Chapter 5
Pale light filtered through the narrow window and drew a thin blade across the washbasin. Steam rose as Neil stood with a razor in his hand. The edge caught the light and waited.
“Off with it,” he said to the mirror, his voice rough.
He lathered his jaw with soap and set the blade. The first stroke took the worst of the wilderness from his face. The next made room for his mouth.
The razor traveled from ear to chin in careful lines. He rinsed and drew again. The washbasin smelled of soap and iron. The mirror clouded when he breathed, then cleared to show a man who looked like a shape being carved out of a trunk.
He worked the razor along his throat, then under the jaw. Every steady stroke felt like a bit of ground reclaimed. He would not go into his hall wearing prison on his face. He would not leave his enemies and his scars to tell his story for him.
“Again,” he whispered to the room, to himself, to no one in particular.
He drew the razor until the rasp turned smooth. Lather went pink where it nicked a softer part of his skin.
He rinsed and leaned in to check his handiwork. The polished lip of the washbasin threw back his skin with more honesty than he would have liked.
Burns had healed to pale ridges along the neck and ribs, and a band of twisted skin tugged when he swallowed. He did not look at it long.
He looked away and reached for a towel. Cloth rasped, and the heat in the room pulled at every mark.
A light knock sounded at the door, followed by another.
“Come in.”
The door creaked open just a little, revealing a young footman. It was clear he was uncertain as to what to do, but Neil had already exhausted all of his patience with being careful while shaving.
“In or out, lad,” he grunted. “Daenae hover.”
The footman stepped further inside, carrying a pile of clothes. He bowed, then looked down at his own toes. “Me Laird,” he said, his voice thin. “From Giles. He thought ye might wish to have something decent for breakfast.”
“This came from Giles?” Neil asked.
“Aye.”
Neil looked at the clothes. The linen was fresh and white. The coat had been brushed, and the boots had been polished with care enough to reflect the morning light.
“Put them there,” he ordered. “Then go.”
“Aye, me Laird.” The footman laid the pile on the chair, then fumbled a bow. “Welcome home,” he added quickly, as if the wish might bite.
Neil held his stare a beat too long. The footman swallowed, then backed out of the room and gently closed the door.
Neil stood still. He had learned to own silence with his body when the rope took his hands.
He tried the shirt first. The linen slid over his shoulders and settled as if it had always meant to be there. His old shirt, still in a heap by the fireplace, had not felt like clothing. It had felt like a tale told by other men.
This new shirt felt like his. Like his old self. His true self.
He put on the trousers and drew the belt snug. Then he took the coat and slid his hands down the sleeves to smooth the fit. For some reason he couldn’t explain, he resented the part of him that liked the weight of a good coat on his back.
He gathered his hair and tied it, then ran the comb through it until it lay where it should. He set the comb down and did not look at the mirror again.
Another knock sounded at the door, thought it was not as light. It sounded familiar. Quite fascinating that Lachlan still knocked the same way he had before Neil disappeared.
“Come,” Neil called.
Lachlan entered and closed the door behind him with easy care. He took in Neil; beard gone, hair tamed, clothes set right. The corner of his mouth tipped as if he remembered a private joke.
“They will scarcely recognize ye,” he remarked. “Ye look almost civil.”
“Almost,” Neil said.
“Giles said ye burned yer old clothes,” Lachlan added.
“I have yet to do that,” Neil grunted. “Mind doing the honors?”
“Later,” Lachlan responded quietly.
He made a small sound that might have been a laugh and stepped closer. Neil eyed him narrowly as he reached for the cravat on the dressing table.
“May I?”
Neil stood still, letting him secure the cloth around his neck.
Lachlan’s fingers worked quickly, and the knot settled evenly. Neil did not like the touch, yet he did not shake it off.
“Ye will want the belt,” Lachlan said. “And the sword. Folks feel more at ease when a laird puts the steel where they can see it and nae under his tongue.”
Neil took the belt. “I ken ye have a lot of questions.”
“Ye’ve just arrived,” Lachlan responded evenly. “There will be time for that later.”
“I see yer wife is looking well,” Neil noted. He buckled the frog and hung the sword. The weight pulled at his hip. It felt honest.
Lachlan nodded. “Davina has been the biggest help to yer wife over the years.”
“And I thank ye to thank her for me.”
Lachlan leaned a shoulder against the wall. “Things are different now. In the castle and in the village.”
“I have eyes,” Neil muttered. “I can see that.”
“Aye.” Lachlan nodded. “Use both. Folks have gotten used to a steady hand that isnae yers. The lady has been running the castle and keeping the ledgers up to date with little to nay help. The people are fond of her.”
“They can be fond,” Neil acknowledged.
“They are more than fond,” Lachlan emphasized. “They look up to her. When storms take the roofs, they ask her where to fix first. When men quarrel, they go to her for advice. She has weight here.”
“She held it only because I was gone,” Neil said. “Now I am back.”
“Aye.” Lachlan drew a breath and let it out slowly. “And then there are the bairns.”
Neil’s jaw clenched. “I ken. I have met them. I think the boy’s name is F… F…”
“Finn,” Lachlan supplied. “And Anna. The people love them. They are always treated by the clansmen with nothing but love and respect. Ye would do well to take note.”
Neil felt the old heat stir where it had lived since last night. He braced a hand on the back of the chair until it cooled. “Aye. And I am well aware of the fact that I have Kristen to thank for all of it.”
“That is what I am saying. Ye may want to be careful with assuming yer position for now. Ye may be walking into a hall that has already chosen its center.”
Neil’s eyes narrowed. “It has a center. Ye are looking at him.”
Lachlan dipped his head. “I hope so.”
Neil grabbed the last piece of leather from the chair and looped it. He checked the buckle and the scabbard tip. Every motion was slow, and every slow motion kept its line because control was a practice he had not forgotten. It was what had helped him escape the cabin and return home, after all.
Lachlan’s voice broke into his thoughts. “Breakfast awaits.”
Neil turned for the door. His hand on the handle was steady. The window threw a pale stripe on the floor, marking the hour. He strained his ears and heard it, a series of small sounds that indicated work and not fear. It was both a relief and a pressure.
“Come,” he said.
Lachlan fell into step beside him, and they went down the stairs. The light followed as far as it could, then left them in the corridor.
Soon, they reached the door to the Great Hall and stepped inside.
The morning light filtered through the high windows and found the steaming porridge. Spoons paused, and conversations faltered. A hush fell over the tables as men and women took him in, clean-shaven and set to rights.
Neil felt the weight of their stares. The urge to turn back rose fast and hard. He squared his shoulders and put one foot in front of the other.
His gaze found Kristen first. Her eyes widened, and her lips parted a little then closed. Her fingers smoothed her gown, the one she had chosen to face him. She looked like a lady, not the girl he had left behind.
Beside her sat two small children and a black and white dog pressed close to her chair as if she were the center of their little world.
The sight tugged at a place behind his ribs. Their little circle did not have room for him.
He walked in, with Lachlan trailing a half step behind. Benches scraped and then held. Men set down their cups with care.
“Go to yer seat,” Lachlan murmured. “Slowly.”
“I ken how to walk, Lachlan,” Neil grunted.
They reached the high table, and Neil pulled his chair back and sat. He laid his hands flat so they would not curl. His eyes tracked every movement as if the hall had one head and thirty throats.
Lachlan leaned in. “What do ye think so far?” he asked, his voice low.
Well, it was not low enough. A spoon slipped off a side table, and the small clatter snapped Neil’s muscles tight before his mind caught up.
“That I have a lot of work to do,” he muttered.
The word was a stone, and he let it sit. He looked once at the children, then at other young faces near them. He really did have a lot of work to do.
The air shifted, and the people returned to their food. The women relaxed their shoulders and lifted their cups, and the men dug their spoons into their plates. It bent the tension but did not break it.
Neil tore a piece of bread and forced himself to chew. His eyes drifted back to Kristen without his permission. She had the dog under her palm now, and the children leaned against her as if she were a solid wall. She told the boy something he could not hear, and the boy nodded.
Lachlan cleared his throat. “Breathe, Braither.”
“I am,” Neil said.
“Really? Because ye look like ye are about to swallow everyone here one after the other.”
Neil tightened his grip on his bread but did not respond. However, he watched the movement on the right side of the table. Davina spoke to Kristen. Kristen listened and nodded. And for a few heartbeats, the hall felt like a place where mornings happened and nothing else.
Eventually, Kristen rose and spoke to the children, then guided them up the aisle between the benches. Davina followed behind them a step, ready to help if small courage failed. Maggie followed with her head low and her shoulder brushing the boy’s hand.
They stopped in front of Neil. The boy tried to stand straight. The little girl looked at the dog and then at Neil and then at Kristen again.
“Are ye me faither, sir?” the boy asked, his voice soft but clear.
The question struck hard. Neil felt it in the chest, where old blows had never reached. He did not look at Lachlan. He looked at the child.
“Nay,” he replied, keeping his voice softer than he would have thought himself capable of. “But I can be someone who cares for ye.”
The boy’s shoulders drooped a little, then squared again in a display of bravery. “Aye, sir.”
That word felt older than his small bones.
Kristen interjected, her voice warm and sure, “Many folks can care for us as if they were our parents, if nae more. We take the ones who prove it.”
The boy still looked a bit sad.
Neil looked at Kristen, but she did not return his gaze. She looked at the table instead, before her mouth curled into a small smile.
“I can see a red thing on this table.”
The boy’s eyes lit up. “An apple,” he said, pleased with himself.
“Aye,” Kristen agreed. “And another.”
The boy frowned in thought, then brightened and tapped a small smear of berry on a wooden bowl. “There.”
“Clever,” Kristen praised. “Yer turn, Anna.”
The girl peered over the rim, her thumb still tucked away. “I see a red thing,” she mumbled into her hand.
“What is it, love?” Kristen asked.
“His face,” the girl whispered, serious as a judge.
A small ripple of laughter ran close. Neil felt heat creep up to his jaw and almost smiled. The dog’s tail made a quiet thump.
The boy found a stitched thread on a sleeve three seats down, and the game went to and fro until the tension in the air eased.
Neil watched everything. The way Kristen monopolized the hall’s attention unsettled him. The defiance that had met him that night turned into gentleness now, and both were sharp with purpose.
His wife had learned to place weight where it mattered, and what made it work was that the clansmen let her. He did not know where to place himself in that pattern. He did not know whether he wanted to.
Lachlan leaned closer. “Ye’re staring, Braither.”
“Eat,” Neil grunted.
“I am,” Lachlan murmured.
Neil exhaled and tried his best not to throw his head back. What he wanted more than anything in this world was to rise to his feet and leave. But that would send the wrong message.
The last thing he wanted, now that he had returned and was more determined than ever to take his place again, was to send the wrong message.