“Moiré told me,” Faye said in a softer voice. “I imagine it must have been hard.” She intentionally looked around the room as well to indicate she understood his hesitation.
The tension eased from his shoulders somewhat. “Mayhap we can speak more on it later?”
She nodded.
“I wasna keeping it from ye.” He paused as if collecting his thoughts. “It isna something I discuss.”
Awareness tingled at the back of Faye’s neck—the distinct sensation of being watched. She lifted her gaze and found Blair watching her with smoldering hatred.
Cruim sat beside Blair, a grin on his thin lips as one hand locked possessively around hers. Again, Faye experienced a flicker of pity for the other woman.
It was a strange thing indeed, disorienting and foreign, to be pushed into a marriage with a man one didn’t know, especially when forced from one’s own home. It had been difficult enough with Ewan who was a fine, fit man…
A man Blair thought similarly of. Any sense of pity was once more washed away by the reminder of what Blair had offered Ewan.
“Have ye overhead anything?” He asked quietly.
Faye glanced at him and shook her head, knowing he referred to the Gordons and their potential threat. “Nay. They go quiet when I approach.”
“In awe of yer beauty.” Ewan winked.
Her cheeks heated at his compliment.
“’Tis true.” He leaned closer. “There’s no’ a man in the room who can take his eyes off ye.” He swept his fingers over her thigh beneath the cover of the table. “Including me.”
Her body’s reaction was instantaneous, hot and eager with desire. “Ye’re the only one that matters.” She glanced at him through her lashes.
“Sutherland,” someone shouted from across the room.
Ewan sighed. “I must go.” He touched his fingers to the underside of her chin, lifting it toward him. “Ye’re beautiful, Faye. So verra beautiful.” His mouth brushed hers in a chaste kiss that made her long for so much more.
And then he was gone, striding confidently toward a group of his men who in their intoxicated state cheered his arrival. She knew she was not the only one who watched her husband. Blair’s focus had shifted from glaring her hatred at Faye to feasting her eyes upon Ewan with blatant appreciation.
Ire boiled in Faye’s blood. She’d had enough. The hour was growing late, and she was ready to retire for the evening. After all, the following day would be busy with her new duties as mistress of the castle. Moiré had spent the past sennight explaining what was required, and Faye was ready to take ownership of her new role.
Faye exited the Great Hall, shutting the noise of revelry away with the sweep of the heavy door. In the hall, the sconces cast meager light and almost no heat. The chilled darkness was a wonderful reprieve after the chaos of noise in the Great Hall.
She took her time making her way to her chambers. She was nearly to her suite of rooms when a door opened at the opposite end of the hall. The idea of seeing another person, of engaging in yet another tedious discussion, made exhaustion sink deep into her very bones. It was in that moment of longing for solitude that Faye slipped into an alcove to avoid being seen.
A woman’s throaty chuckle echoed down the otherwise empty corridor. A man’s murmured reply followed, indiscernible save for the masculine timbre. Another titter of amusement followed by the wet sounds of kissing.
A door clicked closed and footsteps padded to where Faye hid. She pressed herself back against the wall to ensure the shadows fully concealed her, now not wishing to be seen for an entirely different reason.
A woman walked by with tousled light brown hair and a languid smile spread on her lips, clearly having been recently well-loved.
Not just any woman.
Moiré.
Ewan needed to tell Faye about Lara. But there had been too much ale, too much whisky, too many rounds of cheers and filled tankards.
He should have declined them all and left when Faye departed the Great Hall. He paused in front of the chamber door and braced himself on the frame.
Lara.
Her memory lodged like a burr in his chest. He hadn’t wanted to discuss her with anyone, let alone Faye. As though keeping her name from being spoken would keep the manner of her death from casting the same darkness upon his current marriage.
She had taken her own life because she couldn’t tolerate the idea of him not loving her. Her death had been his fault. Such a weight would never lift from his soul.
He unlatched the door to his bedchamber as quietly as he could because of the late hour. This was the first night they had retired to bed separately. He hoped she had not gone to her own chamber and might instead be waiting for him in his bed, sleep warm and silky to curl against.
His gaze fell on the bed, followed by the sting of disappointment. It was still made and absent his wife. He entered the room and drew up short at a figure sitting before the hearth, staring into the dancing flames.
Faye.
She still wore the blue kirtle her maid had sewn for her. The one that fit her body perfectly, contouring the sensual dip of her waist and flare of her hips, hugging the firm roundness of her breasts in a way that made him want to cup his hands around them. She’d taken her hair down from the caul, and the rich, golden waves tumbled down her shoulders.
She was beautiful. Achingly so. And she was his.
He closed the door, and she started. Her gaze darted to him, and an embarrassed smile flicked over her lips. “Forgive me. I was lost in my own thoughts.”
“God, ye’re bonny, Faye.” He slowly walked toward her through
