Chapter 12

12

M urdoch was enjoying his evening time with Finn, the bairn fast asleep and content in his arms, when a quiet rapping on the door startled him out of his reverie. A wave of irritation washed over him. Tt intensified as the door creaked open. "I said I wasnae to be disturbed unless the castle is afire or there's an enemy storming the gates."

His voice was harsh, for all that he kept it low to avoid waking Finn. Even as careful as he was, some measure of his frustration must have seeped through, for the bairn frowned and stirred fretfully in his sleep. Murdoch hurried to soothe the sleeping child, even as he turned around to glare at whoever was intruding on his privacy and his rare moment of peace and quiet.

He wasn't expecting to see Lydia, standing there with a plate of food and a wine goblet. He blinked in surprise. When she didn't disappear, he found his voice again. "What are ye doing here?"

Lydia's answer was slow in coming. She seemed startled and a tad embarrassed, her eyes darting from Finn's closed eyes to Murdoch's face and back again. Even in the dimmed light of the study, he could see a faint blush suffusing her cheeks. "I…me apologies, me Laird. I dinnae intend to intrude…"

While it would certainly have been a very unwelcome intrusion by anyone else, Lydia's presence stirred conflicting feelings in him. A part of him begrudged her presence. However, another part of him awoke and whispered that she was his betrothed and would soon be Finn's mother. As such, her arrival was something to be approved of and encouraged.

He shook his head as she started to turn away. "Nay. Ye daenae need to leave. Just give me a moment to settle him."

He turned to the large, overstuffed chair he rarely used, save for when he had Finn with him. A blanket along the edges formed a soft, cozy nest in its middle. Not only did it make a comfortable bed for the bairn, but the barrier of thick, woolen cloth ensured his son would be snug and unable to roll over and fall out, or wake and escape to injure himself before Murdoch could reach him. It wasn't as ideal as the child's bed in the nursery, but it suited them both during their times together.

Once Finn was safely settled, Murdoch moved to the couch. A small table at one end held the covered platters that contained his own meal, and a single tankard of mead - all he would permit himself while watching his son.

He took a seat and waved Lydia to the cushion beside him. He waited until she had settled in place before speaking again, his voice low to avoid disturbing Finn. "What brings ye to me?"

"I wanted company." Her admission made him frown in confusion.

"There's company enough in the Hall."

Lydia gave him a sideways glance that suggested he was making a somewhat foolish argument. "Aye. But me betrothed wasnae there. Who else would I be wantin' to eat with, me first night in the castle of me husband-to-be?"

Murdoch winced at the subtle rebuke. Now that he thought about it, she certainly had a valid argument. He should have been there to introduce her to whatever members of the household and the council were in attendance. As her betrothed that was his duty.

He'd been so caught up in his routine, so uncertain about the feelings that she'd awakened in him that he'd forgotten his basic obligations to her.

If Lydia noticed his chagrin, she didn't say anything about it. "We're meant to spend this time learnin' about each other. How are we supposed to do so, if ye're always busy or avoiding me?"

Murdoch raised an eyebrow at that. He wasn't aware that he'd been avoiding her, just caught up in other things. Still, there was no point in protesting, since doing so would make him look thoughtless, rather than nervous, and he'd had enough of that already. "I take it ye think ye have a solution?"

"Aye. I'd like to add another condition to our agreement." She took a deep breath. "Every night, regardless of what else may be happening, I want us to eat together, ye and I."

He blinked. "Every night?"

"Aye. Until we're either wed or dissolve the betrothal, at the very least. Though if we wed, I'll make it a condition of the marriage as well."

It wasn't the most unpleasant prospect, but he could see a few issues with it. "And what if I've business that takes me away from the castle for a night? Or a council meeting that runs late? Or what if ye want to visit yer sisters, and I cannae accompany ye?"

The last he thought was the most likely to come up, but he did have duties beyond the walls of Lochlann Castle every now and again, like the Highland Gatherings.

She considered it a moment. "Then we'll write each other letters, to be read over the evening meal each night. Or, when we're together again, we shall take extra time to ourselves to make up for the lack."

The idea of writing and sending that many letters made his fingers ache, but he had to admire her wit in coming up with a solution so quickly. And not just that, she'd provided an alternative, if the first suggestion proved untenable. That showed a better mind than many of his council members possessed.

"Well, have we a bargain?" She was waiting for his response.

Murdoch answered by tapping his tankard to her cup. "Aye. We have an agreement."

Lydia smiled, and sipped her drink, then turned her attention to her food. Murdoch watched as she delicately lifted a slice of roast meat from her plate and placed it in her mouth. Somehow, she managed to make it look graceful, even when a small drop of juice ran down the side of her chin. She wiped it away with a cloth before it could drip on her dress. Not, however, before he felt a sudden urge to bend forward and kiss it away.

God above, it's been too long since I was with a woman, if even the simple act of eating a meal heats my blood in this way.

He took a sip of his mead to wet his dry throat. He tried to imagine a fortnight of nights like this, or a season, and it made his groin ache. Living through such nights would be maddening, and he wasn't entirely sure his control would withstand the temptation.

He knew he'd agreed to her suggestion already, but he couldn't help being aware of the new complication, now that he'd thought of it. He decided to voice the consideration and see what she made of it. "Ye want to eat a meal with me every night, but ye daenae want to permit me anythin' else? I'm to sit with ye every evening, and never lay a hand on ye?"

He was hoping to fluster her, but aside from a slight blush she didn't react. "Aye. Unless I say otherwise. Tis what we agreed, and I'll nae be changin' that."

Her words were both maddening and intriguing. He'd taken the condition to be a maiden's reticence when she'd first proposed it, but her appearance in his quarters suggested otherwise. A maiden so shy would never have sought him out in the absence of a chaperone or escort.

At the very least, he would have expected her to request Wilma's accompaniment, but she didn't seem discomfited by being alone with him, just by the notion of being physically intimate with him.

He wondered if a concern for her virtue directed the matter, or something else. Whatever her reasons, he'd not discover them unless he took the time to get to know her.

She was still watching him expectantly, so he dipped his head to acknowledge her response. "As ye will. A new condition of our betrothal; we'll dine together every night and get to ken one another, but I'll be a gentleman about it, unless ye say otherwise."

Her smile filled him with warmth, but also trepidation. One way or another, he very much suspected that suppers with Lydia were going to test his self-control far more than anything else he'd ever experienced.

Lydia discovered that securing Murdoch's agreement to the supplementary condition to their betrothal turned out to be the most tranquil part of the evening. The man was more reserved and reclusive than even Hunter had been.

"Did ye have a productive meeting with yer advisors?"

"Aye." Beyond that single word, he made no further effort at conversation, instead focusing on his food and eating with an almost single-minded concentration.

She tried again. "Do ye eat here often?"

"Aye." Again, no more was forthcoming.

"Wilma says ye told her that ye dinnae wish to dine with her because she has too much energy and chatter, and ye dinnae like it. Is that true?"

His response this time was a grunt that could have meant anything. She considered his previous responses, then rephrased the question. "Do ye really object to Wilma's enthusiasm while dinin'?"

Murdoch paused for a moment, and she felt a momentary hope that he would reply to her query with a full sentence. Murdoch shook his head. "Nay." He returned to eating, leaving her to scowl at her own plate in vexation.

She could ask questions of Murdoch all night, but never do more than scratch the surface of his likes, dislikes, and general personality. She was almost tempted to ask something rude, just to see if he'd react. The only thing that held her back was the newness of the situation, and the bairn sleeping on the chair nearby.

Mayhap if I asked less pointed questions he would be more forthcoming. At the very least, I may get something more out of him beyond yes or no. She tried again. "What's yer favorite color?"

That earned her a shrug and a noncommittal mumble. "What about seasons? Mine is winter. Tis a cozy time to sit by the fire and read, or spend time in games with yer family."

"Aye."

Did the man really not have an opinion on anything, or was he just determined to thwart her at every attempt she made on getting to know what sort of man he was?

She'd intended to keep the conversation light and simple, but she was sorely tempted once more to edge slide towards rudeness, just to see if he could engage his mouth and unsettle his uncooperative composure. Even so, she didn't think it right to press him too hard, when she was already intruding on his quiet time with his son. "What sort of foods do ye like?"

He grunted and made a vague gesture toward his plate. She had no idea if he was saying he liked everything or trying to indicate a particular portion of his meal. "Do ye prefer mead or beer with yer meals?"

No answer, but he gave her a pointed look, before indicating the flagon on the table. Clearly he expected her to know his preferences simply by what he'd been served for supper. As if she knew him well enough to know whether he demanded certain meals according to his tastes or ate whatever the cooks felt like making.

Alex would eat and enjoy anything he was served and rarely expressed a desire for or a dislike of a specific dish. Leo, on the other hand, had defined preferences. He'd eat other things, but anyone who spent much time around him knew he had some foods he much preferred over others. In part, it was because his son sometimes took ill from certain plants, but not always.

Hunter was again different. He had no determined preferences, but there were some things he absolutely would not eat, like porridge, or bread that wasn't freshly baked, or small beers and watered wine.

Lydia scowled at her betrothed. Why had he suggested she stay and agreed to her alteration of their previous agreement, if he was going to be so stubborn in his refusal to get to know her, or allow her to get to know him?

She had been asking a lot of questions. Perhaps that was the problem. She took a deep breath to calm her exasperation. "Ye ken, ye can ask questions of me if ye want."

"Aye."

Frustration won out. "Are ye always this stubborn?" Too late, she realized she'd raised her voice and spoken louder than she'd meant to.

Finn stirred restlessly on his makeshift bed and they both froze. Murdoch glared at her as he set aside his plate and stood to check on his son. Lydia set aside her own plate and followed.

The bairn shifted for a few moments, rolling over to bury his face in the soft cloth of the blanket, and settled once again.

Murdoch stroked a gentle finger over the wee lad's face, just as Lydia reached out to tuck the edge of the blanket closer around Finn's shoulders. Their hands touched, and Lydia pulled back in surprise.

Murdoch stared at her for a moment, then bent and lifted Finn into his arms. Lydia watched as he went to the door and called for a maid to take the sleeping bairn. Once the child had gone back to his nursery, Murdoch turned to face her. "Was past time for him to be put to bed. He'll be fussy if he gets woken now."

It was such a simple action, so domestic, that Lydia couldn't help blinking in surprise. Murdoch gave her a slightly irritated look. "If ye've a question, ask it."

Lydia shook her head. "Tis naythin'. I just never expected ye to be the sort to take an active hand in caring for a bairn, even if he is yer son. Tis strange to see how gentle ye are with him."

"He's me son, and that's nae a question. And nae the one ye really want to ask." Murdoch folded his arms. "Ye might as well say whatever it is ye're thinking."

It was on the tip of her tongue to ask why she should bother, when he'd so steadfastly refused to answer any of her other questions. In the end, however, curiosity overruled her stubbornness, and she asked the question that had been uppermost in her mind ever since she and Isobel had first spoken about him.

"Did ye really murder yer wife?"

The effect was immediate. Murdoch stiffened, every trace of relaxation and softness leaving him as he stalked towards her. "Ye daenae ken what ye're speaking of, or ye wouldnae ask such a question."

He appeared terrifying, but she refused to back down. "Then tell me. Did ye?"

Murdoch's hands seized her upper arms. "Ye will apologize for the insult of asking me such a question!"

"Nay I willnae. As yer betrothed, I've a right to ken the truth or falsehood of the rumors surrounding ye. So I'll nae be apologizing until I hear the answer from ye." She met his furious glare with an unwavering stare of her own.

Silence fell between them, leaden and heavy, neither one of them willing to yield. Finally, Murdoch released her and looked away. "Nay."

"Nay, ye willnae answer, or nay, ye dinnae do it?" Lydia scowled. She was tired of these one-word answers.

"Nay, I dinnae."

She wanted to believe him, but why was he so defensive and angry if he'd had nothing to do with his wife's death? And why wouldn't he elaborate, and offer a stronger defense of himself? "I daenae ken if I believe ye, nae unless ye tell me what happened."

Murdoch's face went stone-hard, eyes glittering with fury and something much deeper, something that made her stomach clench. "Ye demanded an answer, nae an explanation. And if ye willnae accept what I tell ye, then there's naythin' more to say!"

Lydia stepped forward, intending to press the matter, but Murdoch clapped a hand over her mouth. "Daenae even think it. If ye willnae trust me words, then there's nae point to speaking further. Go lock yerself in yer chambers and leave me be, if ye're so determined to think me a monster."

Before she could properly sort out her thoughts, Lydia found herself standing in the corridor, plate and cup in hand, as the door shut firmly in her face. She scowled at the heavy oak panel for a moment, then sighed.

It was partially her fault, she knew. She'd pressed too hard and too fast, and it had been foolish to admit she was struggling to believe him.

The truth was she didn't know what to make of Murdoch Nairn. One moment he could be gentle and soothing, almost kind. The next he would be cold and forbidding, his anger wrapping like a storm cloud around him, making her feel as if lightning would strike her for a single misspoken word.

Perhaps it would be best for her to sort out her own thoughts and feelings before she approached him again.

The only thing she was sure of at this point was that Murdoch Nairn was a fascinating, complicated man, whom she desperately wanted to know. Whatever else he was, the pain she'd glimpsed in his eyes when he spoke of being thought a monster was all too raw and real.

Monsters, as she well knew from her cousin Geoffrey, didn't care what other people thought of them, which meant Murdoch wasn't a monster at all.

Nae a monster, but I cannae say for certain whether ye're truly innocent of all ye've been accused of doing either. But tis early days yet, Murdoch Nairn, and I promise I'll nae be giving up on unearthing what sort of man ye truly are .