She glanced back over her shoulder, her lips curving into that near-smile that was more unsettling than a full one.
"Anythin', Fergus. The granary wall. The price of grain in the village. She willnae judge ye for yer lack of poetry." A beat. "Or sing, if the words fail ye."
She walked away.
Fergus stood in the middle of the courtyard with Lilly in his arms. Twelve children were fifteen feet away, several of whom were now watching the Great Laird MacKenzie with open, unfiltered curiosity.
He looked down at Lilly. She looked up at him. Her tiny fist clutched a fold of his plaid and held it tightly.
He exhaled, a long, slow breath through his nose.
"Right," he said, his voice a low rumble meant only for the top of her head. "The granary wall, then."
Lilly blinked.
This is ridiculous.
"South-facin'," he continued, feeling thoroughly absurd but pushing on anyway. "The lean isnae structural, mind ye. The footin' is sound granite. It just needs repointin' on the lowercourse with a bit of fresh lime." He shifted his weight, adjusting his hold the way he had seen Margaret do. "Which I'd have done last month if the east boundary hadnae needed markers. The MacLeods are pushin' their luck again."
Lilly made a soft, indeterminate sound.
"Aye," Fergus said, his voice softening. "Exactly me thought."
Across the courtyard, Margaret was crouched beside a small girl, patiently looping wool back through the child's fingers. She did not look at him. But Fergus was certain, entirely, infuriatingly certain, that she was aware of every word he said to the infant about masonry.
"She's goin' to be insufferable about this," he told Lilly quietly.
Lilly grabbed his finger and didn't let go.
I kent ye would understand.
Fergus stood there in the afternoon light, and for the first time, he did not move away. He did not hand the child back. Somewhere underneath the irritation and the awkwardness, he felt a slow, unwilling warmth.
He held the child and, for a moment, forgot to be a laird.
Chapter Eight
"She's asleep," Margaret said, stepping out of the nursery with her hair already half unpinned. "She went down easy tonight. The chamomile helped, I think, she wasnae fightin' the ache the way she was yesterday."
Fergus was leaning in the doorframe of the upper corridor, his arms crossed over the thick wool of his plaid.
He had been summoned here by Maisie with urgent information that Lady MacKenzie needed him. He had thought it was something related to his specific skills, like a structural failure or a security issue, and it turned out to be this.
"I'm goin' to the loch," Margaret continued.
She pulled the last pin free and dropped it into the small ceramic dish on the table near the door. Her hair fell loose, a heavy, honey-colored cascade that caught the light. She appeared entirely unconcerned by the sudden, intimate disarray of herappearance. "To bathe. There's still light enough if I hurry." She glanced at him, her hazel eyes steady. "Ye'll stay with Lilly."
Fergus looked past her at the nursery door. "Where is Maisie?"
"I've given her the evenin'. The lass has been on her feet since dawn." Margaret picked up the folded linen over her arm and looked at him with that calm expectation he had tried to outlast and failed. "She'll sleep another two hours at least. Ye'll just need to listen for her."
"Margaret."
"Ye talked to her about a lot yesterday, I'm sure," she said, a ghost of a smile touching her lips. "I think the great Laird MacKenzie can manage two hours of quiet. Unless ye're afraid of a bairn in her sleep?"
She was already heading toward the stairs, her stride relaxed. Her loose hair caught the final light of evening from the narrow window at the end of the passage, shimmering like spun silk.
"Daenae let her chew the blanket, Fergus. She gets it wet, then she's cold, and then none of us sleep."
