Chapter 13 #2
Kayden was tempted to say something about the English and their uppity ways, but refrained. Instead, he stayed silent as her fingers traced patterns on his sword. He could not help but imagine just what else those fingers might touch.
“I want to thank you for fetching Old Fergus to help me through my illness. It was kind of you,” she said, a bit shyly.
“Ye are me wife. It isnae kind of me to ensure yer good health and safety.”
She cast a glance at him again, before lowering her lashes. “Yes, well, I am grateful nonetheless.”
He tilted his head to the side, watching her intently.
Suddenly, she sneezed, and he frowned. “Ye do that when ye are in high dudgeon. Would ye care to share with me why ye are at this time?”
“I-I am not.”
He raised an eyebrow, watching her closely, and said nothing.
She huffed. “I was just going to say that if you helped me because you were afraid of what my father would do, I assure you that he would have kept his end of the bargain.”
“What would make ye say that?” he asked coldly.
She shrugged. “I know you don’t like my presence here, so—”
“So ye think I would let ye die?” He could not help raising his voice.
She took a deep breath, looking everywhere else but at him. “What else am I to think?” she asked breathlessly.
“Ye are to think that ye are me wife!”
“So what? What does that mean to you? I have seen no evidence that it matters, aside from this bargain you made with my father. I would not blame you if you—”
“Well, ye can keep yer blame and yer assumptions because it will never happen. I will never let any harm come to ye if I can help it. Ye are me wife! I will always protect ye.”
She blinked a few times, seemingly shocked by his words. “Oh…” she murmured, her face reddening.
“Aye. I hope ye understand me now.”
She took a deep breath and nodded. “Th—thank you.”
“Ye have nothing to thank me for, lass.”
Kayden picked up the hammer and returned to his work. He could feel her eyes on him, and it made him preen a bit, perhaps hitting the iron a lot harder than warranted in order to flex his muscles.
What are ye doing, ye fool?
He put the sword in the fire, and she came closer to watch.
“Why do you do that exactly?” she asked.
She was so close that he could feel her breath on his arm.
“The iron must be tempered in the fire to make it malleable.”
“Oh, yes, you said that.” She nodded, sounding a bit breathless.
He cast a glance at her, eyebrow raised. “I did.” After a pause, he added, “Jacob said ye were asking about our trade routes. Why?”
She took a deep breath. “I was thinking about an idea that Old Fergus and I had about supplementing the food the villagers have.”
He frowned. “I didnae hear about that.”
“Well, that is because I had not brought it up.” She smiled slightly.
He made a disgruntled sound, hammering the iron. The ringing filled the thick silence that followed her declaration.
“Well, are ye going to tell me about it now?”
She chuckled. “Are you amenable to hearing what I have to say?”
“Of course.” He smirked at her.
“Well, Old Fergus and I were thinking that if we could somehow find a way to replenish the food supplies stolen by the redcoats—”
His eyebrows rose high. “Redcoats, ye say? It is strange to hear ye call them so.”
She fidgeted uncomfortably. “Would you prefer if I said English soldiers?”
His smirk widened. “Nay, redcoats is fine. And it is a good idea. I will see about securing the funds.”
She nodded. “What of my dowry?”
He laughed. “Yer dowry is yers to use as ye please.”
“I would like to use it to get food supplies.”
“Ye care about me people that much?” he asked sardonically.
“They are my people too now, are they not?”
He stopped hammering to look her in the eyes. “Aye,” he said after a long pause and went back to his hammering.
He felt her eyes on him long before he turned.
The hammer stilled in his hand, the ring of steel fading into the thick heat of the forge. He did not look at her at first. He watched the glow of the fire instead, the slow curl of smoke, the way the air shifted when she moved closer.
“You are going to ruin that blade if you stare at it any harder,” she said quietly.
Her voice slid through him like a blade drawn slowly from its sheath.
Kayden set the hammer down with deliberate care and wiped his hands on a cloth before finally facing her.
She stood just inside the doorway, the light catching the golden strands of her hair where they had slipped loose. There was a smear of ash near her wrist, as though she had forgotten herself enough to lean too close to his work.
“You are still here,” he noted.
“You did not ask me to leave.”
He did not answer that. Instead, he stepped around the anvil, closing some of the distance between them. The air felt tighter, heavier, filled with the scent of iron and something softer that he refused to name.
Her gaze dipped to the scar along his forearm as he reached for a cooling bucket. “Does it still hurt?” she asked.
“Only when I give it reason.”
She smiled faintly at that, but there was a challenge in it. “You seem to give many things reason, My Laird.”
He stopped a pace away from her. Close enough to see the rise and fall of her chest, the quick flutter at the hollow of her throat.
“And ye seem determined to test them,” he replied.
She did not retreat. That, more than anything, unsettled him.
Her fingers brushed the edge of the worktable as she shifted, and he caught her wrist without thinking when she reached for a heated tool. His grip was firm but careful, his thumb pressing lightly against her pulse.
“Hot,” he warned, more softly than he had intended.
“I noticed,” she murmured, though her eyes were not on the tool.
They stood there, too close. The fire crackled behind him, casting dancing shadows over her face. She tilted her chin up slightly, defiant even now, but something else flickered beneath it—curiosity, perhaps, or heat she did not quite hide.
“You look at me as though I am your enemy,” she said.
“And ye look at me as though I am a puzzle,” he returned.
“Perhaps you are both.”
He loosened his grip but did not release her. He could feel the warmth of her skin through the thin fabric, the steady rhythm of her pulse that betrayed none of the composure she wore so carefully.
“Ye should go,” he said, though he made no move to step back.
“And if I do not?”
The question settled between them like a drawn breath.
He leaned closer before he could stop himself, drawn by the faint scent of herbs that clung to her, by the way her lashes lowered for just a moment before lifting again. His free hand came to rest on the edge of the table beside her, trapping her in a space that felt far smaller than the smithy.
Her lips parted slightly.
A heartbeat passed. Then another.
He could feel the shift in her stance, the almost-imperceptible lean towards him, as though she had forgotten herself. Heat curled low in his belly, darker than he liked, edged with restraint he was not certain would hold.
“Ye should go,” he repeated, his voice rougher now.
“And you should stop telling me what to do,” she whispered.
For one dangerous moment, he considered ignoring his own command. His gaze dropped to her mouth, then lifted again to meet her eyes. Whatever he saw there made his jaw tighten.
Slowly, deliberately, he released her wrist.
She did not move at first. Then, she stepped back, breath uneven, composure gathering around her like armor.
Without another word, she turned and walked out of the smithy.
He felt her absence like the sudden loss of heat.
Kayden remained where he was, staring at the doorway long after her footsteps faded.