“When he wanted to be,” she said, the words sounding mumbled as she stared down at her feet.
He hooked a finger under her chin and gently tilted it until he was looking in her eyes once more. Twin pools of temptation—that’s what her dark eyes framed by her long, thick lashes were like. “And when did he want to be, Patience?” She flinched and then attempted to hide it with a shrug. The suspicion within him grew tenfold. “Did ye hit ye? Is that how he got obedience from ye?”
“Is hitting yer men how ye get obedience from them?” she demanded, nicely avoiding his question.
“Nay,” he said, thinking immediately of his loss of temper moments ago. Normally he was a very controlled man, but then his normal had changed drastically in the last few hours.
She stepped away from him and crossed her arms in front of her chest. “Why did ye hit Ulric?”
“Because he did nae seem to ken that he should respect ye.”
She quickly averted her gaze but not before he noted the vivid scarlet that had blossomed on her cheeks. “He’ll be verra vexed that ye demoted him as captain of the guards.”
Brodee nodded. “I ken it. But if he’s the best, he will earn his position back—as long as he follows my rules.”
“He is the best fighter,” she admitted, talking to the wall more than to him. “He was also Silas’s friend.”
Brodee quirked an eyebrow. “Ye dunnae believe he will follow my rules?”
“I believe he will challenge them,” she said. “They are verra different from what he has kenned. Do ye wish him to respect me because it shows a disrespect for ye and yer dominance if he dunnae show regard for me, yer property?”
It seemed to be a simple question, yet his gut told him it was anything but. “Aye,” he said, watching her shoulders droop. “But ye deserve respect in yer own right.”
Her head whipped toward him, her brow furrowed. “What sort of game are ye playing with me?” Anger was hot in her voice.
He could have told her he wasn’t playing one, but she’d not believe him. “What sort of game areyeplaying withme, Patience?”
“I’m nae playing at anything…”
He heard thebutat the end of her sentence as clearly as if she’d said it. “Nay?”
She bit her lip but shook her head.
“Did Silas’s ghost tell ye to wear yer léine to the wedding feast?”
“The voices in my head did,” she said, matter-of-fact.
“’Tis awfully noisy in there, I imagine, between the voices and yer dead husband’s ghost.”
“Ye kinnae begin to conceive,” she muttered.
But he could. For years he’d lived with whispers of doubt about his own worth and the guilt of failing to protect the woman he’d loved and the woman he’d been told he would wed. “I can,” he assured her, hoping his eyes conveyed what he’d never admit with words. To do that would be like inviting her in when he wanted to keep her out.
“Should we nae go in?” she asked, shifting from foot to foot, showing her nervousness.
“We should,” he agreed, reaching his arms around her.
“What are ye doing?” The alarm in her voice made him frown. What was her experience with men that the simplest movement, the most innocent of touches, elicited such fear?
“I’m going to unwrap the Blackswell plaid because ye have it fashioned incorrectly,” he explained.
“I was…I was…”
“Covering yer breasts since the voices told ye to wear only this thin léine?” He could not keep the amusement from his voice. He was gifted with the loveliest smile, but it was gone so quickly he could have believed he’d imagined it if the moment of levity had not lightened her eyes. “Ye have the most enticing dimples.” He wanted to run his finger over them.
He felt just as shocked as she looked. That one brief glimpse of her dimples had seared them into his brain.
“I—” An odd expectant look settled on her face as she stared at him. Did she want another compliment?
