Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
The hall was still alive with chatter and pipes when Scarlett rose, offering polite smiles as she excused herself. Robert’s eyes tracked her retreat without shame, watching until the swish of her skirts disappeared beyond the archway.
Only then did he push back from the table. The scrape of his chair against stone made Mack startle beside Scarlett’s abandoned seat. “Little,” Robert said, voice flat.
Mack looked up, chewing hastily and nearly choking on his mouthful of venison. “Aye, Me Laird?” “Walk with me.”
Mack swallowed hard, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before fumbling for his napkin. “Of course, Me Laird. Right behind ye.”
Robert led him out of the hall, down a quieter corridor where the firelight dimmed and the noise of the feast dulled to a hum. When they reached a stretch where only the shadows of sconces moved, Robert stopped abruptly. Mack almost crashed into him.
Robert turned, his gaze like steel. “Pack yer things.” Mack blinked. “Eh?”
“Ye’ll leave tonight.”
Mack’s mouth opened and closed like a fish. “Tonight? Me Laird, with respect, what for? Have I… offended ye?”
Robert’s stare didn’t waver. “Ye’ll ride to the MacEwan lands. Their Laird’s wrestling unrest. Ye’ll see to it peace is kept.”
Mack gaped, color draining from his face. “The MacEwans? But that’s–that’s a week’s ride! Through half-frozen ground and wild hills. Why me?”
“Because I said so.”
Mack’s hands fluttered helplessly. “Laird, if I’ve spoken out of turn at supper, if I’ve troubled Lady Scarlett with too much chatter, I meant no harm. I only thought to be—”
Robert cut him off, “Me word’s final. I willnae stand here justifying me decisions to ye.”
Mack’s shoulders hunched. His lips pressed together as though he wanted to argue but thought better of it. “Aye, Me Laird.”
Robert stepped closer, the heat of his presence enough to send Mack stumbling a step back. “Do ye ken what keeps peace, Mack Little? It isnae endless talk. It is men learning their place.”
Mack swallowed audibly. “I… aye. I ken.”
“Good. Then ken this, ye’ll leave before dawn. Or I’ll have ye dragged from yer bed and sent with nothing but the clothes on yer back.”
Mack’s face flamed, shame and fear warring across it. “There’s nay need for that. I’ll go. I’ll—I’ll be ready.”
“See that ye are.”
A voice drifted from the shadows of the corridor. “Och, Robert, must ye always scare the piss out of folk with that voice of yers?”
Both men turned. Leon lounged against the wall, arms folded, watching with the laziest grin. “Poor Mack looks ready to faint.”
Mack’s eyes darted between them. “Master Leon, I… I didnae mean offense–”
Leon raised a hand. “Save yer breath, Mack. He’s made up his mind.” He turned to Robert, one brow cocked. “Ye truly sending him to the MacEwans? That godforsaken mud pit?”
Robert’s answer was clipped. “Aye. Tonight.”
Leon whistled low. “That’s colder than January. What’s he done to deserve it?”
“That’s between me and him,” Robert said.
Leon tilted his head, clearly amused. “Between him and ye, or between him and yer bonnie bride?”
Robert’s glare was answer enough. Leon chuckled. “Och, aye, I thought so.”
Mack sputtered. “I swear on me mother’s grave, I meant no disrespect to Lady Scarlett. I only offered her a seat—”
Robert snapped, voice ringing like a hammer on iron. “Enough. Ye’ll pack, and ye’ll leave. I willnae hear another word.”
Mack’s mouth clamped shut. He nodded furiously. “Aye, Me Laird. Aye. Right away.”
Leon pushed off the wall, sauntering closer. “I’ll see him gone, Robert. Ye go brood in peace. I’ll make sure the lad’s saddled and sent with half a loaf and a prayer.”
Robert’s eyes stayed locked on Mack. “He leaves with more than that. He’ll have enough men to keep order when he gets there. But nay more. He earns the rest.”
Mack dared to speak again, his voice barely above a whisper. “I… I thank ye, Laird. For the chance.”
Robert’s stare was unrelenting. “Don’t thank me. Do the work.”
Mack bobbed his head and all but fled down the hall, muttering promises under his breath.
Leon waited until the man’s footsteps had faded before letting out a low laugh. “Christ above, Robert. Ye nearly turned his breeches brown. The poor sod will be praying for snow to bury him rather than face ye again.”
Robert said nothing, his jaw set tight.
Leon clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Admit it. Ye could’ve sent any man to the MacEwans, but it wasnae clan business that had ye breathing fire. It was the way he smiled at Scarlett.”
Robert’s eyes cut to him, sharp. “Mind yer tongue.”
Leon grinned wider. “Och, struck the mark, did I? Ye’re green as a lad who has never touched a lass, watching her laugh at another man’s words.” Robert’s voice was low. “Leon.”
Leon leaned in, unconcerned. “Daenae look at me so. Ye can threaten the rest, but I ken ye too well. Ye’ve got her on yer mind day and night. And if Mack’s lucky, he’ll make it to MacEwan lands alive without ye riding him down for letting Scarlett smile at his jokes.”
Robert’s silence was telling. His fingers curled tight at his side, but he didn’t deny it.
Leon chuckled, shaking his head. “Astonishing, truly. Robert McLaren, the man colder than stone, was undone by a woman’s laugh.”
Robert’s lips pressed thin. “Enough.”
“Aye, aye,” Leon said, backing off with both palms raised. “I’ll see Mack off. Ye’ve me word.”
Robert finally let out a breath. “Do it. Tonight.”
Leon started down the hall, calling back with a smirk, “Och, and I’ll tell Mack to count his blessings. Better exiled to the MacEwans than six feet under yer boot.”
Robert stayed where he was after Leon's footsteps faded. The corridor was heavy with silence, broken only by the low hiss of a torch and the muffled roar of the feast below.
He had threatened a MacEwan simply for offering his wife a chair. He let the thought sit in the cold air, the sheer, irrational weight of it. It was a crack in his armor he hadn't seen coming. He didn't dwell on the warning; he didn't give himself time to turn back.
He turned and walked toward her chamber door. He didn't hesitate. He didn't think of duty. He just moved, his boots silent on the stone, pulled toward the one room in the castle he had no business entering.
Scarlett sat cross-legged on the rug before the fire, her sketchbook balanced across her lap.
The charcoal smudged her fingertips as she shaded the curve of a horse’s flank, one she’d glimpsed from her chamber window earlier that day, a spirited beast tossing its head as a stable lad clung for dear life.
The firelight danced across the page, making the lines shift like the horse itself had life in it. She leaned back, tilting her head, studying the proud arch of its neck.
Robert had looked the same in the hall earlier. Ready to bite, to rear, to trample any fool who dared come too near.
The memory of him sitting there, silent but seething, set her lips twitching. He’d tried so hard to appear unmoved, yet his jaw had clenched, his knuckles gone white on his tankard. He’d been fuming at Mack, at her, perhaps at himself, and Scarlett, wicked enough, had savored it.
“I swear,” she muttered under her breath, smudging the outline with the side of her thumb, “he looks just like this bloody horse.”
A soft laugh escaped her, the sound bouncing off the stones.
She could almost see him now: eyes dark as coal, nostrils flaring, every inch of him bristling with restrained fury.
She pressed harder with the charcoal, carving shadow into the beast’s neck, the way her mind carved Robert’s likeness into it.
The keep was hushed tonight. No bawdy laughter spilling from the hall, no clatter of mugs or booming voices. Only the fire’s quiet hiss, the faint whistle of wind through the shutters, and the steady scratch of charcoal across parchment.
Scarlett let her shoulders relax, sinking into the illusion of solitude. Here, with her drawings, she could almost forget the storm that was her husband… almost.
The door clicked open.
Her head jerked up. “Mary?” she called.
But it wasn’t Mary.
Robert filled the doorway, broad enough to block the light from the corridor behind him. His gaze locked on her at once, and her stomach flipped. The latch closed with a snap, and his boots struck the stone in slow, measured strides.
He didn’t pause until he stood just a breath away.
“Robert—” His name tumbled from her lips, half gasp and half question.
He didn’t answer. Not with words. His eyes burned down at her, and the firelight threw his face into sharp planes. He didn’t stop until the heat of his body pressed close, until she had to tilt her head back to meet his stare.
“What—what are ye doing here?” she demanded, forcing her voice steady.
“Sit,” he said. The single word fell like an order in the yard. Her chin rose. “Excuse me?”
“Sit by me,” he repeated, his tone harder. “Now.”
Her pulse leapt. She set her notebook aside with care and rose to her feet. “If ye think ye can storm into me chamber and bark orders like I’m one of yer men—”
His hand shot out, not to grab but to point firmly at the chair by the fire. “Sit.”
Scarlett’s chest rose, breath coming faster, but she lowered herself into the seat; her movement was sharp with defiance. “Satisfied?”
Robert leaned over her, bracing a hand on the chair’s arm. His other hand pointed to the sketches on the floor. “Ye’ve been busy, I see. Sketching the yard while ye pretend ye’ve no eyes for the men in it.”
Her brows slammed together. “Pretend?”
“Aye.” His gaze seared into hers. “Ye willnae flirt with another man again. Not Mack Little. Not any of them. Whatever liberties ye think ye’ve been granted here, consider them revoked.”
Her stomach dropped, fury flaring hot. She rose abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor. “Revoked?” Her voice was louder. “Like I had any liberties at all!”
His jaw flexed. “Scarlett—”