He turned and left the room before anyone could remark on him standing there like a statue.
He found useful work. There was always useful work for a laird who preferred the company of stone to the company of women. The south granary wall had developed a lean that requiredhis attention, and two of his men were waiting on a decision regarding the boundary markers on the eastern ridge.
He gave the decisions, assessed the masonry, spoke to his steward about the stores of salted beef for winter, and did a creditable impression of a man who had not noticed the quality of the silence in the hall since Margaret arrived.
The air felt different. It was less heavy, yet more charged.
He was standing in the courtyard, examining a loose hinge on the main gate, when Mrs. O'Halloran appeared at his elbow. She looked significantly more composed than she had three hours ago.
"She's asked for the nursery," the housekeeper said. "The wee room off the upper landin'. The one with the mornin' light."
Fergus didn't look up from the gate. "Aye. That's fine. Let her have what she needs."
"She's also asked about the linen situation in the east corridor."
Fergus paused, his hand still on the cold iron. "The linen situation?"
"The damp, me Laird. The hangin's. The way the moisture clings to the stone and rots the fabric." Mrs. O'Halloran's expression was carefully arranged into a mask of professional neutrality. "Imay have mentioned it's been on the list of repairs for a while now."
"Ithasbeen on the list," Fergus admitted, his jaw tightening.
"Aye, me Laird." A pause. "She said we'd start there. This evenin'."
He stared at her. "She's been here three hours."
"Two and a half, me Laird," Mrs. O'Halloran corrected.
She walked away with the stride of a woman who had just received the first satisfying news of the week, leaving Fergus to wonder when exactly he had lost control of his own keep.
* * *
He showed her the chambers himself.
He had planned for Maisie to do it, but he found himself climbing the stairs with Margaret beside him and Lilly drowsy on her shoulder. There was no good moment to change the situation without making it seem like a statement of some kind, and Fergus was tired of making statements.
The room was at the end of the upper corridor, large enough for comfort, with a window that looked north toward the jagged ridge and a fireplace that drew well.
He had used it for nothing since taking the castle; it had been a room of dust and shadows. It had been cleared and aired sometime in the past week. He had not asked who ordered that, and Mrs. O'Halloran had not volunteered the information.
Margaret stood in the center of the room and looked around the way she had looked at everything since they arrived. Taking inventory, quietly and completely, without making a performance of it.
"It's a good room," she said.
"Aye."
"The window sticks." She had already crossed the floor to try the latch. "But it can be fixed with a bit of grease and a steady hand."
"I'll have someone fix it."
"I'll manage it." She turned to face him. Lilly had drifted entirely to sleep against her shoulder, one small, starfish-shaped fist twisted loosely in the fabric of Margaret's travel cloak. "Which rooms are yers, Fergus?"
He nodded toward the far wall, where a heavy oak door sat recessed into the stone. "Through there."
She looked at the wall. At the narrow door that he had not specifically intended to highlight. Her gaze returned to him, herexpression doing something complicated and unhelpful to his composure.
"Adjoinin'," she said. It wasn't a question.
"Aye."
