He followed her down the corridor, then the stairs, through the largely empty great hall at this hour. Two of his men at the far end loaded feed sacks, deliberately not watching their Laird follow his wife through the castle at seven in the morning. He went down the passage to the left.
The kitchen?
Fergus stopped in the doorway.
Mrs. O'Halloran looked up from the far hearth, took in the situation, and then deliberately turned back to her pot. The room smelled of yeast, warm stone, and the faint sweetness of something already baked. Margaret was already at the long table, pulling a bowl toward her and opening the flour sack with the brisk efficiency of a woman familiar with the terrain.
She reached in, turned, and held out a fistful of flour.
"Yer hands," she said.
He looked at the flour. He looked at her. "Margaret."
"Yer hands, Fergus."
This cannae be happenin'.
The look on her face told him it was happening.
With a glance that he made sure conveyed what he thought of the idea, he crossed the kitchen and held out his hands. She poured the flour into them with the same calm, purposeful expression she might show when handing him a dispatch from the council—composed, deliberate, and completely unaffected by the fact that he was the Laird of this castle and she was filling his palms with baking flour at dawn.
"Ye'll work it in," she said, turning back to the bowl. "Like this." She briefly demonstrated her hands pressing into the dough with a steady, rhythmic motion. Then she stepped aside and looked at him.
Fergus glared at the dough, resisting the urge to be intimidated.
It is bread. It is flour and water. Ye have faced armed men. Ye can manage bread.
He pressed his hands in, and the dough immediately collapsed sideways. It stuck to his left palm with a stubbornness that felt personal. He pressed harder. It tore. He tried to fold it the way she had done and ended up with something that looked more like a defeated animal than anything else.
"Less force," Margaret said, from where she stood watching him with her arms loosely folded and her expression carefully neutral. "Ye are nae punishin' it."
"I am nae..." He exhaled through his nose. "I ken what I'm doin'."
She said nothing. She leaned back against the heavy wooden table, her arms locking tight over her chest.
That damned cool expression.
It was, Fergus reflected, one of the more irritating things she did, and she did a remarkable number of irritating things.
He tried again. The dough stuck to his right hand this time.
I have built this castle.I have negotiated land rights with men twice my age. I have stood in a river in February to repair a mill wheel. I cannae be beaten by bread.
The dough disagreed.
"Ye're grippin'," she said. "Ease yer hands. Let it move."
"I am lettin' it move." It was moving everywhere except where it was supposed to. A piece had attached itself to his wrist. He was not going to acknowledge the piece on his wrist.
"Fergus."
"I said I have it."
She pressed her lips together, hiding a smile that he caught anyway. She turned to the flour sack and measured out another handful, adding it to the bowl. "Again," she said simply.
I can grab those lips in mine this second, and that'll be the end of this orderin' around.
He threw a quick glance her way, almost tempted, but then let out a slow breath. He started again, this time more slowly, with the uncomfortable and deeply unwelcome realization that this required a kind of attention he usually did not give to anything that might fight back. His hands were too big for it. Too used to resistance. The dough asked for something different—a steadiness without force, a pressure that guided rather than commanded. He didn't have the instinct for it. He had to think about it, which was the most humbling part.
