"He's nae an easy man to ken. Most daenae bother." A beat. Her shuttle lay still. "But ye're watchin'," Seona said softly. Not an accusation. Not even a question.
She picked up her shuttle and returned to her work, as though she had said nothing of consequence at all.
Margaret stared at the wool in her lap, her throat aching with an unsaid truth she couldn't possibly deny. She was watching him. She was looking for him in every corridor, listening for his heavy boots, tracing the line of his scarred jaw when he thought no one was looking.
She couldn't stop if she tried.
Chapter Nineteen
The rhythmic thud of hooves against the wet earth came first, vibrating up through the soles of Fergus's boots before the animals ever cleared the tree line.
He paused, his head snapping up.
One rider. Moving at a steady canter, well ahead of the slower weight behind him. Then, underneath it, the low, rhythmic rattle of iron-rimmed wheels grinding over the exposed river boulders of the lower approach road.
Clack-clack. Clack-clack.
A carriage. A heavy one, built for the long haul from the southern Lowlands. Fergus already knew who it was before the gate opened.
He straightened slowly, his spine popping after an hour of crouching in the damp chill. He didn't drop the wrench. Heslipped it into his belt, used a corner of his dark green plaid to wipe a thick smudge of black axle grease from his palms, and walked out to meet them.
Alasdair came through the gate first.
He was riding the big gray horse he always rode, the one that had survived two bitter clan conflicts and a deep river crossing in February.
Alasdair looked precisely the same as he always did: steady, with keen dark eyes, counting the men, measuring the walls, filing what they found into a tactical ledger.
He saw Fergus standing in the yard, and something in his hard face shifted, softening briefly before his familiar composure closed back over it like water.
"Laird MacKenzie," Alasdair said, his voice carrying a dry, mocking edge.
"Daenae," Fergus said, a small grunt escaping him.
Alasdair swung down from the saddle with the easy grace of a practiced soldier. He was smiling now, properly, and Fergus crossed the muddy yard in three strides.
They gripped each other's forearms, their leather gauntlets clashing. It was the grip they had used since they were boys in Alasdair's keep, a grip that conveyed everything neither of themcould or would ever say aloud. They stepped back, studying each other quietly, assessing the toll the months had taken.
"Ye look like a laird," Alasdair remarked, his eyes tracing the heavy silver pin on Fergus's plaid.
"And ye look like a man who's been sleepin' well."
"I have," Alasdair said it without a lick of apology.
A year of marriage had done that to him, or perhaps it was simply Isobel. The specific, deeply settled quality that came off his shoulders now, a peace that had never been there during their days on the march.
Fergus recognized it instantly as a before-and-after because he had been standing close enough to see his oldest friend transform.
The carriage had rumbled through the gate behind them, the iron-rimmed wheels grinding against the gravel. Isobel was already unlatching the door, stepping down before the driver had properly set the brake. She moved with quick, sharp purpose.
"Where is she?" Isobel asked immediately, bypassing greeting rituals entirely and looking past both men toward the inner keep.
"The weaving hall, I'd think," Fergus said, shifting his weight. "Or the nursery with Lilly."
She nodded once and left. No ceremony. No acknowledgment of the yard, the baggage, or either of them. Her skirts brushed through the damp straw, and she was through the east archway before the carriage door finished swinging.
Fergus watched her go. He turned back to find Alasdair watching him.
"Walk with me," he said, clapping a heavy hand against Fergus's shoulder. "Show me what ye've done with the place."
