Page 34 of Beyond Dreams

“Late,” was all he said, wondering why she was ever concerned with the hour.

His frown remained, deepened even, as she sat up, exhibiting no sluggishness or ill-effects of her scrape with fright. She rubbed sleep from her pretty eyes and then, oddly, lifted the blankets to peek beneath them, at what he did not know. Satisfied with whatever she found, she settled the covers around her lap and faced him.

“Wife,” he said, “what befell you that you became lost in the crypt? What were you thinking to have—”

His delicate little wife rolled her eyes at him. “I didn’t become lost, Duncan. I became trapped. There’s a difference.”

“But what were you about?” He asked, not particularly caring for her defensive tone.

“I was exploring,” she said simply. “I’d been all over the castle, well most of it any way. And then I found the cellar and the crypt, and I was intrigued—”

“By a bluidy graveyard?” He questioned. “And tombs hundreds of years old?”

“Yes, I like all that stuff,” she said, “all the history.”

“But how were you so careless to have locked yourself in—”

Holly held up her hand, her shoulders slumping with some resignation or annoyance. “Seriously? I was not careless, Duncan. I was actually very careful. And that door didn’t close and lock itself.”

None of the simpering weakness which he suspected of her was on display presently. Because she did look and sound so hale and hearty, Duncan didn’t mind giving her a good scolding for the uproar she’d caused.

“I had to call out an entire unit of Soldiers, lass. Threw the whole keep into upheaval, for fear that you’d run, or that there was some dastardly plot at play, those MacHeths up to nae guid.”

“Great. Thank you for assuming that was intentional, or all my fault,” she lobbed back at him. “I might suggest you take that up with whoever locked me in the cellar.”

Reluctant to suppose some person in his own household would attempt to harm the laird’s wife, Duncan slanted a hard look at Holly. “Dinna be casting fault elsewhere, simply to relieve yourself of the blame.”

She stared at him, aghast, her lips parted and then beginning to quiver before her shoulders squared and she flung off the covers, getting out of bed. “Believe what you will, Duncan. Honestly, I don’t even care. But FYI, this might have been avoided if you’d bothered to spend time with your wife.”

Garbed only in her sleeveless shift, she stalked across the chamber to where the long-forgotten supper tray sat on the cupboard. Having thought that she’d only avoided dinner in some attempt to goad him, he’d brought the tray himself when supper was done, wanting to confront what he’d believed to be a childish tactic, just as darkness was falling. That had been more than six hours ago.

Presently, his attention was arrested by the sight of her shapely silhouette beneath the linen fabric of her shift, created by the dying coals of the fire. He blinked and frowned, forcing his gaze away from the gentle flare of her hips and her rounded bottom.

Lifting the wooden cup to her nose, she sniffed first before taking a small sip of the wine. With her back to him, her rant continued. “Graeme said I shouldn’t go outside the gate. The guy on the wall gave me grief for being up there,” she said, talking with her hand, which held a chunk of bread. “Doirin and Moire were—well, you can have them. What was I supposed to do? I was trying to entertain myself, occupy my time, sinceyourefused to spend any time with me.” She turned on him and tilted her head to one side, narrowing her eyes at him. “So much for getting to know your wife.” And with that, she tossed the bread piece into her mouth and glared at him as she chewed.

“Enough,” he snaps. “Get back in bed, Holly. You should nae be up and aboot.”

Ah, and she was a feisty bit of goods, his wife.

“Yes, well, in the same way the door in the cellar did not close and lock itself, Duncan,” she said, turning her back to him again, contemplating the food upon the tray, “the food is not going to walk itself over to me.”

Through clenched teeth, he inquired, “Are you meaning to frustrate me with nonsense? Is it your intent simply to be contrary?”

“I intend to eat something,” she said plainly. “Youchoose to accuse me of causing trouble, of actually causing distress to myself—oh, I’m fine, by the way.” Once more she whirled and face him, her hair flipping over her slim shoulders, a piece of fruit clenched in her fingers now. “Just go—what are you doing here anyway? And I swear to God, if you tell me you’re here to consummate this marriage, I’ll throw this wine at you.”

Behind the green shards of his eyes, ice glistened. She was...exasperating. Beyond that. She was confounding and unexpected, and he had a suspicion that she didn’t care how she was perceived. Recalling her query, and yet a bit befuddled by the complex composition of his wife, he said with a wee bite, “I was concerned for your welfare. I will nae make the mistake again.” He stalked toward the door, feeling as if he’d lost some small skirmish.

“Duncan,” she called after him.

Hand on the door, he briefly considered ignoring her, debated marching on away from her.

“I’m sorry,” she rushed out.

Judging her tone genuine, Duncan faced her again.

“That was rude of me,” she said. Her gaze didn’t meet his but landed somewhere on his chest. “Please...excuse my poor manners.” She fisted her hand at her chest, pushing the fabric of her shift close against her breasts. “But try to understand my frustration. Someone was in that cellar, Duncan, and shut and locked the door, and you’re blaming me, not even considering that what I’ve said happened might have actually happened.”

He nodded, acknowledging her explanation, though not the reality of it, still meaning to escape.

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