Chapter 4 #2
Scarlett sat in Gundor’s garden, her skirts spread carelessly over the stone bench and the sketchbook propped against her knees.
Charcoal smudged her fingertips, and a streak darkened her cheek where she’d brushed her hair back too quickly, but she didn’t care.
Out here, she could breathe. Out here, she was herself.
She shaded the heavy wall of the keep, dragging the line down into a shadow when she sensed someone standing behind her.
The light shifted, and her pages dimmed.
Scarlett’s hand stilled, and she slowly looked up to see who had interrupted her.
Robert McLaren loomed over her with his broad shoulders, his plaid catching the morning wind.
Scarlett’s mouth went dry though she forced her chin higher. “Lurking suits ye, Me Laird. Ye nearly scared me into ruining the whole page.”
His eyes dropped to the sketchbook then back to her. “Ye’re an artist.”
Scarlett smirked, lifting her charcoal-stained fingers. “That’s what the mess would suggest, aye. Or perhaps I’ve been digging in the hearth for amusement.”
He didn’t bite into her jab. “It explains yer hands. When we first met in the hall, they were blackened.”
Her brows rose. “Ye noticed?” “I notice more than ye think.”
Scarlett’s pulse jumped before she managed to glance back at the page. She hated how her cheeks warmed under his watch. “Well, now ye’ve solved that riddle, perhaps ye’ll let me finish?”
Robert crouched, lowering his height. He studied the half-formed lines for a long moment. “Ye wouldnae want to neglect the bairns once they come. Yer attention will be theirs, nae parchment.”
Scarlett froze.
She turned her head slowly, her neck stiff, as if she were tracking a sound she wasn't sure she’d actually heard. Her breath hitched, caught in the back of her throat. She searched his face, her eyes darting across his features, waiting for the punchline or the retraction that didn't come.
“Neglect them? Is that what ye’re accusing me of before they even exist? That I’d leave them hungry while I sketch daisies?”
His mouth tightened, obviously unbothered by her flare. “I accuse ye of nothing. I state only facts. Duty comes before idle pastimes.”
Scarlett’s hand clenched around the charcoal. “Idle? This is nae idleness. Perhaps me bairns will sit here with me, sketching their own castles and flowers. What then?”
“Then I’ll have children too distracted to lift a sword when the clan needs them.”
Her temper spiked hotter. “Better distracted with beauty than trained into brooding statues.”
For the first time, something shifted in his expression. It lasted only a second before it was gone.
Scarlett saw it, and it rattled her more than his silence. She lifted the charcoal stick and jabbed it vaguely toward his chest, scrambling for words. “I—I’ll have ye ken, me art has use. If—if someone wanted, I could…well—” She faltered, heat crawling up her throat. “Maps! Aye, I could draw maps.”
Robert’s brow arched, and his lips twitched again. “Maps?” Her grip faltered. “Aye. Battle maps, even.”
His lips curved once more, not quite a smile but close. “Is that yer defense? That ye’ll sketch maps while I fight?”
Scarlett pressed her lips together then huffed. “Ye’ve a cruel way of twisting things.”
“Only to see how ye’ll answer.”
Her heart gave a wild beat. “Ye enjoy this, teasing me.”
“I’m nae the one to have time to jest.” His gaze flickered to her mouth then back to her eyes. “But perhaps I enjoy watching ye stumble when ye think yerself certain.”
Scarlett bristled, desperate to reclaim ground. “Well, stumble or nae, I’ll keep me art. And if me bairns have half me stubbornness, they’ll keep it too.”
Robert straightened. “Perhaps we shouldnae decide yet what talents our bairns will have.”
Scarlett tilted her head, suspicious. “And why is that?” “Because we havenae made one yet.”
Scarlett froze, and her hand tightened on the charcoal, smearing it further across her fingers. Her lips parted, but nothing came out.
He watched her, patient, as though waiting for the stammer he knew would follow.
“I—well—aye, but…that’s—” She lifted the charcoal stick again, pointing it at his chest with mock severity. “Ye’re impossible!”
Robert’s mouth curved, that shadow of a smirk tugging at the corner. “And ye’re far too easy to unsettle.”
Scarlett lowered the stick slowly, trying to gather what dignity she had left. “One day, Me Laird, ye’ll find I can give as good as I get.”
He leaned in, close enough that she inhaled sharply. “I look forward to it.”
For a moment, neither of them moved. The air between them was tight, as if the slightest breath would shatter the silence.
Then Robert straightened. "Duty first," he said.
He turned and headed back toward the castle. He didn't look back. His shoulders were set, his pace steady and unhurried, as if the last ten minutes hadn't happened at all.
Scarlett stayed where she was. She didn't slump. She didn't let out the breath she was holding. She watched him go, her gaze fixed on the broad line of his back until he disappeared through the gates.
She looked down at her sketchbook. The wall she’d been drawing was a ruin of black streaks. The charcoal had smudged across the paper where her grip had tightened, dragging the image into a blurred mess.
She stared at the ruined page for a long moment, her thumb tracing the edge of the paper. Then she gripped the corner and turned to a blank page.