Chapter 16
To Gracie, it looked like sanctuary after the long, muddy road.
The Rose Inn rose from the roadside like a warm promise, its stone walls darkened by rain and its thatched roof sagging with age.
Yellow light glowed from narrow windows, and smoke curled from the chimney in a gentle ribbon.
A painted sign of a blooming rose creaked above the door, swaying in the damp wind.
Jaxon reined in beside her, rain beading on his lashes. “We’ll rest here,” he said, his voice low and steady. “The road beyond grows cruel in weather like this.”
She nodded, grateful, and answered, “It looks kind enough to weary bones.”
She watched as he dismounted and strode to the guards, voice carrying authority without cruelty.
“See the carts in the stables, and set watch in turns,” he ordered. “These supplies are for our folk, and none will touch them.”
Gracie’s chest warmed at the sight of him, the way men moved at his word with trust rather than fear.
Jaxon returned to her side and offered his hand. “Come, wife,” he said, “let’s get inside before night claims the sky.” She placed her palm in his and slid from the saddle, the simple contact stirring her more than it should have.
Together they crossed the threshold, leaving rain and road behind.
The tavern portion of the inn breathed warmth and life, thick with the scent of peat smoke and roasted meat.
Rough-hewn beams crossed overhead, and long tables bore the scars of years and stories.
Laughter murmured from a corner, and a fiddler plucked a soft tune near the hearth.
Firelight danced upon Jaxon’s face as they took seats near the blaze.
Gracie folded her damp cloak and asked, “How far now to Glenmoor?” He leaned back, eyes thoughtful. “If the road holds, we’ll reach it by midday on the morrow.”
Her stomach fluttered, nerves rising as she met his gaze across the small table.
A serving wench approached, auburn hair braided and eyes bright. “Evenin’, me laird,” she said, voice lilting, “whatever ye need, I can give it to ye, as always.”
Gracie felt a sharp heat in her chest, sudden and unwelcome.
Jaxon merely smiled with polite ease. “It’s good to see ye, Mary, as always,” he replied, “bring us two mugs of ale and some bread and cheese, and tell the innkeeper to ready his best room, for we will stay the night.”
Mary dipped into a curtsy so deep her bodice strained, and she purred, “Aye, me laird, as ye please.”
Gracie’s eyes fixed on the display, on the way Mary’s glance lingered upon Jaxon as though she already knew him. The jealousy struck swift and bright, a sting she had not expected to feel so fiercely. She lowered her gaze, fingers tightening around the edge of the table.
Jaxon turned back to her, unaware, and asked, “Are ye warm enough?”
She forced a nod. “Aye,” she said, and her cheeks burned.
The fire cracked, and she wondered how many nights Jaxon had spent in places like this, how many women had smiled that same way and accompanied him into bed.
Gracie’s thoughts churned, questions she had no right to ask yet could not quiet. He was her husband now, yet his past stretched wide and unseen.
Had he bedded this woman before, beneath this very roof, in some other time of his life?
Gracie narrowed her eyes across the small table, firelight flickering in their depths.
Jaxon lifted a brow, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Lass,” he said lightly, “why do ye look at me so?”
“I am simply wonderin’,” she replied, voice tight, “how well ye ken this servin’ wench.”
The words slipped out sharper than she intended. She folded her hands in her lap to keep them from trembling.
Jaxon smirked, clearly amused. “Her name is Mary,” he said, lifting his mug. “I ken her well enough, as she always waits on me and me men when we come through here.”
He glanced around the tavern. “This inn is like a second home.”
Gracie huffed and crossed her arms, a retort poised on her tongue. Before she could speak, Mary returned with a tray, setting down a loaf of bread, a wedge of cheese, and two mugs of ale. “Will ye be wantin’ supper, me laird?” Mary asked, eyes bright.
“Aye, but nae now,” Jaxon replied. “We’ll take supper in our room later, once the room is ready.”
Mary smiled sweetly. “Then call for me if ye need me,” she said, and drifted away.
Gracie’s cheeks burned as she watched the woman go.
Jaxon slid the bread closer to her. “Drink, eat,” he said gently, “it’s been a long ride.” He glanced about the room. “I like to sit here and listen to the local folk, see how things fare in this part of me lands.”
“Mary is very pretty,” Gracie said suddenly. “Does she have a husband?”
Jaxon shrugged and took a swallow of ale. “When I came last, she was nae married,” he said, “but I daenae ken about now.”
Gracie’s gaze followed Mary as she moved between tables, slender as a willow. The woman’s waist was small, her bosom full, her smile effortless. Gracie felt as wide as the wheel of cheese before her in comparison.
Her fingers rose to the small mole above her brow, touching it without thinking. She had not fretted over it in some time, yet now it felt like a mark against her. Was she foolish to think she could rival women like that?
Jaxon noticed her silence and leaned forward. “What troubles ye, Gracie?” he asked.
She hesitated, then said, “I dinnae realize how many places ye are known at.”
He chuckled softly. “A laird travels,” he said. “It’s naught to fret over.”
“It is when every woman looks at ye as though ye belong to them,” she muttered.
Jaxon’s eyes widened, then softened. “I belong to ye,” he said quietly. “The rest is only courtesy.”
She met his gaze, uncertain. “Courtesy feels like somethin’ more when she smiles so,” Gracie said.
Jaxon tilted his head. “Ye are jealous,” he said, not unkindly.
Her chin lifted. “Would that please ye?”
“Aye,” he replied. “It tells me ye care.” His voice lowered. “And I would have ye care, just as I care.”
Gracie’s breath caught, and she reached for her ale to hide it.
He tore the bread and set a piece before her. “Eat, Gracie. The road awaits us in the morn, and Glenmoor will need all the strength we carry.”
She took the bread, warmth spreading through her fingers. The jealousy did not vanish, yet it softened into something else, a fragile hope. Across the table, Jaxon watched her as though she were the only woman in the room.
Gracie watched as the tavern door swung open, and a handful of local folk trickled in, their eyes lighting up at the sight of their Laird.
One stout farmer approached, hat in hand, and said, “Laird McMillan, the crops are poor. If ye can spare seed, we’ll see better harvests come spring.”
Jaxon nodded gravely, taking note, and promised he would see it done, his voice steady and commanding.
Another man, younger and lean, stepped forward, bowing slightly. “Me laird, I’ve had a dispute with the neighborin’ lands over grazin’ rights,” he said.
Jaxon’s brow furrowed, and he assured the man he would send a mediator to settle the matter honorably. Gracie’s gaze lingered on him, noting the quiet authority in the way he spoke.
A woman with rough hands but kind eyes curtsied, her voice trembling.
“Congratulations on yer marriage, Laird,” she said, glancing at Gracie, “ye’ve chosen a fine lady for our clan.”
Gracie felt her cheeks warm but held her composure, nodding respectfully. Jaxon smiled, thanking her, and asked how her family fared with the recent drought, his concern genuine.
Another local, a wiry old man with a crooked back, shuffled forward. “Laird, our sheep were lost last week. We’ll need yer guidance to rebuild our stock.”
Jaxon leaned close, listening intently, then gave clear instructions, ensuring the man knew he would not face the troubles alone. Gracie marveled at the ease with which he balanced warmth, authority, and strategy.
Yet, in the corner of her eye, Mary flitted about, laughing with a few patrons and brushing her fingers flirtatiously along a mug.
Gracie’s stomach twisted with an unfamiliar pang of jealousy, though she could not deny the pride swelling in her chest as she watched Jaxon manage every word, every promise, and every problem with calm command.
An hour later, Gracie watched from across the tavern as Jaxon moved gracefully through the room, commanding attention without seeming to notice it.
Her eyes narrowed as he approached Mary and pulled her aside.
She could not hear what they were saying, but the closeness of their bodies and the way he leaned in made her stomach twist. Fury bubbled inside her, hot and suffocating, and she pressed her lips together, refusing to let herself cry out.
How can he do such a thing when I’m right here?
Gracie’s thoughts raced, a jumble of jealousy, confusion, and desire she refused to name. She watched as Jaxon whispered in Mary’s ear. Gracie's heart thumped painfully. She could feel every pulse of heat in her own body, though anger made her cheeks burn even hotter.
Jaxon straightened and turned back toward the tavern, giving a nod and a smile to a few locals.
“Goodnight, folks,” he said firmly, his voice carrying authority and familiarity at once. He returned to the table, where Gracie sat stiffly, her hands clasped tightly in her lap.
His eyes met hers. “We shall retire upstairs,” he said calmly, as though nothing had happened to provoke her tumultuous emotions.
The innkeeper appeared at the moment, a burly man with a deep voice and a broad chest. “Me laird,” Wallace said, “as always ye have the best room. I hope it provides ye and yer new bride comfort on this night.”
Jaxon inclined his head, muttering a quiet, “Thank ye, Wallace,” and followed him toward the stairs.
Wallace stopped before the door at the top of the narrow staircase and produced a large key from his belt. “I shall have a fine supper brought up to ye and ken that yer men are bein’ fed as well,” he said, handing Jaxon the key.
Jaxon nodded once, thanked him again, and watched the innkeeper leave, the soft click of the door echoing down the hall. Gracie lingered by the door, cheeks flushed, not daring to speak as the silence of anticipation filled the space.
Once inside, Gracie sank into the edge of the bed, crossing her arms tightly.
The room was cozy, the hearth casting a warm glow across the walls.
The bed was modest, smaller than the one she had known at home, but inviting, the linens clean and neatly folded.
Across from it, a sturdy table held two chairs, and twin windows framed the fading light of evening, showing hills veiled in the night mist.
Jaxon moved to stand near the hearth, his tall form silhouetted against the flickering flames.
“It’s a fine room, is it nae, lass?” he asked, voice calm, betraying none of the tension Gracie felt.
She swallowed hard and looked down at her hands, feeling both small and flustered. “Aye,” she said softly, “it’s fine enough.”
He raised a brow and stepped closer, heat radiating from him. “Ye’ve nae said much,” he murmured, eyes scanning her face.
Gracie’s fingers fidgeted nervously in her lap; she wished she could vanish, shrink away, but she stayed rooted in place. “I’m… tired,” she muttered, though the truth was she was far from it.
His hand lifted to brush a stray lock of hair from her face, and Gracie’s pulse quickened, nerves tingling from the simple touch. She blinked rapidly, forcing herself to look away, but he caught her gaze anyway, holding it in that magnetic, infuriating way.
Her thoughts swirled with images of Mary, the whispered words, the proximity that set her chest aflame.
How could he act so familiar with her while I was there, feelin’ small and lackin’?
And yet… the heat of desire, inexplicable and undeniable, coursed through her at his nearness. She clenched her fists lightly, trying to gather composure, though every instinct longed to flee and to stay at once.
Jaxon shifted, the firelight glinting on his strong features, and he sighed softly.
“Gracie,” he said, voice low and intimate, “I meant nay insult to ye, nor to yer pride.”
Her chest tightened; the flutter of warmth inside her contradicted her jealousy. He continued, “Mary is but a servin’ wench; ye are me wife, and ye will ken it soon enough.”
Gracie pressed her hands together in her lap, trying to calm the erratic beat of her heart.
Every glance at Jaxon reminded her of the strength in his shoulders, the ease with which he moved, and the warmth radiating from him.
The night stretched long before them, golden light from the hearth painting shadows across the cozy chamber, leaving them suspended between tension, desire, and unspoken promise.