Page 12 of The Highland Laird’s Hellion Bride

She is capable.

Capability was what he had gone looking for, and capability was what he had found. He was pleased with himself.

He dismounted and handed the reins to the stable lad who emerged from the castle.

The castle was lit and warm; he could see it from here. Firelight in the Great Hall windows and movement of shadows inside. He had built that. Thirteen years of it. Stone by stone, season by season, every trade route renegotiated, every crumbling wall rebuilt, and every winter survived until surviving became prospering. And now it would also have a lady.

Sensible.

He nodded with satisfaction and turned to help Elspeth down. She was already looking at Ben Cruachan, her eyes wide with wonder.

He followed her gaze across the courtyard. The hall doors stood open, because the dogs preferred it that way and he had stopped arguing with them years ago.

One of the dogs was asleep in the doorway, taking up most of it. Three sheep had found their way into the kitchen garden again through the low gate. Chickens crossed the cobblestones. And through the open hall doors, visible in the warm rectangle of firelight, the goat lay beside the hearth with her legs tucked beneath her and her chin on the stone.

It was, Magnus thought, exactly as it should be.

He looked back at Elspeth. The color had drained from her face. One more shade, and she would be as white as the wool on his sheep’s back.

“Are ye frightened?” he asked, his deep voice cutting through the clatter of the yard.

She swallowed. Her gaze moved from the sheep to the chickens to the dog in the doorway, then settled briefly on the goat’s outline by the fire.

“Nay,” she said. The word came out measured. “Merely overwhelmed.”

He offered his hand. Her cold fingers slid into his palm, her grip lighter than he had expected. But the contact sparked a sudden, sharp heat that traveled straight up his forearm.

He gripped her waist, his large hands sinking into the fine blue silk, and lifted her down. She hung in his grasp for a single breath, her chest mere inches from his, before he set her feet on the cobblestones.

She stood perfectly still, watching the courtyard with eyes that hardly blinked. One of the younger goats pressed its nose briefly against the elder beside it. An automatic thing, barely a gesture. Elspeth’s gaze paused there.

“There are so many of them,” she said softly. A pause followed, and then quieter still: “Are they happy here?”

Magnus had to pause to consider the question. Before he could respond, she caught herself, her chin lifting slightly in defiance.

“I mean, they seem content enough.” She gestured uncertainly toward the garden. “But should they nae be wandering the hills? Living somewhere more wild?”

Magnus looked at her. He looked at the goats, at the three sheep demolishing his kitchen garden with great satisfaction, at the small brown goat now investigating the hem of a hanging torch bracket with her teeth. Then he looked back at Elspeth.

“Lass,” he said, his chest rumbling. “They’re goats. They’re⁠—”

Something struck the hem of her skirt.

She looked down.

The chicken, the small brown one that had been escaping the stables since August with a commitment that had outlasted every solution he had attempted, had found the hem of her silk gown. It was investigating the fabric. It pecked once, considerately. Pecked again, then tilted its head at the result.

Elspeth made a genuinely startled, high-pitched sound before taking a step back. Her heel caught on an uneven cobblestone. For one moment, she lost her balance. She grabbed blindly for the courtyard wall, her fingers striking the rough stone, and caught herself.

And then she laughed. It was sudden, bright, and completely unguarded. The sound rang off the granite walls and lifted into the cold night air, while the chicken walked away from her, utterly unmoved.

Magnus was reaching out to steady her, but he froze. He stood very still, his muscles locking.

Her cheeks had turned a deep pink. Cold and laughter was a violent combination that did something to the color of her skin the candlelit hall had not prepared him for. She had one hand braced against the wall, watching the retreating chicken with delight, her mouth curved with the tail end of it, the lingering mirth glittering in her eyes.

He had completely forgotten what he intended to say, but he was aware that they were standing in his courtyard, in front of his castle, and that his gaze was locked on her lips.

“Careful, Cousin,” Duncan’s voice sounded at his shoulder, quiet, unhurried, and dripping with his usual wretched timing. He leaned in, his words meant for Magnus alone. “That’s the sound that’ll ruin yer peace of mind forever.”