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After talking to Taran, she transformed the smallest drawing room into an office to obtain a place where she could gather the paperwork and carry out to her tasks. She made herself at home and, apart from the fact that she was now married, her daily life continued basically what it had been at the McKendrick’s. The management of the manor, overseeing the preparations for winter supplies in autumn, for spring in the fields, the garden, the orchard, the herb garden. No news for her. She had been doing this since her mother passed from consumption. Aileen had been sixteen.
So, when she requested one of McDougal’s chieftains to come talk to her, she received him in her study.
Quinn McDougal, a strapping man in his forties, thinning blonde hair and expansive mood. He owned a property on the northern border of the McDougal’s lands and supplied firewood.
In times past, a chieftain held more power than they did now. But with English rule, they got reduced to land work and trade. Exactly what Quinn did these days.
As he passed into her study, she closed the door. After he respectfully bowed over her hand, she offered him a seat.
“We need to see to the firewood supply through winter, Mr McDougal.” She explained.
“I see, my lady.” He smiled. “I ken the Laird would request it soon.”
“As his wife, I oversee the manor and will order the supplies for the foreseeable future.”
“Of course, my lady.”
They continued talking about quantities, prices and transport.
She lost track of the time and startled when someone rasped the door. It opened to bring Taran in the room.
Despite the fact they lived in the same house, ate at the same table and—blast it—slept in the same bed, the sight of him caused a heatwave to wash over her. Colour flooded her skin as she lowered her gaze to appease her jumping heart.
“Laird McDougal.” Quinn leapt from his seat to greet the clan leader.
Taran frowned, his stare going cold. “Quinn.” He devolved. “What are you doing here?” He asked throwing his wife a suspicious glance.
“Yer new lady wanted to plan the firewood fer winter.” He explained cheerfully.
“You are giving her the fire.” He commented in a flinty way.
“Ye could say, my Laird.” The strapping man fidgeted with his hat.
Aileen observed the interaction a tad intrigued. Taran well understood she took over the manor management.
“I think we are settled, Mr McDougal.” She ended the meeting. “I will send you a letter with the details and the dates for the transport.”
“Good evening, my lady.” He bowed and left, closing the door.
As soon as Taran caught her with another man, something tore at him. Boiling acid burned in his guts. There had been this fiery urge to punch the other man to an inch of his life.
“What was that about?” His wife crossed her arms and lifted her satiny chin to him.
“The scoundrel is a flirt.” He devolved, an edge lining his growl.
“He behaved with perfect respect.” She defended the chieftain.
“I do not want him near you.” He issued.
“What you want or not is of no importance.” She kept her ground. “The manor requires firewood.”
“I said to keep him away.” Legs braced, he shot her a commanding glare.
“I must bring firewood from the McKendrick’s perhaps.” Her mahogany stare faced him in full.
“Send it written. He needs not come personally.”
“The point is to meet the people I am dealing with in these lands.” The emphasis came sound, but his rational mind malfunctioned at that moment.
