Iliana was silent and subdued for the rest of the journey, weariness creeping over her so that it was a relief when they finally arrived home. Not wishing to anger Duncan and bring more censure upon herself, she did her best not to shrink from him as he helped her to dismount. But once he had set her upon the ground and released her, she hurried up the steps to the keep, not waiting to see whether he followed.

As late as it was, Laird Angus was still up. Seated in one of the two chairs by the fire, he was staring sadly into its depths but glanced up when she entered. Spying her, he smiled and offered a word of welcome.

Managing a weak smile in response, Iliana murmured a greeting as she crossed to the stairway, then trudged silently up the steps to the second floor. The door of the bed chamber she had come to think of as her own had never looked so welcoming as it did at that moment. Pushing it open, Iliana stepped inside and started to close the door, only to find it resist her push. Turning back in surprise, her eyes widened as she saw that Duncan had followed her and was now entering the room. She had not even considered that he might expect to sleep here tonight. A foolish oversight, she supposed wearily. After all, her husband had been sleeping in Seonaid’s room, but that young woman had returned from her hunting trip today. That being the case, Iliana supposed she should have expected Duncan to join her in their room that night, but the thought had not occurred to her, and she now eyed him warily as he entered.

Closing the door, Duncan walked to the bed, thoroughly ignoring his wife’s glare. Her expression made him feel something of an interloper as he began to unbuckle his sword, and that annoyed him. It was his bloody room. And she was his wife. Though one could be forgiven for not believing that since she seemed to have no concept of how a wife should behave. A wife was her husband’s possession as surely as his castle, his cattle, and his sword. She was to subject herself to her husband’s will, not stomp about in a belt of chastity, insulting his odor and demanding that he bathe.

His gaze slid to his wife as an image of her standing in naught but that damn belt came to mind. Her flesh had been nearly as white as those precious linens of hers, with just a blush of pink, he remembered, licking his lips.