Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Arianna woke to the warmth of sunlight pouring through the thin canvas of the tent, gilding the space in soft gold. She blinked and rolled onto her side, expecting to see Ian’s broad frame beside her. The blankets were cool where he had lain, and the space was empty.
“Ian?” she called softly, her voice thick with sleep and confusion.
There was no answer, only the faint crackle of a fire beyond the tent walls. She pushed herself upright and reached for her boots, frowning as she flexed her ankle. With cautious curiosity, she stood, and to her surprise, there was no sharp pain, only a faint memory of soreness.
“Well now,” she murmured, testing her weight again, “that’s a miracle.”
She slipped out of the tent into the bright morning, the air crisp and sweet with dew. The fire was alive with steady flames, and the smell of sausages roasting drifted richly through the clearing. Yet there was no sign of Ian, no movement save the lazy curl of smoke rising skyward.
“Ian?” she called louder, a thread of unease creeping into her tone.
A sudden rustle in the brush made her start violently, her heart leaping to her throat. She took an involuntary step back, scanning the trees. Then Ian emerged from the greenery, grinning, a bunch of wild onions clutched in his hand.
“Och, yer awake,” he said cheerfully. “A fine morning it is.”
She let out a breath she had not realized she was holding and pressed a hand to her chest. “Ye nearly frightened the life from me,” she scolded.
He held up the onions proudly. “Wild onions I picked for our breakfast.”
“Aye,” she replied dryly, eyeing the bundle, “I can see that.”
He strode toward the fire as though nothing at all was amiss. “Sit, and I’ll pour ye some tea.”
She moved to the log near the fire and sat, watching him as he lifted a kettle from the flames. Steam curled into the morning air as he filled a cup and handed it to her with surprising gentleness.
“There now,” he said. “That’ll warm ye proper.”
She wrapped her hands around the cup, grateful for the heat. He settled beside her, their shoulders nearly touching as he poured his own tea. For a moment, they drank in companionable silence, the only sounds the pop of firewood and distant birdsong.
“So,” he said at last, glancing at her feet, “yer foot is better then?”
She wiggled her ankle demonstratively and smiled. “Aye, it is. I feel as good as new.”
He nodded once, satisfaction softening his features. “I’m glad for it,” he said quietly. She met his gaze then, and something unspoken passed between them, lingering and charged.
The memory of his arm around her in the night flickered in her mind, and warmth crept up her neck. His eye darkened slightly as though he, too, remembered. The moment stretched between them until she broke it deliberately, lifting her cup for a long sip of tea.
“So,” she said briskly, lowering it, “what’s for breakfast?”
A slow smirk tugged at his mouth as he rose. “Impatient already?”
“I am starved,” she declared. He moved back toward the fire with exaggerated dignity. “I have some sausages roastin', these fine onions, and potatoes.”
She inhaled deeply, letting the scent fill her lungs. “It smells heavenly,” she admitted.
“Then yer servant has done his duty well,” he replied, glancing over his shoulder with teasing pride.
She watched him as he turned the sausages and stirred the onions into a small iron pan with the potatoes. His movements were efficient and assured, and she found herself admiring the easy competence in him. When he finally handed her a portion, she accepted it with a pleased hum.
They ate side by side, sharing quiet remarks and small smiles. When the meal was done, Ian set about dousing the fire and packing their things with swift precision. Arianna observed him thoughtfully, noting how he folded the blankets and secured the satchel without complaint.
“Ye work hard,” she said softly.
He glanced at her. “Someone must, if ye’re to sit and judge.”
She laughed lightly. “I was admirin' ye, nae judging.”
He paused, studying her face as though weighing the truth of it. “Then I’ll accept the compliment,” he said at last.
Soon the tent was down, and the horse saddled, the clearing restored as though they had never been there. Ian mounted first, then reached down to lift her effortlessly before him. She settled into the saddle, feeling the familiar strength of his arms encircle her as he took the reins.
As they rode back across the rolling landscape, Arianna let her thoughts drift. He had kept his word, had not pressed her or taken advantage of the closeness of the night. He had been kind, steady, and patient.
She leaned back slightly, aware of the solid warmth at her back. “Thank ye,” she said quietly over her shoulder.
“For what?” he asked.
“For keepin' yer promise,” she replied.
His hold tightened almost imperceptibly. “I told ye I would,” he said simply.
The wind swept across the heathered hills as they rode, sunlight glinting on distant streams. Arianna rested her hands over his where they held the reins, feeling secure within his embrace.
And as the landscape unfurled before them, she felt something within her unfurl as well, trust, growing steady and sure.
There’s something I fear more than his black moods, and that is trusting him. I ken he will let me down… eventually.
The following day, after their return to Castle McGuire, Ian sat alone in his study with the shutters thrown open to the grey morning light.
Papers lay in orderly stacks across his desk, though his gaze had lingered far too long on the same ledger line.
The scent of parchment and peat smoke filled the chamber, grounding him in duty.
A firm knock sounded at the door, sharp and familiar.
“Enter,” Ian called without looking up.
The door creaked open, and Flynn stepped inside, broad-shouldered and grinning as ever. His eyes were bright with mischief.
“Mornin’, Laird,” he said cheerfully. “Or should I say, mornin’ to the husband returned from his grand adventure?”
Ian’s jaw flinched faintly as he dipped his quill once more. “It wasnae grand,” he replied. “It was as expected.”
Flynn shut the door behind him and leaned casually against it. “Och, daenae tell me ye took yer bonnie bride into the wilds, and it was dull as a sermon.”
Ian lifted his gaze slowly, fixing his friend with a cool stare. “We camped. We returned. That is all.”
Flynn’s grin widened. “Aye? And did the Lady McGuire enjoy herself?”
Ian’s mouth twitched despite himself. “She did,” he admitted, though his tone remained clipped.
Flynn pushed off the door and crossed the room, lowering himself into a chair uninvited. “I can see it on ye, ye ken,” he said lightly. “Ye're goin’ soft.”
Ian’s eyes flashed. “Mind yer tongue.”
“Soft,” Flynn repeated, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “Next ye’ll be plantin’ flowers and writin' poetry.”
Ian set down his quill with deliberate care. “I am nae in the mood for yer foolishness.”
Flynn studied him for a beat, the teasing glint dimming slightly. “Ah,” Flynn said knowingly. “So it was a fine trip, then.”
Ian leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly.
He would not confess aloud that lying beside his wife in the quiet of the tent had been both solace and torment.
Being so near to her warmth, feeling her breath steady against him, and yet holding himself back had tested every ounce of restraint he possessed.
“She is me wife,” Ian said at last, voice low.
Flynn tilted his head. “So ye behaved yerself?”
Ian shot him a look sharp enough to cut. “Enough.”
Flynn barked a laugh. “Saint Ian of the Highlands.”
Ian stood abruptly, crossing to the large oak table by the window. “Come here,” he ordered. “Look at this map.”
Flynn rose and joined him, curiosity replacing mirth. Ian unrolled a wide parchment map of their lands, and Flynn quickly placed a pair of smooth stones at either end to hold it flat. The inked lines of fields, burns, and grazing lands spread before them.
“The western grazing boundary,” Ian said, tapping a marked line, “has shifted. Collin’s cattle were seen too near our stream.”
Flynn frowned, leaning closer. “Aye, I heard the same from the shepherd lads.”
“They claim the markers were moved,” Ian continued. “But I’ve no proof.”
Flynn scratched his jaw thoughtfully. “Collins swears by old stones and fairy omens. He’d blame the wind afore he’d blame himself.”
Ian allowed himself a brief smirk. “And ye’d believe him?”
Flynn straightened indignantly. “I believe in caution.”
“Ye believe in ghosts,” Ian corrected dryly.
Flynn sniffed. “There’re strange things in these hills, Ian. Ye ken it.”
Ian did not argue further. “Strange or nae, our cattle need that water.”
Flynn traced a finger along the map. “If we shift our herd southward for a fortnight, we could avoid a quarrel.”
Ian shook his head. “And yield ground? Nay.”
“So we speak to him,” Flynn suggested. “Man to man.”
Ian’s gaze hardened slightly. “If he’s testing our borders, I’ll nae reward it with meek words.”
Flynn met his stare evenly. “And if it’s a mistake?”
Ian fell silent, considering. Flynn was loyal to the bone, but he preferred peace when possible. “Then I’ll see his markers meself,” Ian said at last. “And if they’ve been moved, we’ll set them right.”
Flynn nodded. “I’ll ride with ye when ye go.”
“I expected ye would,” Ian replied. He began marking small notes along the map’s edge, his mind settling into strategy rather than memory.
Flynn glanced at him sideways. “Does she ken how fierce ye can look when ye’re thinkin’?”
Ian arched a brow. “Does Melissa ken how much ye chatter?”
Flynn grinned unrepentantly. “She kens and tolerates it.”
Ian’s expression softened slightly at that.
“She seemed pleased,” Flynn said more gently. “Yer wife.”
Ian’s fingers paused over the parchment. “Aye,” he admitted quietly. “She was.”
Flynn clapped a firm hand on his shoulder. “Then ye’re nae soft, Ian. Ye’re simply a man who cares, and care is a dangerous thing.”
Ian met his friend’s gaze, his jaw clenched at the statement. His friend’s words echoed in his mind.
Caring is a dangerous thing.
Ian rolled up the map.
“So,” Flynn said casually, folding his arms, “did ye at least hold her hand under the stars, or were ye too noble for even that?”
Ian narrowed his eyes, refusing to rise to the bait. “Mind yer own hands, Flynn.”
“Aye, I mind them well enough,” Flynn replied with a laugh. “Melissa would skin me alive if I didnae.”
Ian allowed himself the faintest smirk. “A wise fear and…”
The sharp crash of shattering glass cut him off mid-sentence.
Both men turned as shards scattered across the stone floor. Flynn leapt back as though struck, nearly stumbling over a chair.
“Sweet mercy!” he exclaimed. “That’s a cursed sign if ever I saw one.”
Ian did not flinch. “It’s a broken window, nae the end of days,” he said dryly.
Flynn stared at the jagged frame, eyes wide. “Nay, Ian, that’s how it begins. First glass, then blood.”
“Ye’ve been listening to old wives again,” Ian muttered, stepping carefully across the floor.
Flynn hovered behind him, peering around his shoulder. “Glass shatters before war, I’ve heard it said.”
Ian bent and picked up a smooth stone from amid the scattered shards. It was no larger than his palm, ordinary and unremarkable. “Aye,” he replied flatly, “and stones fly before boys lose control of their arms.”
He crossed to the window and looked down into the courtyard. A small cluster of village children darted behind a cart, their heads barely visible as they crouched in fear. One boy peeked up briefly, eyes wide with dread, before vanishing again.
Ian exhaled through his nose. “Foolish bairns,” he murmured.
Flynn craned his neck to see. “What is it?”
“An accident,” Ian said simply. “They were likely playin’ at some battle and misjudged their aim.”
Flynn blinked. “Ye’re nae goin’ to drag them up here and roar at them?”
Ian shook his head. “For what? To have them tremble at shadows?”
“That’s discipline,” Flynn insisted weakly.
Ian cast him a sidelong glance. “That’s fear for no reason.”
He stepped back from the window and brushed a few stray fragments from his sleeve. “Have one of the maids see to the glass,” he instructed.
Flynn nodded, though he still eyed the broken pane suspiciously.
“I’m tellin’ ye,” Flynn muttered, “the spirits daenae throw stones for sport.”
Ian snorted softly. “If spirits are reduced to such petty vandalism, we’ve little to fear.”
Flynn folded his arms defensively. “Laugh if ye like, but I’ll be sayin’ a prayer.”
Ian gathered his papers into a neat stack. “Pray for wisdom, then.”
“Wisdom for what?” Flynn demanded.
Ian paused, his gaze drifting briefly to the window where sunlight now streamed unchecked into the room. “For patience,” he said quietly.
He collected the map and tucked it beneath his arm. “I’m goin’ to the library,” he said instead.
Flynn’s brows rose. “To read?”
“To work and think,” Ian corrected.
Flynn grinned knowingly. “Dangerous pastime.”
Ian strode toward the door, ignoring the jibe. His thoughts had already shifted from grazing boundaries and broken glass to the memory of Arianna’s soft laughter beneath the stars. He had kept his promise, yes, but restraint had begun to gnaw at him.
He could still feel Arianna’s warmth against him, the way she had trusted him in the dark. He had promised patience, and he would keep it, but he would not delay what was already inevitable. The next outing would be soon.
Behind him, Flynn called out, “Daenae let the fairies guide yer plans!”
Ian did not look back.
“Nay,” he replied over his shoulder, “I’ll guide them meself.” And as he made his way toward the quiet refuge of the library, his mind turned not to omens or accidents, but to his wife, and the moment he would finally claim her as his in truth.