Page 50 of The Falcon Laird
“I will hire stonemasons to tell us more,” Gavin said.
“It would take years to reconstruct this place.”
“Aye. Two years at least before we could hope to see our castle whole, my lady.”
Our castle.Her eyes widened. He spoke as if she was truly his wife, his partner, as if rebuilding was shared project and not a necessity of war. As if no kings or wars existed to change the outcome. As if he valued her opinion.
She was used to gruff complaining and a husband who disliked her. She did not find it easy to believe an English knight could accept her worth. Henry had only softened his disagreeable manner when Michaelmas had been nearby. For that, at least, Christian had been grateful.
“There are more immediate concerns than the two old towers, however,” Gavin continued. Christian nodded, trying to focus. “We need bedchambers and a room to gather in that is comfortable and safe for winter. We are crowded in the one cleared chamber.”
She raised her chin. “I will not send my daughter back to Fergus and Moira.”
“I would not ask that. Your daughter belongs with you. But we must clear more rooms for all of us. That little fellow William snores louder than John.”
Christian laughed, and he smiled in return. He walked toward an arrowslit window in the corridor wall, where cold air knifed through the wall. Christian noticed how he moved with simple athletic grace, and found she felt attracted, compelled, pleased to watch the wide set of his shoulders, his narrow hips and long legs, the limber turn of his body in the black tunic, pale surcoat, and blue cloak.
He gestured toward the stairs. “How many bedchambers up there?”
“Four in all, with two privies. The privies are built into the thickness of the walls. The largest bedchamber—the laird’s solar—lies over the great hall.”
“Show me,” he said.
Higher up, the doors were still intact, a note of grace in a wall marred by smoke damage. Christian lifted the latch and pushed open the widest door. “The laird’s bedchamber,” she said. “It connects to the great hall through a set of steps in that far corner.”
“Was this your room?”
“I shared it with my daughter. Henry slept elsewhere.”
She remembered when the room was full and bright and busy, when she met with servants here, supervised the household in its daily business—and then, before she left, the commotion of working with the servants to take down the wall hangings, pack clothing chests, dismantle the beds, packing and sorting and moving things to the underground space. Now her bedchamber was an empty, ugly hole like so many areas here, the floor partly gone, windows and raftered ceiling leaking light and cold air.
Gavin looked around. “You do know how to ruin a castle,” he said, and gave a rueful laugh. “King Edward should have had you on his side.”
She whirled. “Then I would have burned his great castle, with him in it!”
He held up a hand. “Hold, hold. An unfortunate remark. My apologies. Peace?”
She raised her chin stubbornly. But reminding herself of his Englishness was having less effect on her resolve. And after those heated, breathless kisses, her ire and resistance were dissolving, even as she tried to hold them in place. He was a man of substance and kindness, virile and gentle. And she was beginning to fear that she was feeling love over resentment, loveover anger. And she wanted to hold on to those. She was not sure why. Stubborn, aye. He had said so himself.
“That window is set with beautiful tracery, done by a master craftsman.”
“The frames were carved in Edinburgh and brought here when I was a child,” she said, glad of some neutral ground. “My father’s gift for my mother. There was colored glass in the top section and shutters below.” The windows were cracked, their beauty evident still. She wondered if they could be saved.
“There was a basket hearth here as well?”
“We only used a brazier, sometimes two in winter.”
“A fireplace would be nice, with a long hood to keep the room free of smoke.” He turned to her. “Would you like that?”
She hesitated, then nodded.
Gavin stepped forward cautiously. The blackened boards creaked beneath his weight.
“Do not walk there! The floor could collapse.”
He glanced at her, then walked along the perimeter of the room, agile and careful. When he came to the window niche, he stopped to look out. “Come here,” he said, beckoning to her.
“It is dangerous,” she said, holding the doorjamb.
