Page 3 of The Highland Laird’s Hellion Bride

He had the new timber cut and shaped by Thursday dawn. That was how he preferred to solve problems: quietly and efficiently, before anyone else could have an opinion about it.

He drove the last stake home just as the sun broke the jagged eastern ridge. The iron mallet fell in a steady, heavy rhythm, each crushing blow traveling up through his wrists and shoulders with a satisfying finality.

Below him, the glen lay wrapped in grey and gold, the mist thick in the low places, the loch a dark, motionless mirror at its center. He could feel the mountain the way he could feel his own pulse.

He set the mallet down and gripped the raw wood with both hands, shaking it with his full weight. Solid.

Behind him, the sound of wet grass crunched underfoot.

He turned. The grey ewe, the one he had privately named Nothing because she was more trouble than everything else combined, had already worked her fat middle through a gap in the lower section. She stood directly in the center of his newly repaired boundary, staring at him.

Magnus stared back, his face a mask of stone.

She did not blink.

“Nay,” he said, his deep voice cutting through the morning stillness.

The ewe merely twitched her ears.

He crossed the grass in four long strides, clamped his hands around her thick, woolly middle, and hauled her back through the gate. She gave a token, half-hearted kick against his thighs and then went limp, accepting defeat as she always did. He dropped her onto the correct side of the wood, latched the gate, and checked the iron mechanism twice.

Nothing was already eyeing the farther wire line.

“Daenae,” he warned.

He turned and strode away before she could prove him wrong.

The inspection of the granaries took the better part of an hour. Magnus moved down the dark rows methodically, digging his hand deep into the sacks to check how dry the grain was, noting which bundles required rotation, and calculating the winter surplus against the figures he carried in his head. They were not written anywhere. He held them there, private and guarded, the way he held most things.

The numbers were good. Better than good.

Three years ago, the grain surplus had been a meager one, requiring as much prayer as planning to survive the frost. Now, there was enough to trade and still sleep soundly. He allowed himself a brief flash of satisfaction. It lasted precisely four seconds before he crushed it, refusing to let it turn into complacency.

He was mentally reviewing the eastern trade figures, renegotiating the wool rate with the inventory merchant who had been short-weighing his scales since September, when he heard the boots coming. He recognized the tread.

He turned slowly.

Duncan was at the front, leading the march, and behind him were three elders: Angus, Fearchar, and old Tormod, whose bad knee usually predicted rain better than the sky. Today, the sky to the north was clear, meaning Tormod’s limp was born of discomfort over the conversation they had rehearsed.

Duncan caught his eye and threw him a sharp, warning look.

They are serious. I tried.

Magnus waited, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Me Laird.” Angus stepped forward, his posture stiffening into the formal distance they used only for official clan business. “Ye werenae at the morning meeting.”

“I was repairing the fence.”

“Aye.” Angus cast a glance toward the hill. “We noticed.”

“The fence required it.”

“Aye. The thing is, me Laird⁠—”

“How many meetings have ye missed in the last six months, me Laird?” Fearchar interrupted, his old voice sharp.

Magnus remained silent. He knew the number precisely. He simply saw no reason to defend his labor.