CHAPTER NINE
Eilidh led her from the hall with a discretion Grizel could not help but value. There were no needless questions. The woman merely walked ahead with quiet purpose, guiding Grizel through a passage where the air was cooler and held the mingled scents of stone, smoke, and dried herbs.
The private chamber she brought her to was small but comfortable, with a narrow window, a low fire, and a wooden tub already set near the hearth. Steam rose faintly from the water as two maids finished carrying in the last pails. The sight of it affected Grizel more than she expected.
She had crossed half a life in little more than a day, and only now, seeing warm water, clean linen, and a closed door, did her body seem to understand that it had permission to be tired.
Eilidh dismissed the maids with a nod. The door closed.
All at once, the strength that had carried her through this hell settled heavily into her limbs. Her injured leg throbbed with dull insistence. Her shoulders ached from tension. Her head felt light in the warm air.
Eilidh noticed, but did not fuss. “Let me help ye with the cloak, me lady.”
“I can manage,” Grizel said by habit.
“Aye,” Eilidh returned gently. “And I can help.”
That quiet answer left little room for pride to make a spectacle of itself. Grizel stood still while the woman eased the cloak from her shoulders. Her outer gown followed, then the layers stiffened by salt air, travel, fear, and the stubborn dignity upon which she had depended far too long.
When at last she stepped into the bath, the heat of the water closed around her with such sudden mercy that she had to grip the rim. Pain flared in her leg first, sharp where the wound had been disturbed, then it softened, spreading into a deep ache that made her breath tremble.
Eilidh knelt nearby and folded a cloth. “The healer will come shortly.”
Grizel opened her eyes. “The healer?”
“Aye. The laird sent for him.”
The words did not at once arrange themselves into sense.
“Laird MacAulay?” she asked, as if the question could have any other answer.
Eilidh’s expression remained composed, though there was something observant in her softness. “Aye, ye were hurt aboard the ship.”
Grizel looked down at the water, where steam blurred the pale shape of her hands beneath the surface. He sent for a healer. He didn’t ask if she wished for one, nor did he wait for her to admit discomfort. He had simply seen the need and answered it.
The act unsettled her more than it ought.
For a few moments, neither woman spoke. The fire crackled softly. Water lapped faintly against the sides of the tub whenever Grizel shifted. Then, Eilidh came to help her from the bath. This time, Grizel did not refuse.
She rose slowly, careful of the pain in her leg, and accepted the linen offered to her. The air struck cool against her damp skin. Eilidh wrapped her in warmth and steadied her without making the assistance feel like rescue.
Clean clothes waited near the hearth.
At that moment, a knock sounded at the door.
Eilidh rose and opened it only after glancing to ensure Grizel was properly covered by the linen. An older man entered carrying a leather satchel. His face was weathered, but his manner was calm enough to make intrusion feel almost professional.
“Me lady,” he said with a respectful incline of his head. “Laird MacAulay asked that I see tae yer leg.”
“So I am told,” Grizel replied, with more composure than she felt.
“He gave me tae understand there was a fall and too much stubbornness and walking after both.”
Her mouth tightened, refusing to smile. “He seems well informed.”
“Aye,” the healer answered, opening his satchel. “He often is.”
Eilidh drew a stool near the armchair where Grizel settled herself.
With practical care, he examined the injury minding every propriety, asking permission with his manner if not always with his words.
Grizel fixed her gaze upon the fire while he cleaned the wound.
The sting made her fingers curl against the armchair, but she did not draw back.
“It is nae deep enough tae trouble ye long,” he told her, “provided ye dae nae insist upon proving otherwise.”
“I have nae habit of proving foolish things.”
Eilidh made a small sound that might have been amusement, quickly hidden.
The healer’s eyes crinkled, though he wisely did not smile outright. “Then ye will be a rare patient in this keep.”
The salve he applied smelled of crushed leaves, sharp spirits, and something bitterly medicinal.
It cooled after the first burn, settling into the angry skin with a relief Grizel was too proud to acknowledge aloud.
He bound the wound with deft hands, then gave Eilidh brief instructions for changing the dressing and watching for swelling.
When he finished, he rose and closed his satchel.
“Rest it as much as ye can tonight,” he urged in a fatherly manner.
“That may depend on what this household considers rest.”
“In this household,” Eilidh said mildly, “rest is often what people are ordered tae take after refusing sense.”
Grizel glanced at her. There was no malice in the woman’s expression, only warmth, quiet and unassuming.
The healer bowed again and left them. The door closed once more.
By the time Grizel was dressed, her hair loosened and combed through, her skin warmed, and the salt of the ship washed from her, she felt more herself than she had since leaving Calder Castle.
Eilidh fastened the final tie and stepped back. “There, that’s better.”
Grizel looked toward the small window, where evening had begun to darken the glass.
“Aye,” she admitted. “Better.”
The word felt insufficient. She was cleaner, steadier, no longer held together solely by defiance. Her leg still ached, but with a manageable pulse. Her head had cleared. Her hands no longer trembled.
And yet she was still unsettled. Only, it was not by Drummond, though his shadow had by no means vanished, not by the castle, though its stones were strange around her, not even by the uncertain future that waited beyond this room.
She was unsettled because Malcolm MacAulay had seen a need she had not spoken aloud. He had noticed weakness and had not used it against her.
That, Grizel thought, was a far more dangerous kindness than any compliment could have been.
Malcolm was reading a report when his chamber door opened without a knock. He did not look up at once.
A man learned a great deal from what entered a room before words did. The sound of the latch was too quick for a servant, and the step was altered slightly by an injured leg.
Grizel.
Only then did Malcolm lift his eyes. She stood inside his chamber as if she had every right to be there, though her cheeks held enough color to prove she knew she had none.
Her hair was dry now, dark and shining from the bath, braided loosely over one shoulder.
The clean gown Eilidh had found for her was plain, but it did not make her appear diminished.
If anything, it made the proud line of her neck, the directness of her gaze, and the delicate anger in her face more difficult to ignore.
Malcolm remained seated, pretending to be unbothered by how beautiful she looked.
“Dae Calder women always enter chambers uninvited,” he asked, “or am I specially honored?”
Her chin rose. “We need tae set terms.”
“For yer habit of trespass?”
“For the marriage.”
The word moved through the chamber with more force than he cared to admit.
Malcolm set the report down. “Ye are nae in a position tae negotiate.”
“There is always room for negotiation.”
“Spoken like someone who has never had a door barred from the outside.”
“I have had worse than doors set against me.”
That cooled the teasing in him for the moment.
She stood there with fire in her eyes, in his chamber, at night, making demands as if she had not fainted in his arms mere hours before.
She should have been afraid. Instead, she had come to bargain with him again, and he couldn’t help but want to hear more.
He gestured to the space before him. “Then negotiate.”
She stepped nearer, though not enough to give the impression of obedience. “The marriage is tae be about protection and alliance. Naething else.”
His mouth almost curved.
A dangerous woman, this one. She had been within his walls scarcely an hour and had already come to dictate the shape of a future he had not yet permitted himself to want.
“Go on.”
“I will have authority appropriate tae me station once the marriage is made. I will nae be hidden away or used merely tae satisfy the king’s decree.”
“Reasonable.”
That seemed to surprise her. She narrowed her eyes, suspicious of agreement. “Is it?”
He shrugged. “Aye. I dislike wasting time in opposing sense.”
She tilted her head. “How… unexpected.”
He grinned. “I am full of disappointments, I’m afraid.”
A reluctant flicker touched her lips before she chased it away. He saw it. He wanted to see it again.
“And nae touching,” she added quickly.
There it was. Malcolm leaned back slightly.
“Nae touching,” he repeated.
“None.”
“Ever?”
“Ever.”
He couldn’t help but grin. “That is going to make this one long marriage, Lady Grizel.”
Her cheeks flamed. “Dinnae be vulgar.”
“I thought I was being practical,” he mused.
“Nae,” she squeezed through clenched teeth. “Ye were being impossible.”
“I am merely attempting tae understand the contract.”
Her eyes flashed. “Ye understand it perfectly well. There will be nae liberties taken because circumstance has forced me under yer roof.”
“Under me roof,” he mused, “in me chamber, making demands at night.”
“I came here,” she explained, “because the marriage must happen immediately. Ye refused Drummond and brought me here. If we delay, he will use every hour tae challenge this.”
He shrugged. “He will challenge it whether we wed tonight or next year.”
“Then give him less ground.”
“There are customs.”
Her impatience flared at once. “Customs?”
“Aye.”
“I fled a forced marriage, crossed the sea, entered a stranger’s stronghold, and now I am tae be defeated by customs?”
He frowned. “If ye intend tae become lady here, ye might begin by nae insulting them.”
That silenced her for a breath. “Fine. What custom?”
Malcolm rose then. He did it slowly, not to intimidate, though he knew very well that his height altered the balance. Her eyes followed him upward before she could stop them, and the awareness in that slight movement ran between them like a drawn thread.
“There is a rite two weeks before a MacAulay marriage, one that binds the bride before clan and sea.”
“What dae I need tae dae?” she asked.
“I will explain at another time,” he replied.
“Why?”
“Because ye are tired, injured, and begging for a fight large enough tae hide yer fear behind it.”
He moved around the edge of the table. She did not retreat. That, too, he had expected and somehow not expected. The space between them narrowed until the air itself seemed to change. She lifted her face to his.
“Ye cannae ask me tae wait two weeks.”
“I can.”
The color in her cheeks deepened, revealing anger as well as worry. “Drummond will send word tae the king.”
“Aye.”
“He may claim I am ruined by being here.”
Malcolm’s expression hardened. “Let him.”
Her eyes flashed. “Ye say that because his insults cannae touch ye.”
“Nae,” he replied in a dangerously low voice. “I say it because if he touches what is mine, insult will be the least of his concerns.”
He had not meant to say it quite so. Her eyes widened only a little, but enough for him to know she had heard not merely the threat against Drummond, but the word beneath it.
Mine.
Malcolm felt the shift before he understood it.
He felt the way the argument, heated and sharp, lost its edges and became something more perilous.
She stood close enough now that he could see the faint damp curl near her temple, smell the soap and herbs from her bath beneath the salt that still seemed to cling to both of them.
Her mouth was parted as if she meant to answer, but had misplaced the thought.
He should have stepped back. Instead, he looked at her. It was a foolish indulgence… a dangerous one.
Her eyes, grey-green in the firelight, were darker now than they had been at sea, less like storm water than the deep places near rocks where kelp moved under the surface and hid the pull below.
They held anger, fear, defiance and beneath all of it, a startled awareness that answered his own too closely.
His gaze dropped to her mouth. Her breath caught. The sound was small, almost nothing, but it drew through him with more force than the storm wind beyond the walls.
He could have leaned down. The space between them was slight enough to be crossed before either pride or reason gathered itself. And she would not have turned away quickly enough.
That was the danger, not that he wanted to kiss her. It was that she might let him.
Malcolm forced his attention back to her eyes. “Nae touching, was it?”
The words brought her back like a slap.
She stepped away at once. “Exactly.”
She turned slightly, as though to gather herself from the room around her. “Two weeks is too long.”
“It is what the rite requires.”
“Tell me what will happen.”
“Nae.”
“Malcolm—”
His name in her mouth stopped him more effectively than any protest. She seemed to realize it at the same time he did. Her lips pressed together, but too late.
He let the silence hold for one slow heartbeat. “Ye will be presented before the clan. There will be witnesses. The sea will be involved, a cord, a vow of place, nae yet marriage. That is all ye need tae ken.”
That seemed to reach her in a way argument had not. She understood rules when they mattered. She understood power that came from forms observed and symbols properly set before watching eyes.
Finally, she acquiesced. “Then I will wait.”
At that, she turned toward the door with more haste than dignity strictly required. She paused at the threshold.
“I will abide by the rite,” she promised.
“Aye.”
“And the terms are nae forgotten.”
“Nae touching,” he echoed amusedly. “I remember.”
She looked back once, with her cheeks bright and her eyes fierce.
“See that ye dae.”
Then she left. Malcolm remained standing after the door closed.
The chamber seemed too quiet without her.
He should have returned to his work. Instead, he stood there remembering the way her breath had caught when his gaze dropped to her mouth, and the way she had stepped back as though saving them both from a mistake neither had yet earned the right to make.
Nae touching.
It was a sensible term… a necessary one. And, Malcolm thought grimly, perhaps the first battle he was not entirely certain he wished to win.