Page 65 of The Scottish Bride

“And for Sir William.”

“Och, the lad is fine, do not think about it. You should rest.”

“Despite lavender and all-heal, I am a bit dithery still. I do not think I can rest.”

“So much truth, hey. You need time to think. Lie down and relax. I will sit here, away from you. See,” he said, holding up his hands. “A courteous harper-knight will not advance upon his betrothed unless invited.”

“Is that chivalric code?”

“We will make it so. Settle there now.” She stretched on her side, facing out, laying her head on the thin pillow and tucking her knees under her gray skirts. He leaned back, pressed his shoulders to the wall. “Close your eyes, lass. Rest.”

“But we have more that must be said—” She yawned again.

“Later.” He patted her booted foot beside his hip. “I will keep my distance.”

“Unless you are invited,” she said, and her foot in its simple boot wiggled a bit against his thigh.

“Well,” he said, “sleep. We can sort it all out, now we know what to do.”

She half-closed her eyes. “When I was betrothed before, there was a wee ceremony. A solemn promise, a vow to keep and honor, and the priest was careful to phrase it all for the future. Fixing it in the present would make a marriage.”

“I did the same with—my betrothed, years back.”

That marriage had never come about for him, she realized. “We were wed a few weeks later, but the keeping and honoring was scant at best. Ignoring was more the nature of my marriage.” An offering of sorts, letting him know she had not felt happy or cared for in those years, when she did not want to say it aloud.

“I see.” He rested his hand on her boot, a finger warm on her ankle. She let it stay. “I do not think I could ever ignore you in my household.”

“I would make sure of it. But we are only betrothed. No promise beyond the moment. No—”

“No future. No agreement. I know,” he said. “Rest. Hush.”

“Could we betroth for a month, do you think? A few months?”

“Magpie,” he said softly, “rest, you.”

“A year and a day?”

“That is more for a handfast, and different altogether.”

“Ah, a handfast is a sort of marriage.” She closed her eyes gently. His hand warmed her ankle just where the air felt cool, and she sighed into the pillow. “A betrothal that is consummated can become a handfasting or a marriage.”

“A handfasting can also be agreed from the start for a year and a day.” His fingers felt hotter now through the thin wool of her hose. “If there is a child, the agreement converts to marriage. Without a child, at the end of the year and day, the couple can agree to make it permanent, or dissolve it.”

“Aye, dissolved,” she repeated sleepily.

“But a year and a day with you—now that would be a lovely thing,” he murmured, his thumb tracing the bone and curve of her ankle.

“Wherever would we live for a year and a day?”

“In the woodland. Deep in the forest, in the green and the lush, in the quiet, with the larks and the deer, ferns and fronds and great tall trees. There we would be.”

“That would be lovely, aye. Away from all,” she whispered.

“Not found unless we wanted to be,” he agreed, fingers soothing. She shivered. “Do you not want to be found?”

“Sometimes. Would you bring your harp?” she asked after a moment.

“Too noisy. Besides, I lost my harp.”