He waited for more. An explanation. A begging of his forgiveness. But that was all she would say, apparently, as she was looking around him now, to the dais. “Oh, how lovely,” she said. “You have indeed added something new.”

He squinted over his shoulder. The dais was the only thing left of the original great hall besides the floors and the walls. It was a raised platform where the chieftain and his advisers had taken their meals over the years. The use of it was not so formal now, but still, Arran liked it—it gave him a view of the entire hall.

It took him a moment to realize she was admiring the carved table and upholstered chairs he’d acquired on a recent trade voyage, as well as the two silver candelabras that graced the head table. He’d taken those in payment from a man who was down on his luck and had needed some horses for a desperate run from authorities.

“It’s French, isn’t it?” she asked. “It looks very French.”

Was what French? And what did it matter at this moment, given the great occasion that was unfurling before them? Mr. and Mrs. Mackenzie of Balhaire were standing in the same room, and no knives had been drawn! Call the heralds! Trumpet the news! What the devil was his wife doing here after three years of silence, nattering on about his dining table? Why was she here without warning, without a word, particularly having left him in the manner she had?

Her audacity made him feel unstably angry; his heart was pounding uncomfortably in his chest. “I was no’ expecting you, and I’d like to know what has brought you to Balhaire, madam.”

“Aye!” someone said at the back of the hall.

“Goodness, I do beg your pardon.” She instantly sank into a very deep curtsy. “I was so taken by familiar surroundings that I failed to announce that I’ve come home.” She smiled beatifically and held out her hand for him to help her up.

“Home?” He snorted at the absurdity.

“Yes. Home. You are my husband. Therefore, this is my home.” She wiggled her fingers at him as if he’d forgotten her hand was extended to him.

Oh, he was aware of that hand, and more important, that smile, because it burned in Arran’s chest. It ended in a pair of dimples, and her luminescent green eyes sparkled with the low light of the hall. He could see the wisps of her auburn hair peeking out beneath the hood of her cloak, dark curls against her smooth, pale skin.

She kept smiling, kept her hand outstretched. “Will you not come and greet me?”