Silence.
"Ye can ask," he said. The invitation was quiet, almost a whisper that felt like a physical touch against her skin.
"I'm nae askin’."
"Matilda."
"It's yer scar. It's yer business." She turned her head away, her jaw set.
She heard him move, the creak of the chair as he leaned forward again. The sound was close, too close, and her skin prickled with awareness.
"It's nae as dramatic as it looks," he said. "Old. From before I was laird."
She turned her head and looked at him properly. His eyes were on the fire. The tunic was still ridden up on one side and the scar caught the firelight. She traced the white line again, her own heart slowing into a heavy thud.
"It looks dramatic," she said. Her voice was softer now, the edge of her fear beginning to dull.
"Aye well." The corner of his mouth moved. A ghost of a smile, fleeting and sharp. "I was younger. Less careful."
"Ye dinnae seem like a person who was ever less careful."
He looked at her sideways. "Everyone's less careful when they're young. Even ye." His eyes were dark, searching hers for a history she wasn't ready to share.
"I was always careful."
"Nay," he said. A shadow of something—understanding? pity?—crossed his features. "Ye werenae. Ye were just made tae be careful earlier than ye should've been."
She held his gaze and said nothing because he'd named something she'd spent eight years not naming, and she didn't know what to do with it, so she looked at the ceiling again. She felt raw, as if he’d reached out and touched a wound she thought was hidden.
"Ye'll sleep in here from now on," he said. The command was flat, final, leaving no room for argument.
She blinked. Her heart gave a strange, fluttering skip. "I am sleeping in here."
"Aye. Ye'll keep sleeping in here. In the bed." He stood, rolling his shoulder once, and moved toward the window. "Ye're me wife. This is our chamber." He stood with his back to her, a solid, immovable wall of a man.
She sat up. The covers pooled at her waist as she met his broad shoulders with a defiant look. "Ye could've asked."
"I could have." He looked out at the grey morning, his back to her, hands clasped behind him. "Ye're here now. It's settled." His posture was entirely composed, while she felt as though she were fraying at the edges.
She stared at the back of his head. The absolute composure of it. "Ye are the most…"
"Aye." He turned from the window and looked at her with those dark eyes and the ghost of something at the corner of his mouth."Ye mentioned." He watched her, his expression unreadable but intense.
She opened her mouth. Closed it. She felt a surge of frustration—and something else she refused to name.
He was already moving around the room.
"There's water on the stand," he said. "Sigrid will bring food." He paused at the basin and looked back at her over his shoulder. "And Matilda."
"What?" She gripped the edge of the furs, her knuckles white.
"Ye looked fer longer than ye can count."
He crossed back toward the table and reached for his belt. She sat in the bed with the covers pulled up.
Longer than I could count.
As though he'd been keeping track. As though it mattered to him how long she'd looked.