Page 66 of The Winter Laird

She owed him the truth.

“Nay,” she said softly. “It is not.”

“Will you return to him?”

She closed her eyes briefly. “No. I don’t think I will. You’ve shown me, through your acting, what a real marriage could be like. I want that.”

He stared at her silently for a moment, then gave a slight bow. “That’s a balm to my poor self, I suppose. If we’re to be serious, I need to know how you expect to return,” Nioclas said. “Perhaps you’d best tell me how you…arrived here.”

“You still believe I’m daft.”

“Perhaps a bit touched in the head, but nothing that would encourage me to share your secret.”

“Comforting,” she replied dryly. Bri didn’t mind that he thought she was slightly off her rocker. The fact was, if the roles were reversed, she would believe he was insane. She didn’t think she’d offer him free use of her brownstone in Boston, but she’d probably buy him something to eat on the way to the mental hospital.

“It’s best if you start from the beginning,” Nioclas said. “Start with your childhood.”

“You want my life story?” she asked dubiously. Absentmindedly, she rubbed her fingers against her gown. Keeping up with his mind was draining her.

“We have all night.” He shrugged. “It’s best if we talk about your situation.”

“Sensible,” she murmured. “I do, however, need to change out of this gown. It’s a mess.”

“What were you doing? Moving a table cannot be so dirty,” Nioclas asked as she opened her trunk. She pulled out a long white linen nightgown.

“Do you mind if I wear this? My other two gowns must not be washed yet,” she said with a frown, peering into the empty trunk.

“You only have three dresses?”

She blinked at him. “Well, yes. I burned the one I came in—it was covered with whatever was in that awful dungeon.” She shuddered at the memory of the moving floor.

“I’ll order you more. As the laird’s wife, you should have more than three dresses,” Nioclas replied, surprised she hadn’t ordered them herself.

“There’s no need.” She twirled her finger in midair to indicate he turn around. “Three is plenty. And I was changing the rushes on the floor of the great hall.”

He turned his back to her and said through clenched teeth, “Do I not have an entiregarrisonof men living in this castle?”

“Yes,” she replied, taken aback at his change of tone.

“And, pray tell, why could you not have them clear the rushes out of the hall?”

“You can turn around now,” she said. “Your garrison is training in the lists all day. Your blacksmith works in his building, creating swords and whatever else it is that he creates. Your stable master works with the horses all day. Your pages are out in the lists with your garrison, trying to earn your respect and, I suspect, a place in your garrison once they are old enough. And the elders are rarely in residence, but when they are, I do not want them doing this kind of work. They’ve earned a bit of freedom from manual labor, if even half their battle stories are true. I think that covers just about all the men here at the castle.”

He just stared at her, his mouth slightly open.

“That left the women and me. Seeing as I’d already tasked all available people to do various things around the castle, it was up to me. And the rushes were disgusting.” Brianagh wrinkled her nose. “They smelled awful. They needed to be changed, and Bernie gave me the fresh hay to lay down.”

“Bernie?” Nioclas repeated.

“The stable master.”

“You called himBernie?” He laughed in amazement. Bernard, his crusty old stable master who was notorious for calming horses with just a touch and scaring children with just a look, did not fit with that name.

“He told me to call him that,” she replied defensively. “He’s so lonely out there that I insisted he start coming to the castle proper for his meals. He can eat with the garrison in the great hall.” He stared at her until she squirmed. “What?”

He grinned. “Impressive, my lady. Bernard is not known for his linguistic skill.”

“Oh, he’s fine,” she replied with a wave. “Anyway, that’s how I got so dirty.”

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