Page 79 of Promised to the Cursed Laird

"I left ye a woman who had never held a blade in her life," he said. "And now I find ye standing in a training yard, holding yer own against men who've been doing this since they could lift a sword."

"I've still a great deal tae learn."

"Aye."

There was no disappointment in his voice. Only pride.

He looked at Marcas then, and something in his expression shifted.

"Ye've taught her well."

Marcas shook his head.

"I taught her what I could. She did the rest."

Neilina met her brother's eyes.

"I'm nae the woman ye sent tae MacRath's, Fearchar."

Her voice was quiet, but there was no hesitation in it.

"I'll nae ever be her again."

Fearchar studied her a long moment, then nodded as if finally accepting what she had been trying to tell him.

"Nae," he said. "I can see that plainly enough now."

Steam was curling faintly from the surface of the basin of warm water the maids had brought up. Neilina found Marcas already sitting on the edge of the bed, stripped to the waist, and working at the buckle of his bracers with stiff fingers from the morning’s work. Dust and sweat streaked across his shoulders and down the line of his back.

"Ye look more tired than a man who spent the morning teaching his bride tae hold her own against his garrison," she said, setting the basin down and reaching for a cloth. "What else did ye dae?"

"I spent the morning being asked tae make certain my bride didnae get herself killed," he said dryly. "There’s a particular kind of exhaustion that comes with watching someone ye care about throw herself at armed men."

She laughed and knelt beside him, dipping the cloth into the warm water before beginning, with careful, unhurried strokes, to wipe the worst of the dust from his shoulders. She felt the muscles shift beneath her hands as he eased.

"Fearchar was impressed," she said, beaming with pride as she worked the cloth down the long line of his spine. "I dinnae think I've seen him look at me quite like that in years. Nae since I was small enough that everything I did impressed him simply by virtue of my having managed it at all."

"He should be impressed."

Marcas glanced back at her.

after only a few lessons."

"Flattery," she said, dragging the cloth slowly across his shoulder, "from a man currently at my mercy with a cloth and a basin of water."

"A dangerous position tae put me in."

She smiled. "Ye're hardly dangerous at present."

His eyes moved to hers.

"Ye've nae idea."

The words were quiet enough that the teasing slipped out of them. Neilina's hand stilled briefly against his shoulder. Then, very deliberately, she continued washing the dust from his skin.

She finished the worst of it, working the cloth over his forearms, his chest, the small nicks and old scars scattered across skin that told their own long history of border wars and hard-won peace. He sat still and patient under her hands in a way she suspected very few people ever got to witness —the laird set aside, leaving only the man.

"Can I ask ye something?" she said, setting the cloth down, settling beside him on the edge of the bed.