Page 18 of The Highland Laird’s Hellion Bride

“The contracts are signed.” Angus turned to face him. “Were ye nae here yesterday when Duncan told us everything about the auction?”

“I’m speaking of the secondary contracts. The dowry and the rest.”

“The dowry is settled. MacRae signed before the auction was concluded.”

“There is the matter of the Lady’s establishment,” said old Tormod, who had been quiet long enough that everyone had forgotten he was there. “Staff. Household requirements. A lady requires all these things and more.”

“Mrs. McAulay manages the household,” Magnus said.

Everyone looked at him. He had not spoken in some time, and they appeared briefly startled by the gravelly tone of his voice.

“Aye, but me Laird⁠—”

“Mrs. McAulay manages the household,” he said again, at the same volume and with the same inflection, because he did not see what had been unclear the first time.

Tormod settled back into his seat.

The argument immediately resumed.

Magnus looked down at the table. He looked at the single candle someone had lit despite the bright daylight pouring in through the high windows, which was precisely the kind of wasteful thing that happened when he allowed meetings to be organized by anyone other than himself.

He looked at the contracts stacked at Duncan’s elbow, which he had already read thoroughly and were perfectly in order. He briefly looked at Elspeth, who was watching Angus and Fearchar.

He slowly pulled off his left glove, then his right. He set them on the wooden table with a quiet, final sound. The argument did not stop immediately, but it slowed. He turned to Duncan.

“Send word to the minister,” he said, his voice cutting through the room. “We’ll marry in a fortnight.”

Silence ensued. Duncan’s cup of ale stopped halfway to his mouth. Angus opened his mouth.

“Two weeks,” Fearchar said, as if he had not heard correctly. “Me Laird, most folk spend longer deciding on a sheep.”

Magnus considered this calmly.

“I already decided,” he declared. “I need a wife. Winter will come soon, so two weeks is sensible.”

Fearchar looked at Angus, who looked at Tormod. Tormod turned away, suddenly intensely focused on something on the knee of his trousers.

Magnus looked to his left. Elspeth had gone very still. She was looking at the table in front of her. Her hands were tightly folded, her expression shifting in quick succession, as if she were managing thoughts with considerable effort.

“Unless ye object, me Lady.” He said it directly, because indirection wasted time and he had absolutely no patience for it.

But the room had apparently not expected the courtesy, because every single head turned toward Elspeth.

She looked up and met his dark eyes, then looked at Duncan’s cup, Angus’s open mouth, and Fearchar’s folded arms. He watched her take a breath that she managed to make completely invisible, except that he was sitting close enough to see her shoulders move with it.

Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

“Nay,” she said, her voice steadying. “Me Laird.”

The room exhaled collectively.

Good, at least she obeys. Two weeks is therefore settled.

Magnus nodded once and reached back down for his gloves.

“Right,” Duncan said, setting his cup down. He had recovered his expression, mostly, though there was still something in his eyes that suggested he was filing away the last five minutes for future ammunition. “I’ll send word to the minister today.”

“The banns—” Angus began.