Page 65 of The Winter Laird
She blushed. “Of course. This is your room. I’ll come back later.”
“No need,” he replied, sitting on the bed and unlacing his boots. “Stay. I’ve heard you’ve made some changes to our home whilst I’ve been away. Perhaps you want to tell me of them?”
“Are you angry?”
He pulled his boot off and held it for a moment as he considered. Anger wasn’t the right word, but he wasn’t exactly happy about it, either. He twisted around to face her fully, and was struck mute when he took in her entire appearance.
Much of her hair had escaped its coil at the nape of her neck, and a riot of curls caressed her face and shoulders. Her hands, clutched together in front of her, had smears of dirt mirroring those all over her simple woolen skirt. When she shifted nervously at his silence, he noticed the scuffs on her slippers. Her sleeve looked as though it had been torn but stitched up—and if his men’s rumors were true, she’d clearly stitched it herself.
In that instant, he saw the gift he’d been given. Selfish bastard that he was, he wasn’t all that sure he wanted to give it back.
“Did you tear your dress?” he asked softly, motioning to her sleeve.
She flushed a deep red. “Well, not on purpose. I was trying to move the table on the raised dais we sit on during dinner, and it got caught on a jagged piece of wood—”
“Why didn’t you have one of my men move the table?” Nioclas interrupted.
Her face said it all, but she replied anyway. “I didn’t think to ask. They were already so busy.”
He pulled his other boot off, then stepped toward her. “Men fear me.” At her blank stare, he took another step. “Women fear me as well.” She stood still as a stone. “Do you fear me, Brianagh?”
“No,” she whispered, searching his eyes.
“Why?”
“I don’t know,” she whispered again, mesmerized by his gaze.
“You should fear me,” he murmured, picking up a lock of her hair. “As my wife, I own you.”
His words sent a shiver down her spine, and it had nothing to do with fear. He gently twisted her hair around his hand, then slid his fingers out slowly, watching as she struggled to figure him out.
“Yet you don’t complain, you don’t demand anything, and you’ve given this clan your all. You gave me your trust, and I did nothing to earn it.” He took her hand in his, inspecting it, noting each scrape, each smudge of dirt, each pinprick. Bringing it to his lips, he gently kissed each fingertip. “Why?” he whispered, bringing his eyes back to hers.
“You saved me,” she replied simply.
Aye, but perhaps you saved me as well.
“And you promised to send me back.”
A bucket of his moat’s water couldn’t have dampened his mood faster. He stepped back swiftly. His tone turned icy. “Aye. I did.”
A full minute passed in silence. “I don’t understand what you’re doing,” she finally replied.
He closed his eyes. “Nor do I, yet I find I cannot stop.”
“You’re confusing me. This isn’t real, Nioclas. We’ve been saying that for a month.”
He looked closely at her. “You still believe you’re from the future.”
She nodded.
“And you’re willing to give up the protection of my name to return to it.” A statement, not a question.
She nodded again.
“Tell me truly,” Nioclas said. “Is it because of the Frenchman?”
Bri wanted to say yes. It’d be easiest for them both if it were true. But Nioclas had done more for her in the last month than anyone. He’d not only rescued her from a medieval dungeon, but he hadn’t readied the fire for her witch-burning after her confession of when she was from. He also gave her food, clothing, and as he said, protection. And, real or not, he made her feel.
