Chapter 7 #2
Her lips parted. She should have run, should have looked away, but she was caught, pinned by the force of that stare.
Katie muttered under her breath, “Saints preserve us, he’s looking at ye like ye’re supper.”
Scarlett’s cheeks burned. She gripped the sketchbook until the charcoal smeared black against her fingers, but her feet stayed rooted to the grass. She was exposed, her morning restlessness laid bare, yet she couldn't force herself to turn away.
Robert didn't move either.
He stood a few paces off, his gaze fixed on her with a weight that made the air feel suddenly thin. Neither of them spoke. The only sound was the wind in the heather, and the steady, heavy thud of her heart against her ribs.
Robert’s gaze didn’t waver. Not until Leon hauled himself up, dusted off, and barked a laugh.
“Saints, man, ye’ll have nae strength left for yer bride if ye keep swinging like that.”
Leon hauled himself up from the grass, still laughing. Robert didn't join in. He offered a curt nod, turned, and headed back toward the practice yard. He didn't look back.
Scarlett didn't wait. She just walked, her pace quickening with every step toward the keep. She pressed the sketchbook flat against her chest, the hard edges of the cover digging into her skin.
She wanted the weight of it to slow her heart. It didn't. By the time she reached the stone steps, her pulse was still racing. The heat of the morning, and the weight of Robert's gaze, clinging to her like a fever.
“I daenae want to hear another word from ye, Katie.”
Katie laughed, trotting after her. “Aye, but ye’ll be hearing more, for I’ve plenty to say.”
Scarlett hissed through her teeth, but her thoughts betrayed her, circling back again and again to Robert’s stare, hard, hungry, and impossible to forget.
The water steamed in the copper tub, filling Scarlett’s chamber with a faint haze. She sank into it with a sigh, the heat soothing her bones after a day in the gardens.
Mary knelt at her side, rolling her sleeves as she dipped a cloth in the water.
“Charcoal again,” she muttered, scrubbing firmly at Scarlett’s fingertips.
“Every time I turn me back, ye’re out there smudging yerself like a bairn with ink.
Lady of the castle shouldnae look like she’s been wrestling soot. ”
Scarlett laughed, leaning back against the rim of the tub. “Then I’ll disappoint ye daily, Mary. I’ve never been a proper lady, and I daenae plan to start now.”
Mary snorted though her hands didn’t slow. “Ye stubborn thing. At least wash yer hands afore supper, aye? Folks might forgive a smudge or two but not when the Laird’s at yer side.”
Scarlett raised a brow. “He doesnae look at me hands all the time.”
Mary gave her a look sharp enough to make her cheeks warm. “Ye’d be surprised what men notice when ye think they daenae.”
Before Scarlett could answer, a voice piped up from across the chamber. Hannah, the younger maid, was folding towels into a neat stack. “Speaking of men, the clan council’s been calling for the Laird.”
Scarlett turned her head, curious. “What for?”
Hannah hesitated then blurted, “Some say they’ll force his hand if he doesnae give them an heir soon.”
The words dropped like a stone. Scarlett’s fingers curled around the tub’s edge.
Mary’s head snapped up. “That’s enough; get out of here.” Hannah flushed bright red, fumbling the towels. “I was only—” “Out!” Mary barked.
Hannah fled, nearly tripping on her skirts as she darted from the room.
Silence stretched, broken only by the drip of water. Scarlett stared at the ripples in front of her. “Is it true?”
Mary’s shoulders sagged. She wrung the cloth in her hands, avoiding Scarlett’s eyes. “There’s talk.”
Scarlett pressed, her chest tight. “But talk’s not truth. That’s what ye’ll tell me, is it nae?”
Mary finally met her gaze, a frown etched deep on her face. “Talk’s nae the same as truth. But in a clan, talk spreads fast and loud. Folks want their laird to look strong. They think strength means heirs.”
Scarlett’s laugh came out hollow. “So I’m nae a wife, nae a woman. I’m a womb with a crown.”
Mary softened, her voice gentler. “Nae, lass. Ye’re more than that. I’ve seen the way folk light up when ye walk through the hall. They’ve taken to ye quicker than I thought. But aye, there’ll be pressure. Robert kens it, too.”
Scarlett stared at the rising steam, “And if he doesnae…?”
Mary squeezed her shoulder firmly, cutting her off. “Daenae borrow trouble. He’s the Laird. He’ll handle it.”
Scarlett bit her lip, unsure whether to laugh or scream.
Handle it how? By keeping me at arm’s length until it suits him to take what he wants?
She murmured instead, “I daenae even ken him, Mary. Not really. Only that he’s colder than stone one moment and—” she broke off, remembering the heat of his stare in the garden, “and then something else the next.”
Mary’s eyes softened, but she didn’t press. She simply smoothed back Scarlett’s damp hair in a motherly manner. “Give it time, lass. Castles were nae built in a day. Nor marriages.”
Scarlett gave a faint smile. “Spoken like a woman who’s nae married to a Laird.”
Mary chuckled. “Aye, thank the saints.”
Scarlett stared at the water until the ripples died away. The council wanted an heir. Robert wanted his distance. She stood in the center of a life built from other people’s demands, waiting for her own reflection to make sense in the gray Highland light.
She hadn't managed it yet.
She straightened her shoulders and looked at the cold stone of the keep. She was a Gallaway by blood and a McLaren by law, but as she turned back toward the castle, she realized she was still a stranger to both.