It was expectation.
Frederick held her eyes steadily. “There are arrangements.”
A flicker of concern crossed her features.
“I see,” she said softly.
He knew what troubled her. Not scandal. Not gossip.
Stability.
Iona shifted beside him, jaw tightening slightly.
Caitlin stepped closer to her instead of him.
“Whatever has passed before,” his mother said quietly, voice low enough for only them to hear, “ye are under me roof now. That means ye are protected.”
Frederick saw the battle play out across her face. Suspicion. Hope. Fear of disappointment.
At last, she inclined her head slightly. “Thank ye.”
It was cautious. But it was genuine.
Caitlin smiled warmly, then turned back to Jamie with unabashed interest.
“Tell me,” she asked, already guiding the child toward the doors, “do ye prefer bannocks with honey or butter?”
Jamie considered this gravely. “Both.”
Caitlin laughed, delighted.
Frederick watched as they disappeared inside.
All the assurances he had given on the road.
All the confidence he had spoken with.
And here stood his mother, already hopelessly attached within seconds.
Not calculating.
Not strategic.
Just… eager.
Desperate, perhaps, for something joyful to fill these stone halls.
He glanced at Iona again.
She still looked as though she expected the other shoe to drop, but still, he could not read her.
Frederick had spent the better part of his life learning to read men. To spot hesitation in a warrior’s stance. To sense deceit in a merchant’s smile. To measure loyalty in the way someone held eye contact.
Iona, however, did not fit cleanly into any calculation.
She walked through the great hall beside him with measured steps, chin lifted, gaze moving over stone arches and tapestries as though assessing a battlefield rather than a home. She did not gape at the vaulted ceiling. She did not linger over the carved pillars. She noted exits. Windows. Guards.
Irrelevant, he told himself.