Page 20 of The Highland Laird’s Hellion Bride

Elspeth came in carrying wool.

It was not a small amount of wool. It was a massive armful. Folded garments in various dull shades of brown and grey, and one rather alarming green, stacked all the way to her chin. She set the entire stack down on the edge of his wooden desk.

Magnus looked at the wool. Then he looked at her.

“These were placed in me chambers,” she said.

“Aye.”

She lifted the topmost garment and unfolded it between them. It was one of the spare winter gowns Mrs. McAulay had located from somewhere deep within the castle’s accumulated history. Heavy, practical, warm, and without a shred of ceremony.

“For me to wear to the handfasting,” she added, her voice soft.

“Mrs. McAulay says they’ll keep ye warm.”

“I appreciate Mrs. McAulay ’s thoughtfulness. Truly.” She said it without a sharp edge, and she genuinely meant it. She refolded the heavy dress along its original crease lines. “But I arrived with little more than the clothes on me back. And in two weeks’ time I am to stand beside ye before half the Highlands as yer wife.”

He waited, his large frame perfectly still.

“I thought perhaps I might have something of me own.” She set the folded dress back down on the pile. She was looking at the fabric rather than at him. “A gown I choose. Ribbons I sew. Gloves I embroider.”

She looked up, her dark eyes locking onto his. “I can make them meself, if there is fabric to spare. I ken weaving. And needlework.” Something in her expression shifted, warming briefly at the thought. “Enough needlework.”

He set his quill down on the desk. He pushed back his heavy chair and rose to his feet, observing her as she watched him rise, noting the slight upward adjustment of her chin as his full height arrived before her.

“Ye wish to sew,” he said flatly.

She looked at him for a long beat. She closed her eyes briefly, as if gathering patience, then opened them again.

“I wish to feel as though I am preparin’ for our handfasting.” Her tone was patient, careful. “Magnus.”

The name landed without ceremony, and he felt its weight instantly.

“At present, I ken almost nothing about the man I am to marry but his colors and his crest. There is very little I can do about that.” She looked back down at the pile of drab brown wool. “Surely ye can allow me a few ribbons while I attempt to come to terms with becoming Lady Wallace. And keep me hands occupied.”

He considered her words.

She wants work. She wants manual work.

That at least translated into something he could easily parse. The primitive need to do, to build, to have a tangible object to show for the passing hours. He understood that drive completely; he had run his entire life on it for thirteen years.

“Very well,” he said, his voice deep. “Mrs. McAulay has fabric. Ye may make yerself a gown.”

She brightened immediately. It was a small but profound transformation—a visible shift in the set of her shoulders, a softening of the tight lines around her eyes. “And ribbons?”

He looked at her. Then he looked down at the pile of perfectly adequate, perfectly functional woolen garments. Then he looked back at her face.

“Lass,” he said, his chest rumbling. “Ye’re preparin’ for a handfasting, nae decoratin’ a festival cart.”

Her mouth opened, then snapped shut. She drew herself up by a visible fraction. He was learning this about her now, the way she added height she did not actually possess whenever she was about to disagree with something.

“Magnus Wallace,” she said, her voice dropping. “This is me new life.”

He looked up from the wool.

“In two weeks, I am to become Lady Wallace.” She held his gaze with absolute steadiness. “I wish to exist in me new life, nae merely survive it.”

Her hands folded tightly together in front of her chest. “And as I have said, I ken almost nothing about ye. So, I should like to prepare for our handfasting as I wish.” She took a sharp breath. “And perhaps ye could show me this life ye’ve built. The handfasting is in two weeks; that gives us time for at least two official outings.”