Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
That night, Ruaridh entered his chamber expecting battle, albeit not a loud one. Isobel didn’t always require volume to make war. Sometimes she managed it with a lifted brow, a closed door, or the particular way she looked at a bed as though it had personally offended her.
But when he stepped inside, she was already there.
The fire had burned low, softening the hard corners of the room. Isobel sat on the far side of the bed in her night shift, with her hair unbound, dark and loose against the pale linen. She did not look at him at once. Her hands rested in her lap, still as folded wings.
Ruaridh closed the door quietly. She heard it.
Her shoulders tightened by the smallest degree.
He crossed to the hearth and set aside his belt, then his boots, moving with more care than usual.
His wounded shoulder pulled when he lifted his arm, but he made no sound.
He could feel her watching now, though when he glanced back, she looked quickly toward the fire.
A few nights ago, she would have told him not to come near the bed. He waited to hear that same sentence. The room held its breath, but no command came.
Ruaridh stood at the foot of the bed, uncertain in a way he despised and had not felt in years.
He could lead men through fog and blood.
He could read a shoreline in darkness and know where danger waited.
But this woman, sitting silent beneath his roof with courage and fear warring in the line of her mouth, left him without any easy knowledge.
“Isobel,” he called out to her quietly.
Her fingers tightened once upon the coverlet. Then she drew it back. She did it only on his side, and only a little.
It was not an invitation, precisely. At least, it wasn’t the kind sung of by fools or boasted of by men with more vanity than honor. It was a permission given with trembling dignity of a woman, a single inch of trust, offered as though it cost her dearly.
Ruaridh did not move at first. He understood, perhaps too well, that if he treated the moment lightly, she might never offer the likes of it again.
If he treated it too gravely, she might regret it.
So, he only inclined his head, as he had done in the yard when she had won, and went to the bed.
He lay down beside her, not above the covers this time, but under them.
The linen was cool at first, then warmed quickly between them.
He kept to his side, leaving a careful space wide enough for pride and fear and all the old grief that still slept between their trembling bodies.
Yet even with that distance, he was aware of her in every sense.
He was aware of the faint scent of rosemary still clinging to her hair, of the unevenness of her breathing, and of the warmth of her beneath the covers, near enough now that the bed no longer felt like disputed ground but something more dangerous.
Neither of them spoke.
Outside, wind pressed against the shutters. Far below, the sea moved against the rocks with its endless dark patience. The castle settled around them, stone by stone, as if Duart itself knew some small treaty had been made.
After a long while, Isobel turned onto her side, facing away from him.
Ruaridh looked at the back of her head, the curve of her shoulder beneath linen. His chest ached with something he had no name for and no right to claim.
Then, very softly, she asked. “Yer shoulder?”
He almost closed his eyes. “It will mend.”
A pause.
“It bled through before dinner.”
She noticed.
“Aye.”
“That wasnae an answer.”
“It was the answer least likely tae earn me another scolding.”
Her breath changed. It was a sound that would under any other circumstances, become a chuckle. But even now, it was warm enough to make him smile in the darkness.
“Dinnae tear it open in yer sleep,” she said.
“I shall endeavor tae remain obedient while unconscious.”
“That would be a pleasant beginning.”
Ruaridh lay still in the darkness, more moved by her not ordering him away than he would have been by any declaration. She had not forgiven him. She did not trust him fully. She might wake tomorrow and regret this small mercy.
But tonight she had allowed him beneath the covers. Tonight, when the space between them remained untouched, it no longer felt like a wall.
It felt like a promise neither was yet brave enough to speak.
The morning had turned bright enough to seem innocent.
Isobel had gone down toward the shore because the castle had begun to feel too full of eyes again, although they weren’t hostile eyes only.
They were curious ones now, which were in some respects worse.
Hostility could be met with chin lifted and silence.
Curiosity required one to wonder what people had begun to hope for.
The path to the water was narrow and damp beneath her slippers, edged with grass still jeweled by the night’s rain.
Below, the sea moved in restless blue and silver folds, breaking white against the black rocks.
The air smelled of salt, cold stone, and kelp, and it filled her lungs so sharply that she almost felt cleansed by it.
Then she rounded a bend and saw Ruaridh coming out of the sea. Isobel stopped so suddenly that her skirts swung forward around her ankles.
He had his back to her at first, with water streaming from his dark hair, running in lines over the breadth of his shoulders and down the hard planes of his back.
His shirt and plaid lay upon a rock some distance from him, along with his boots and belt.
He stood waist-deep in the water, bare to the cold morning as though the sea had been made for his convenience.
She ought to have turned and gone at once. A well-bred woman would have fled. A wiser woman would have fled.
Isobel remained exactly where she was, staring shamelessly. He must have heard the small betrayals of her arrival, because he turned his head. For a heartbeat neither of them moved. Then his mouth curved.
“Lady Isobel,” he greeted. “Ye are either very lost or very bold.”
Her face heated so swiftly she felt personally wronged by her own blood. “I was walking.”
“In that direction?”
“I didnae realize the shore had been reserved for yer vanity,” she scoffed.
He turned fully then, and she made the tactical error of not looking away quickly enough.
The water covered what modesty required, but it did nothing to conceal the rest of him: the wet gleam of his chest, the powerful slope of his shoulders, the old scars pale against sun-browned skin, the bandage gone from his wound and the healing mark red near one shoulder.
He looked less like a laird than some barbaric sea-god who had misplaced his trident and found insolence instead.
Isobel fixed her gaze very determinedly upon his face. Unfortunately, his face was not safe either.
“Ye are staring,” he said mischievously.
“I am assessing whether the wound has healed poorly.”
“From there?”
“Me eyesight is excellent.”
“So I have learned.”
That, of course, called to mind the archery contest, which called to mind the wager, which called to mind several matters she had no wish to consider while he stood half-clothed in the sea and entirely too pleased with himself.
She folded her arms. “Dae ye often bathe where anyone may stumble upon ye?”
“Few people stumble here.”
“Then I am honored tae be an exception.”
“Aye,” he spoke, stepping closer through the water. “Ye dae seem determined tae become exceptional in every matter.”
The sea broke around him as he moved, with white foam curling against his hips. Isobel’s heart, treacherous creature, began to behave as if danger had arrived.
“Stay there,” she ordered, pointing a trembling index finger at him.
He stopped. “Why?”
“Fer propriety.”
His brows rose. “Ye came upon me.”
“Accidentally.”
“And stayed.”
She lifted her chin. “I was giving ye time tae make yerself decent.”
“Very generous.”
“Well… ye havenae used it well.”
He looked toward his clothes upon the rock, then back at her. “Perhaps I lack incentive.”
The words were mild. His eyes were not. Isobel should have retreated then.
She knew it with the clarity one has just before doing the opposite.
Instead, she stepped nearer the edge of the water, careful upon the slick rock, refusing to yield the ground merely because he had decided to be insufferable and wet at once.
“Dinnae attempt tae unsettle me,” she warned.
“I wouldnae dare.”
He came one step closer, still in the water, still not touching her.
Yet the nearness of him seemed to alter the very air.
She could smell the sea upon his skin, clean and cold, mingled with the faint smoke and leather that always clung to him.
Drops of water fell from his hair to his chest, and she hated that she noticed the path of them.
“Ruaridh,” she warned.
“Isobel.”
Her name, in that voice, did nothing at all for her composure.
He smiled then, the smallest wicked thing. “Ye are breathing very carefully.”
“So are ye.”
The answer escaped before caution could restrain it.
His smile faded. For one suspended heartbeat, the teasing fell away entirely.
There was only the hush of the shore, the gulls crying above, the sea moving around him, and the dangerous understanding that neither of them was nearly as indifferent as pride required.
Then, because fear made her reckless and desire made her angry, Isobel shoved both hands against his chest. He had not expected it. Ruaridh went backward into the water with a tremendous splash.
For one stunned moment, only the sea spoke. Then his head broke the surface, and the astonishment was clear on his face.
Isobel smiled. She could not help it.
Ruaridh stared at her. “Did ye just push me?”
“I believe the sea assisted.”
His eyes narrowed, but there was laughter hidden in them now. “Ye will regret that.”
“I regret many things. That isnae yet among them.”
Then, before wisdom could recover from the shock, she seized his shirt, plaid, belt, and boots from the rock. His expression changed at once.
“Isobel.”
“Oh,” she said sweetly, gathering the clothes against her chest. “Now propriety concerns ye?”
“Leave those.”
“I would, but I fear ye lack incentive tae make yerself decent.”
The look he gave her should have scorched the grass. She turned and walked away.
Behind her came a sharp splash. “Isobel.”
She didn’t look back. “The castle isnae far.”
“Isobel.”
“Ye may run. It will warm ye.”
She heard him curse then, low and savage and wholly without dignity.
It only made her chuckle more loudly. By the time she reached the yard, she was laughing so hard she had to sit upon the stone steps near the entrance, Ruaridh’s clothes folded in her lap like trophies of war.
A groom saw her first and stopped with a bucket in hand.
Then Brodie appeared from the stable arch.
His gaze went to the clothes, then to her face. Then, very slowly, toward the shore path.
“Nay,” Brodie said.
Isobel pressed a hand to her mouth, but the laughter escaped between her fingers.
Torin emerged beside him. “What?”
Brodie pointed. Ruaridh came into the yard.
Naked.
Truth be told, it wasn’t entirely without strategy, for he had managed to acquire a small fishing net from somewhere and held it before himself with the grim dignity of a king bearing a ruined banner.
It did almost nothing useful. Water streamed from him.
His hair was wet, his expression murderous, and every person in the yard became suddenly, violently interested in anything else.
A maid squeaked and turned toward the wall. A stable boy dropped a brush. Brodie made a sound like a man dying honorably in battle.
Torin covered his face with one hand. “God preserve us.”
Ruaridh crossed the yard with terrible calm. Isobel sat on the step, laughing helplessly now, with tears in her eyes and his boots beside her.
“Me clothes,” he didn’t demand. He simply asked.
She tried to answer and failed.
His eyes narrowed. “Wife.”
That only made it worse.
She held out his shirt first, gasping through laughter. “Me laird.”
He took it from her with great offence and no small amount of speed. Brodie turned away fully then, with his shoulders shaking.
Torin muttered. “I saw naething.”
“Wise,” Ruaridh snarled.
Isobel wiped at her eyes, still smiling. “Ye told me few people stumble upon that shore.”
“Aye,” he said, pulling the shirt over his head with as much dignity as a dripping, furious man could manage. “I shall have guards posted.”
“Tae protect yer modesty?”
“Tae protect me clothing.”
She handed him the plaid. Their fingers brushed. The laughter softened between them, though it did not disappear. His gaze held hers for one moment, dark and wet and far too warm despite the cold sea.
“Ye are pleased with yerself,” he mused.
“Deeply.”
“This is war, then.”
She lifted her chin, still smiling. “I thought it already was.”
The word war, spoken now, held less blood than breathless challenge. Ruaridh leaned closer, just enough that only she could hear.
“Then take care, Isobel,” he murmured dangerously. “I dinnae lose twice easily.”
Her pulse leapt, but this time she did not look away.
“Nor dae I,” she replied.
He stared at her for another heartbeat, then straightened and turned toward the keep, still barefoot, wet, and wrapped only half properly in his plaid. Isobel remained on the steps, with his boots still beside her, feeling the laughter warm in her chest and salt wind on her face.
For the first time since coming to Duart, the sound that followed her through the yard was not silence, not suspicion, not grief.
It was laughter.