Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
Robert had not closed his eyes all night.
He sat alone in his study the next morning, the heavy chair pulled close to the hearth though the fire did little to warm him. His shoulders ached, not from the journey but from the strain of holding himself still when every nerve in his body had screamed to move, to act, and to claim.
It should have been simple, right? She was his wife, and it was his duty. And yet when he had stood in her chamber, within reach of her lips and her soft, breathless voice, he had done nothing.
Fool.
If she’d looked at him with hunger instead of nerves, he’d have taken her last night and been done with it. But she’d stood there breathing hard, bracing herself as if for a blow. It wasn't want on her face, it was endurance.
His mother had worn that same expression every day of the last year of her life, waiting for his father to come back to himself. He’d never forgotten the hollow look of a woman simply waiting for it to be over.
He’d walked out of the room before he could think too long about why it mattered that Scarlett looked the same. He didn't want a martyr in his bed, and he didn't want to be the man who made her one.
Robert dragged a hand across his mouth, scowling. He despised weakness in others but loathed it most in himself. The truth clawed at him; it had taken every ounce of control he possessed to step back. And even now, in the gray light of morning, Scarlett was still in his mind.
He muttered aloud to the empty chamber. “An heir, that is all. A body to give me a son, nay more. She’ll have nothing else from me.”
The door to the study swung open.
Leon walked in without knocking as he always did, a whetstone in one hand and his sword balanced carelessly in the other. He leaned the blade against the wall, brushing ash from his sleeves. “Ye look as though ye fought three battles in yer sleep, Rob. Tell me, is marriage such a trial?”
Robert’s glare snapped toward him. “I did nae summon ye.”
Leon smirked, dropping into the chair opposite the hearth. “Nay, but I could smell the brooding from the corridor. Thought I’d save the servants from it.”
“I’ve nay patience for yer humor this morning.”
“Humor? Saints, I came for answers.” Leon leaned forward, lowering his voice in mock seriousness. “How was the Laird’s first night with his new bride? Should I be congratulating ye or fetching a priest?”
Robert’s hand clenched tight on the arm of his chair. “Ye’ll hold yer tongue.”
Leon chuckled. “So that’s how it is, then. Ye left her untouched.”
The silence that followed was damning.
Leon let out a low whistle. “By all that’s holy. Robert McLaren, the man who never hesitated to take what was his, suddenly finds restraint in his own chamber. Saints preserve us.”
Robert rose from the chair in one sharp movement, pacing in front of the hearth. “I willnae be lectured on me marriage.”
“This is nae a lecture,” Leon said, still grinning. “It’s astonishment. Ye’ve a wife most men would kill to have at their table, and ye spend the night staring at the fire instead of at her.”
Robert stopped at the mantel, bracing his hands against the stone. “Enough.”
Leon raised a brow. “Then tell me, what gnaws at ye so fierce ye cannae close yer eyes? It’s nae the lass herself. Ye barely ken her. What is it, then?”
For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, slowly, the words came, flat and cold. “The alliance with Gallaway… it buys me time.”
Leon leaned back in his chair. “Time is worth plenty.”
“But nae loyalty.” Robert’s tone was bitter. “Aaron Gallaway gave me his sister, aye, but nae his sword. His men may stand in the hall, but they willnae bleed for me. The McLarens still stand alone.”
Leon studied him a moment then shrugged. “Then the question is this, will the lass give ye what ye need? An heir. A future for the clan. Can she bear ye a child?”
Robert turned. “She can. She’s young, strong, and healthy. That’s nae the question.”
“Then what is?”
Robert’s voice dropped lower. “How to sire an heir without her mistaking it for more. How to keep her from fastening herself where I’ll never allow it.”
Leon blinked then barked out a laugh. “That’s it? Saints alive, Rob, ye twist yerself into knots over shadows. She’s a wife, nae a curse.”
"I watched a man of me own blood love a woman so completely that when she died, he forgot everything else existed. The clan. His sons. Himself." Robert’s voice was flat, stripped of any warmth. "I watched him sit in the dark and wait to join her while his people starved. I willnae repeat that."
He looked away, his jaw set like iron. "I’ll have a wife. I’ll have an heir. But I willnae have a master, and I willnae have a heart that breaks when a woman stops breathing."
Leon spread his hands in mock surrender. “So that’s yer grand plan, bed her like a stranger and send her off to weep in her own chamber?”
Robert’s mouth hardened. “If it keeps her safe, aye. Better distance than disappointment.”
Leon tilted his head, studying him. “Safe? From what? From her own heart? Rob, she’ll want more whether ye give it or nae. That’s what wives do. That’s what keeps clans whole. And ye can brood about it till the walls crumble, but it willnae change.”
Robert turned back to the fire. “Then I’ll see that it doesnae happen.”
Leon leaned forward, his grin fading into something steadier.
“Listen to me, ye think too much. Ye carry legacy like it’s a chain round yer neck.
But it’s simple enough—make her yer wife proper.
Be done with it. The clan will have its heir, the men will have their faith, and ye can stop burning holes into the hearth with yer scowl. ”
Leon stood, stretching as though the conversation had ended on his path. “I’ll say it plain, Rob. Ye’ve fought wars with less brooding than this marriage. Claim her, and settle it. Stop acting as though the lass is a storm waiting to swallow ye whole.”
Robert’s eyes cut to him, cold and hard. “Ye think it that simple.” Leon smirked. “It is. Yer the only one making it otherwise.”
The door creaked as he pulled it open. He glanced back once more; his voice was laced with wry humor. “Best hurry, Rob. A wife unattended is like ale left out too long: someone else will take it, and it’ll sour in yer hand.”
Robert shot him a look that promised retribution, but Leon only laughed, disappearing into the hall.
Alone again, Robert braced both hands against the mantel, staring into the fire until his vision blurred.
He closed his eyes. It wasn’t her mouth or her voice that stayed with him, it was the way she’d stood her ground. Chin up, spine like a rod of iron, refusing to let him see the cost of the breath she took. She’d looked like someone who had spent years practicing how not to flinch.
He didn't want to know who had taught her that.
"Hell." He said it under his breath, the word heavy with a frustration he’d been trying to ignore.
He stayed where he was, his boots rooted to the floor. He didn't go back to her door. He told himself that counted for something, even as the heat of her stayed under his skin.
Scarlett stirred when the curtains were drawn back and light spilled into the chamber in a bright rush. She buried her face into the pillow with a groan.
“Rise and shine, Me Lady,” Mary’s cheerful voice chimed, full of far too much energy for the early hour. “The castle’s already alive, and they’ll be expecting their lady to greet them.”
Scarlett rolled onto her back, blinking against the light. “It cannae be morning already. Tell them I’ve taken ill, or better yet, tell them I’ve died.”
Mary laughed, bustling about as though she hadn’t heard the complaint at all. “Nay, none of that. Ye’re the Lady of Gundor now, and there’s nay hiding in yer bed. The servants are whispering, the men are waiting, and even the bairns are curious about their new mistress.”
Scarlett pulled the blankets tighter around herself. “They’ll manage another hour without me.”
Mary clucked her tongue. “Another hour, and they’ll be hammering on the door themselves. Up with ye.”
With a dramatic sigh, Scarlett swung her legs over the edge of the bed and stood. “Fine. But let it be known, I go unwillingly to me fate.”
Mary only shook her head, amused. “Och, listen to her, sounding like she’s marching to the gallows.”
Scarlett padded across the chamber and paused at the window. For the first time since arriving, she looked beyond the stone walls.
Rolling hills stretched as far as her eyes could see, patched in greens and golds with the river glinting like silver ribbon between them.
Beyond, the high peaks of the mountains pierced the sky, their tops still frosted white.
Closer, gardens wound around the castle grounds, rows of herbs and bright blossoms already stirring in the morning breeze.
Scarlett leaned forward with her hand against the glass. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered.
Mary joined her. “Aye. Gundor has its stern edges, but it’s a bonnie land. Ye’ll grow to love it.”
Scarlett turned, her earlier sulk forgotten. “Then that settles it. I’ll meet the people later. Right now, I want to go to the gardens.”
Mary blinked. “The gardens?”
Scarlett nodded firmly. “Aye. I need me charcoal and parchment. That view, it begs to be captured. The colors, the light... Mary, I could paint it all day.”
Mary planted her hands on her hips. “And what shall I tell the men and women waiting to see ye?”
“Tell them their new lady has found her first duty.” Scarlett smiled with a spark in her eyes. “To see this beauty and set it down before it vanishes.”
Mary chuckled, shaking her head. “Saints save us, the lady of the house wants to chase flowers instead of speeches.”
Scarlett grinned. “Better flowers than forced pleasantries.”
And for the first time since leaving Hallow, her laughter filled the chamber.