Page 19 of The Highland Laird’s Hellion Bride

“Two weeks,” Magnus repeated.

“Aye,” Angus relented.

Magnus pushed back from the table. The elders took it as the conclusion it was and began the clumsy business of dispersing. Angus gathered his stray papers, Fearchar rose carefully, Tormod said something to Angus, and Duncan reached for the contracts.

Magnus pulled on his leather gloves. He was thinking about the eastern trade figures, whether the minister could be reached before nightfall, and whether the pasture rotation would need adjustment before the wedding; if guests were bringing horses, and whether the north corridor shutters could reasonably be repaired before⁠—

“There’s somethin’ else.” Duncan’s voice had completely changed.

Magnus knew that voice. He had known it intimately for twenty-nine years, through rigorous training, intense grief, and thirteen years of building something from ash. And he knew the exact difference between Duncan performing seriousness and Duncan arriving at it.

He turned.

His cousin had crossed the room toward him quietly, away from the dispersing elders. His expression had shed the lightness it wore by default, and what lay underneath was careful, watchful, and not uncertain.

Duncan did not come to him uncertain. He came to him when he had already thought a matter through and wanted him to think it through as well.

“The western boundary,” Duncan said, his voice low. “The men found unfamiliar tracks. Two days running.”

Magnus went rigid. “How many riders?”

“Two. Maybe three.” Duncan met his gaze squarely. “They didnae cross. Only watched. From the ridge above the tree line, far enough to see the castle road but too far to be seen easily.”

The council chambers had nearly cleared. The heavy door had just closed behind Fearchar. Mrs. McAulay ’s voice sounded from somewhere near, followed by Elspeth’s quiet answer and the soft retreat of her footsteps down the stone corridor.

Magnus pulled his second glove flat across his knuckles, tightening the leather.

“Double the patrols,” he said, the command sharp and absolute. “Every boundary. Nobody rides alone after dusk. Nobody. Secure the western approach first and report anything before ye bring it to me, nae after.”

“Aye.” Duncan held his gaze. “And?”

“And we wait.”

Outside, the cold wind moved restlessly against the high windows. Below, someone crossed the courtyard, the distinct sound of boots echoing on stone.

“Ye think it’s him,” Duncan said.

It was not a question. His voice was flat and even, and beneath it lingered the same detached calm that had been there thirteen years ago, when they had ridden back from training and found nothing but smoke, and Magnus had not spoken a single word for three days.

Magnus looked at the door through which Elspeth had just left. He looked at it for the space of one heavy breath. He thought about the western ridge, about invisible riders who watched from a distance and did not cross, about a man who had waited thirteen long years and had not moved until he heard that Ben Cruachan’s laird had finally taken a bride.

His jaw set into stone.

“We’ll see,” he said.

* * *

The ledgers had his full attention.

This was how Magnus preferred to spend the hour after a council meeting. Doors firmly shut, clean numbers in front of him, and the entire day reduced to manageable quantities that behaved according to fixed mathematical rules and did not argue back.

The eastern trade figures needed to be reviewed urgently, before he wrote to Inveraray. The winter grain projection demanded systematic checking against the newly implemented patrol costs. These were solvable issues, and he was very good at such tasks.

Then he heard a knock.

A second knock came, which was already more consideration than Duncan had ever managed.

“Aye,” he called.