“Aye, our laird makes sure of it.”
It did not take long for her to understand something she had not fully grasped before. Lachlan, a man feared on the battlefield, was not feared at home. Children darted up to him for games of tag. Women waved and flirted—which had Isabel feeling more jealous than she had any right to.
Men approached him constantly, not with the rigid formality of court, but with the familiarity of people accustomed to being heard. One spoke to him of fishing boats and the morning’s catch. Another asked about supplies for the coming winter. An older man lingered over a discussion of repairs to the outer wall, gesturing toward the stone as though it were a shared responsibility rather than a burden placed solely on Lachlan’s shoulders.
Rather than pawning off the conversations onto one of his men, Lachlan listened with patience. As if each concern was a concern of his own. Isabel was so used to men in high power not wanting anything to do with the mundane day to day, but Lachlan appeared more than interested.
He gave instruction where it was needed, made decisions without hesitation, and moved through the yard with purpose that never felt rushed. At one point, he paused beside a small boy who had fallen while running, helping him to his feet with a brief word that sent the child off again with renewed determination.
The MacLeod clan not only respected their laird, but they also trusted him.
“Can I give ye a tour, my lady?” Angus asked.
Isabel watched from the steps of the hall for longer than she intended, her gaze following him as he moved from one conversation to the next. The longer she stood there, the more she felt…
Saints. She couldn’t give a name to what it was she was feeling, except a torrent of thoughts and emotion, clashing with one another. Once more, she found herself turning away from him, unable to face the growing affection within.
“Aye, please.”
By the time evening settled over Dunvegan, the sky had deepened into a rich purple that stretched endlessly above the sea loch, and torches burned along the courtyard walls, their flames bending in the steady wind. The sounds of the day softened into something calmer, though the island never seemed to be fully still. Most of the Macleod clan’s people slowly moved indoors. Some into the castle, others to their crofts. Farmers and merchants took their wagons, some loaded and others empty, back through the gates toward the village. Tools were packed up, baskets, crates, and goods tucked into corners. Children were rounded up, some thrown over shoulders where the last few exhausted giggles were excised. They moved with a fluidity that defined their closeness as a family, not just a clan, if one had more things to package and put away, others who had less joined to help.
When Isabel had finished her tour with Angus in the kitchen, she had insisted the women within let her help. Mostly they just let her stir things. And instead of the distraction she had hoped to find, she had just fallen deeper into her thoughts. Freckles seemed to feel her strange mood and had spent the entire afternoon nestled deep in her bodice. Not even showing herself when the enticing smells from the pots around them had soaked into her fur and Isabel’s skin.
She returned to her bedchamber, closing the door behind her as the quiet wrapped around her once more. After the noise and movement of the courtyard, the tranquility pressed in more abruptly than she expected. She moved slowly, loosening the ties of her cloak, her mind still tangled with everything she had seen. With everything she had felt. And she realized one of those feelings was grief, she was mourning their closeness, and the lack of her own. Uncle Robbie loved her, she knew he did, but he was all the family that she had. But he wasn’t exactly one for affection. So it was just her and Freckles against a world that didn’t give a damn what she might think, need, want.
A soft knock sounded at the door, and her grasp on her cloak’s ribbons stilled.
Isabel approached the door, lifting the bar and peering into the corridor. Lachlan stood there, tall and broad and handsome. She breathed in the scent of peat and leather and spice.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
The space between them felt smaller, as though the walls of the corridor itself had drawn tighter around them. And then a tiny, furry head poked itself from around his shoulders.
“Who is that?” Isabel beamed at the ferret on Lachlan’s shoulders.
His grin widened. “Ah, aye, a surprise. My own ferret, Zeus.”
“Ye have a ferret.” It was hard to hide her delight, and hearing it, or more likely smelling Zeus, Freckles popped her head from Isabel’s bodice, making a chirping noise. “A friend for ye, Freckles. Do behave.”
The two ferrets leapt from their prospective owners and chased each other down the corridor.
“I do hope she’ll be all right.”
“I was going to say the same thing about Zeus.”
Isabel chuckled.
“May I?” He gestured toward her room, and without hesitation she opened the door, taking a step back as he filled the entryway.
“Ye should be resting,” she said at last, her voice quieter than she intended.
“I could say the same of ye.”
A faint smile touched her lips. “I am resting.”
His gaze moved briefly around the chamber, as though assessing it for danger, before returning to her. “I wanted to be certain ye were comfortable.”
“Ye have already done far more than that,” she replied.
