Chapter 5
five
. . .
Fiona
I wake to the weight of his arm across my waist, heavy as an iron chain.
Sunlight filters through the narrow windows, illuminating the chamber I once considered mine but which now feels like foreign territory.
My body aches in places I never knew could ache, the soreness between my thighs a constant reminder of what happened last night.
What I allowed to happen. What I eventually participated in, God help me.
I turn my head carefully to look at the man beside me—this warrior king who claimed my kingdom, my body, and threatens to claim something far more dangerous: my slowly changing perception of him.
In sleep, Lachlan Drummond looks different.
The hard lines of his face are softened, the perpetual tension in his jaw relaxed.
The scar across his left eyebrow stands out silver against his tanned skin.
I have a sudden, disturbing impulse to trace it with my finger. I curl my hands into fists instead.
How can I lie here, studying the face of the man who destroyed everything I've ever known?
The man who took me last night with such devastating thoroughness that I can still feel him inside me?
Worse, the man who drew reactions from my body I never imagined possible, who made me cry out and cling to him as if he were salvation rather than damnation?
I should hate him completely. Instead, I find myself... curious. About the scar. About the tiny lines at the corners of his eyes. About the slight twitch of his fingers against my hip as he dreams.
I ease away from him carefully, trying not to wake him. My thighs stick together when I move, a humiliating reminder of what transpired between us. I need to clean myself, to wash away the evidence of my surrender. But as I attempt to slide from beneath his arm, his grip tightens instinctively.
"Where do you think you're going?" His voice is rough with sleep, his eyes still closed.
"To bathe," I say stiffly. "Unless you'd prefer I remain filthy."
One eye opens, then the other. The blue of his irises is startling in the morning light—clear and sharp as highland lakes. "Filthy?" A slow smile spreads across his face, transforming his features from harsh to almost handsome. "Is that how you see what happened between us?"
"What would you call it?"
His hand slides up from my waist to brush a strand of hair from my face, the gesture unexpectedly gentle. "Necessary. Inevitable." His smile deepens. "Pleasurable, eventually."
Heat floods my face. I want to deny it, to tell him I found no pleasure in his touch. But the lie would be too transparent after the way I responded to him. The way I cried out his name. The way I finally admitted I was his.
"Let me up," I say instead, ignoring his comment entirely.
To my surprise, he does, rolling onto his back with a languid stretch that draws my eye to the play of muscles across his chest and abdomen. The furs slide dangerously low on his hips, and I avert my gaze before I can see more.
"The bathing chamber is through there," he says, nodding toward a small door I hadn't noticed before. "I had it prepared for you last night while we were at the feast."
The thoughtfulness of this gesture catches me off guard. I'd expected to be treated as a prisoner, not accommodated as a wife. "Thank you," I say automatically, then frown at my own politeness.
"You're welcome, Princess." There's amusement in his voice, as if he can read my confusion and finds it entertaining.
I slide from the bed, acutely aware of my nakedness. I don't look back to see if he's watching me, but I can feel his gaze on my skin like a physical touch. I hurry to the bathing chamber, relieved to find it warm and steam-filled, a copper tub already filled with hot water.
I sink into the water with a hiss, my body protesting the heat against tender flesh. But the warmth is soothing, and I find myself relaxing despite my intention to remain vigilant.
The door opens, and Lachlan fills the frame, now wearing loose trousers but still bare-chested. "Do you need assistance?"
"No." The word comes out sharper than I intended.
He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed over his broad chest, watching me with that same amused expression. "You have a remarkable ability to infuse a single word with loathing."
"I've had practice since you arrived."
He laughs, the sound unexpected and almost... normal. As if we were any husband and wife trading barbs in the morning light, rather than conqueror and conquered.
"I have duties to attend to," he says after a moment. "Your ladies will bring you suitable clothing. I expect you to join me in the great hall once you're dressed."
"And if I refuse?"
His expression hardens slightly. "Don't test me so early in the day, wife. I've shown you more consideration than you had any right to expect. Don't make me regret it."
With that, he turns and leaves, closing the door behind him with more force than necessary.
I sink deeper into the water, trying to understand the conflict of emotions swirling inside me. Relief at being alone. Lingering anger at my situation. And something else—a strange disappointment at his departure, at the loss of that brief moment when he seemed almost human.
By the time my ladies arrive, I've managed to compose myself. They enter cautiously, eyes downcast, clearly uncertain how to behave now that I'm no longer their princess but their conqueror's wife.
"My lady," the boldest of them, Maired, finally speaks. "We've brought your clothing. And... we wanted to make sure you were well."
The concern in her voice nearly undoes me. "I'm unharmed," I tell her, trying to sound stronger than I feel.
"The king has ordered a new wardrobe for you," she continues, laying out a gown of rich blue velvet trimmed with silver. "He said you're to dress as befits a queen."
A queen. The word feels wrong. I'm not a queen. I'm a hostage with a crown.
But when they help me into the gown, I can't deny the quality of the fabric, the careful craftsmanship. It fits perfectly, as if made specifically for me rather than hastily altered. Another unexpected consideration from the man I'm supposed to hate.
When I finally make my way to the great hall, I pause at the entrance, taking a moment to observe Lachlan before he notices me.
He sits at the high table, surrounded by his advisors, deep in discussion.
Gone is the playful man from this morning.
In his place is a king—commanding, authoritative, fully in control.
What strikes me most is how intently his men listen to him.
Not with the fear I'd expected, but with respect.
He speaks, they respond. He asks questions, considers their answers, makes decisions.
It's a give and take I never witnessed with my own father, who ruled more by tradition than active governance.
I step into the hall, and Lachlan's eyes find me immediately, as if he sensed my presence before seeing me. The conversation around him falters as he stands.
"My queen," he says, loud enough for the entire hall to hear. "Come join us."
The hall falls silent as I walk toward him, every eye following my progress. I keep my head high, my expression neutral. I won't give them the satisfaction of seeing me cowed.
Lachlan pulls out the chair beside his own, a gesture of courtesy that seems at odds with the man who conquered my kingdom by force. I sit, aware of the curious gazes of his men and the resentful looks from what remains of my father's court.
"We were discussing the redistribution of guard duties," Lachlan tells me, resuming his seat. "Your men will be integrated with mine to patrol the city and castle."
I blink in surprise. "You're not disarming our guards?"
"Why would I? They're skilled men who know this territory better than mine do." He shrugs. "As long as they swear fealty to me, they're an asset, not a threat."
It's a practical decision, but also an unexpected kindness to my people. Allowing our guards to maintain some of their duties preserves their pride and livelihoods.
"And those who refuse to swear?" I ask, testing him.
"They're free to leave with their weapons and a fair payment for their service." His eyes meet mine, challenging. "I'm not the monster you think me, Princess."
Before I can respond, a commotion breaks out at the far end of the hall. Two men—one of Lachlan's, one of mine—shove each other, voices raised in anger.
"He says we're to take orders from him now!" my guardsman shouts, face red with indignation. "After they killed my brother at the gates!"
"Your brother attacked first!" Lachlan's man retorts. "And you'll follow orders or—"
"Enough!" Lachlan's voice cuts through the hall like a blade. He stands, his presence instantly commanding attention. "Bring them here."
The men are dragged forward, still glaring at each other with naked hatred.
"Names," Lachlan demands.
"Fergus, my lord," his guardsman says, straightening.
My guard remains silent, defiant.
"Your name," Lachlan repeats, his voice dangerously soft.
"Alastair," the man finally spits. "And I don't recognize your authority."
A murmur runs through the hall. Such open defiance could merit execution under the circumstances. I tense, waiting for Lachlan's reaction.
To my surprise, he doesn't reach for his sword. Instead, he studies Alastair with something like understanding in his eyes.
"Your brother—what was his name?"
The question seems to catch Alastair off guard. "Duncan," he says after a moment.
"Duncan," Lachlan repeats. "Was he the redheaded man at the eastern gate? Fought with a mace?"
Alastair nods stiffly.
"He fought well," Lachlan says. "Took down three of my men before he fell. A warrior's death, honorable and brave."
The simple acknowledgment of Duncan's courage seems to deflate some of Alastair's anger.