. Yet none of it seemed to carry weight enough to draw him away.
Instead, his hand lifted of its own accord.
His fingers traced slowly along her arm, from shoulder to wrist, then back again, as though acquainting himself with something newly discovered.
He let his thumb brush lightly over her skin, testing the softness of it, watching for the slightest shift in her expression.
When she did not stir, he allowed himself a little more boldness, his hand moving upward to her shoulder, then to the line of her neck.
“Ye will make a poor laird of me,” he murmured quietly, though there was no true complaint in it.
His hand stilled for a moment at her throat before he leaned in, pressing a soft kiss just beneath her ear. Another followed along her jaw, unhurried, as though he had nowhere else to be and no better task to attend.
That seemed to be enough to wake her.
Iona stirred against him, her breath catching faintly as her eyes opened, unfocused at first before settling upon him. The realization of their closeness came swiftly, and with it, the bloom of color across her cheeks.
“Ye are awake,” he said, a faint note of satisfaction threading through his voice.
“I am now,” she replied, her voice soft, though the embarrassment in it was plain.
He watched as she seemed to gather herself, as though she might pull away, but she did not. Instead, she remained where she was, though her gaze flickered briefly as if uncertain where to rest.
“That is a curious look for a woman who chose to remain,” he observed.
Her eyes returned to his at once. “I didnae…,” she said sleepily, though there was no real force behind it. “I fell asleep.”
“Aye,” he said, his hand moving again, this time brushing lightly along her cheek. “And ye didnae flee when ye woke in the night?”
Her lips parted as though to answer, but no words came at once. The color in her cheeks deepened, though she did not turn away from him.
“I suppose I didnae,” she admitted at last.
He studied her for a moment, something quieter settling beneath the lightness of the exchange. There had been other mornings. Other times. And each had ended the same way, with absence where he had expected presence.
Not this time.
“Ye left me once,” he said, his tone shifting just enough to draw her attention fully. “With less coin than I had begun the evening with.”
Her eyes widened for a brief instant before a soft laugh escaped her, the sound warm and unguarded in a way that pleased him more than it should have.
“I told ye I would repay ye,” she said.
“Aye, that ye did.”
“And I still intend to,” she added, lifting her chin slightly as though to reinforce the point.
His mouth curved at that, the expression slow and deliberate as he regarded her.
“I wonder how ye mean to settle such a debt,” he said.
Her gaze faltered for a moment, then steadied again, though the faintest hint of uncertainty lingered there.
“I shall find a way,” she replied. “Have faith.”
He let out a quiet breath, something close to a laugh, though softer.
“Iona,” he said, her name low and thoughtful. “Ye have given me far more than any coin could measure.”
She stilled at that, the lightness between them easing into something more grounded.
“A daughter,” he continued, his hand resting lightly at her waist. “And a bride who doesnae flee at first light. I would say the debt has been well settled.”
Her expression shifted then, the humor fading into something quieter, something that held both warmth and hesitation. He watched it carefully, noting the way her fingers curled slightly against the fabric between them.
“That is… a generous accounting,” she said.
“I am glad ye agree with me.”
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The quiet of the chamber settled around them again, though it felt different now, filled rather than empty.
His hand moved once more, this time more deliberately, tracing along her side before settling at the small of her back, drawing her just slightly closer. He did not rush the motion. He gave her time to resist if she chose to.
She did not.
Instead, she shifted toward him, her breath soft against his throat as her hand came to rest more firmly against his chest.
He lowered his head again, pressing another kiss to her temple, then to her cheek, slower now, more certain in the intent behind each touch.
“Ye blush as though we are strangers,” he murmured.
“It isnae for ye, it is just… this is all foreign to us,” she replied, though her voice remained quiet.
“Nae anymore, lass,” he said.
His lips brushed along the line of her jaw, lingering just long enough to draw a faint breath from her before he pulled back slightly to look at her again.
“And yet ye look at me as though ye are unsure what to do with me.”
She hesitated, then gave the smallest of smiles.
“Well— perhaps I am,” she said.
That answer seemed to please him more than any practiced reply might have.
“Then I suppose I shall need to give ye lessons,” he said.
“Aye,” she replied softly. “Or just time to learn.”
“I can do whichever ye wish, lass. Only ye just say the word.”
“Time then, please.”
Please. The word lingered in the silence between them.
He watched her a moment longer, committing the look of her to memory in a way he did not question. Then, though it cost him more than he expected, he drew in a breath and shifted slightly, as though preparing at last to rise.
“Very good, ye will have it,” he said cheerfully, but the weight of the hand that had not yet left her grew heavier.
Her gaze flickered toward the door, then back to him.
“Go on then,” she agreed. “I refuse to be the reason for such delay.”
Iona propped herself upon one elbow, her hair loose and falling forward as she studied him with a softness that did not quite hide the concern beneath it.
He held her gaze for a moment. She is quite gorgeous in this light.
“There is a day waiting beyond that door, lass, and I have kept it so for far too long,” he said reluctantly.
“And I would nae have ye neglect yer laird-ly duties,” she replied in jest, but her next comment was softer. “Even if I would prefer otherwise.”
That drew the faintest hint of a smile from him, though it did not linger long.
“I shall return before the day is done,” he said. “Right back here to ye.”
She inclined her head, accepting that, though her gaze remained steady on him as he finally rose and began to dress.
He did not rush, though he could feel the pull of time pressing upon him now.
When he glanced back once more, she had drawn the blankets about herself, though her eyes had not left him.
Something in that look stayed with him as he stepped out into the corridor.
The keep had already come to life, voices carrying faintly through the stone halls, the distant sound of movement and purpose beginning to build.
He moved through it with practiced ease, offering brief acknowledgments where needed, his mind already shifting toward the matters that required his attention.
He had not gone far before Lennox found him.
“Laird,” Lennox said, falling into step beside him with little ceremony. “I was on me way to ye.”
Frederick glanced toward him. “What is it? Any more news?”
Lennox hesitated, which was unlike him, and that alone drew Frederick’s attention more fully.
“It is Erin,” Lennox said. “She is… nae herself this morning.”
Frederick’s brow furrowed slightly. “In what way?”
“She is more distracted than usual,” Lennox replied. “Muttering to herself. Sending folk away. Caitlin said she near burned a poultice she had made a hundred times before.”
Frederick slowed his pace. Erin was not a woman given to carelessness, nor to distraction without cause.
“Has she taken ill?” he asked.
“I daenae think so,” Lennox said. “But she wouldnae answer me when I asked.”
Frederick changed direction, “I will meet you in the study shortly, Lennox.” His voice was clipped as his steps carried him toward the healer’s quarters.
The air there was quieter, the usual steady rhythm of work subdued. When he entered, he found Erin near the small table by the window, her hands resting still upon its surface as though she had forgotten what task she had meant to complete.
“Erin,” he said.
She did not startle at his presence, though she did not turn at once either. Instead, she seemed to draw in a slow breath before finally looking toward him.
“Ye have come,” she said.
“I was told ye are unwell,” Frederick replied.
She gave a small shake of her head. “Me body is as it has always been. It is the air that has changed.”
Frederick regarded her steadily. “Speak plainly.”
“Aye, ye always preferred that,” she said, though there was no sharpness in it. Only a strange sort of calm.
She stepped closer then, her gaze searching his face with an intensity that unsettled him more than he cared to admit.
“Trouble is coming,” she said.
The words settled between them, simple and without ornament, yet carrying weight all the same.
“We have known that for some time,” Frederick replied evenly. “There are threats beyond our lands that we are already addressing.”
She shook her head again, more firmly this time.
“Nay,” she said. “This is different. Ye feel it as well. Ye have for days now. I ken ye have.”
He did not answer at once.
“I deal in what I can see and prove,” he said after a moment. “Nae in feelings.”
“Aye,” she murmured. “And that has served ye well. But it will nae serve ye now.”
Something in her tone struck too close, echoing thoughts he had not given voice to.
“Ye carry too much alone,” she continued. “Ye always have. Ye think it is strength. Ye think it is what is required of ye.”
“It is,” he said.
“Nae this time,” she replied quietly.
The certainty in her voice held him still.
“Then what would ye have me do?” he asked.
“Let them stand beside ye,” she said. “The ones who would choose it. The ones who already have.”
His jaw tightened slightly. “I willnae ask for burdens to be shared.”
“Nay,” she said. “But that is the trouble.”
They stood in silence for a moment longer before she reached out, placing a hand briefly against his arm, the gesture light yet grounding.
“Daenae wait until ye cannae bear it,” she said.
He inclined his head, though he gave no promise in return. “I will see that ye are tended to,” he said instead.
She gave a faint, knowing look. “Och! I am well enough, daenae waste those poor laddies on me. They have better things to do.”
His eyes lingered on her at the edge of the room. Her movements were precise, and her mumbling had ceased. Frederick left more confused by the old woman’s actions and words than he had ever been before.
What had she meant by “cannae bear it”? And “Let them stand beside ye”?
When Erin had turned her back to add more wood to the flames, he had walked back up the stairs to the great hall. Gnawing on every word she said to him, as if the next hour of repetition would yield anything more than what he already knew.
The remainder of the day passed in a steady progression of tasks, yet his thoughts did not settle as they should have. Orders were given, reports reviewed, men spoken to, and still there remained a quiet tension beneath it all, as though something waited just beyond reach.
By the time evening came, he found himself in the Great Hall, the fire casting a warm glow across the space as voices carried more lightly now. Iona sat nearby, Jamie beside her, the child speaking animatedly of something that had clearly captured her interest.
Frederick paused at the threshold for a moment, watching them. It was a simple sight, and yet it drew him forward all the same.
“Da,” Jamie said at once when she noticed him, her face brightening.
“Aye, lass,” he replied, crossing the room to them.
“We were speaking of the horses,” she said eagerly. “And how I shall care for mine.”
“Ye shall,” he said. “If ye continue as ye have begun.”
Iona watched the exchange quietly, a softness in her gaze that had become more familiar of late.
Before more could be said, the doors at the far end of the hall opened, and a servant stepped forward.
“Me laird,” he said. “Laird O’Donnell has arrived. He requests an audience.”
Frederick straightened slightly. “Show him in.”
A moment later, Archer entered, his presence carrying with it an ease that contrasted with the weight Frederick still felt lingering from the day.
“Frederick,” Archer greeted. “I trust I find ye well.”
“Well enough, Archer. How are you?” Frederick replied.
Iona began to rise, her hand moving to guide Jamie with her. “We shall leave ye to speak,” she said.
“Nay,” Frederick said at once, his gaze shifting to her. “Stay.”
She hesitated, clearly surprised by the request.
“Are ye certain?” she asked.
“Aye,” he said. “There is nay need for ye to go.”
Jamie looked between them, then slipped from her seat. “I shall find Caitlin,” she said, already moving toward the door.
Frederick watched her go, then turned his attention back to the room, where Iona had settled once more, though there was a question in her eyes that had not yet been answered.
Archer took in the scene with quiet interest, though he said nothing of it.
“Then it seems I have come at a fortunate hour,” Archer said lightly.
Frederick did not reply at once, though he felt, for the first time that day, that perhaps Erin’s words had not been entirely misplaced.