He deserved her anger. He intended to combat it with kindness and reason. But now he was momentarily content to simply admire her. She’d donned the warmest of the cloaks he’d provided, an ankle-length garment of miniver, fashioned with the tanned hides turned inside out. The hides had been worked to suppleness, then dyed a pale leaf green and further embellished with a border of interlocking cinquefoils, the device of the Maiden. The color complemented her forest-hued eyes, and the soft fur accentuated the delicacy of her skin. She’d braided her glorious black hair and coiled it at the nape of her neck. When a gust of wind whipped around her, she drew up the hood of the cloak and continued to stare at the horizon. Standing just so, she looked like a queen ready to bless a fleet, rather than a wife eager to desert her vows. Since pledging his troth to her, he’d dedicated every waking hour to unifying Scotland. In contrast, she’d made a vocation of loathing it. Even in her dreams, she cursed her homeland, and when the visions grew too horrid, she cried out in her sleep for help.
