Page 39 of The Highland Laird’s Hellion Bride

She found Mrs. McAulay in the Stillroom, elbow-deep in a crate of dried herbs that had arrived the day before in no discernible order.

“Might I help?”

Mrs. McAulay glanced up, surprise, delight, and brisk practicality shifting across her face all in the space of a breath. “If ye’ve a mind to sort feverfew from tansy without poisonin’ the household, I willnae say nay.”

Elspeth rolled up her sleeves and set to work.

It was, she discovered, precisely the sort of task she had hoped for. Enough attention required to keep her hands busy, not enough to prevent her mind from wandering anyway, though at least now it wandered while she was being useful.

She sorted bundles by scent and shape, listened to Mrs. McAulay ’s steady stream of commentary on which tenant needed what and by when, and gradually built a small, satisfying order out of chaos.

“The north chimney’s been smokin’ somethin’ fierce,” Mrs. McAulay said, tying off a bundle of dried mint. “I told the Laird a fortnight past, and he said he’d see to it.”

“Has he?”

“Oh, aye. Climbed up himself before dawn Tuesday and cleared it out. Didnae wake a soul,” she said, unremarkable in her expression, and moved on to the next crate.

Elspeth paused over a bundle of dried lavender. “He climbed onto the roof?”

“He does most things himself if he thinks it’s broken.” Mrs. McAulay nodded toward the corridor, as though the castle’s various failings might be observed from where they stood. “The stable door hinge, the well pulley, Fenella’s roof when the frost cracked her beam. He was up there with a hammer before the household even kent it needed doin’.”

“Does no one else fix things?”

Mrs. McAulay gave her a look that suggested the question answered itself. “They stopped tellin’ him, mostly. Or they tell him, and he’s already there before the words are properly out.” She shrugged, tying off another bundle. “It’s simpler that way. For him, I mean. He’d rather do things by himself than wait for someone else to do them wrong. Or worse, ask for help while doin’ them.”

Elspeth turned that statement over and over in her mind as she worked.

By midmorning, she had learned that Magnus had personally delivered medicine to a sick shepherd’s wife three valleys over, on foot, because the horses were needed elsewhere. That he had helped birth a breech lamb at two in the morning a week past, alone, because the shepherd’s hands were too cold to manage it and no one had thought to send for anyone else.

That he carried grain sacks rather than waiting for the stable lads, checked every door in the castle each night with his own hands rather than trusting the task to the watch. That he had on at least one occasion mended a torn fishing net for a boy of eight simply because the boy had been standing nearby looking forlorn about it.

He did not ask for help. He did not, so far as Elspeth knew, believe help was something available to him.

She thought of the books hidden in the watchtower, wrapped in a blanket like they were too precious or too dangerous to leave out in the open. She thought of a man who checked every door himself because he trusted no one else to check it properly, and found the two thoughts sitting rather uncomfortably close in her chest.

She said nothing of it to Mrs. McAulay . She arranged the shelves with more care than the task strictly required and told herself this was about being useful, nothing more.

Chapter Twelve

The ambiance at supper that evening was subdued in a way she could not immediately place.

Magnus sat at the head of the table, with Duncan to his left, already halfway through his ale.

Something was plainly wrong. Magnus kept glancing toward the kitchen door. He turned his cup once, twice, examining it as though it had personally offended him, before setting it down with force.

“Somethin’ troublin’ ye, Cousin?” Duncan asked, having clearly noticed and thoroughly enjoying it for some reason.

“Nay.”

“Ye’ve looked at that cup four times since it arrived.”

“I havenae.”

“Ye have.” Duncan took a long sip, watching him over the rim. “It’s the wrong one, is it nae?”

“It’s a cup, Duncan.”

“Aye, and ye’ll sit there thirsty all night rather than drink from it. I’ve watched ye do it before.” Duncan did not bother hiding his grin. “Man’s more particular about his crockery than his horses.”