Page 51 of The Highland Laird’s Hellion Bride

“Ye’ve done this before,” a voice said from the doorway.

She glanced up. Magnus stood there, rain darkening his shoulders, watching her tuck a blanket around the smallest calf.

“I told ye,” she said, “I ken more than sheep and goats.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, close enough to a smile that she counted it as one, and he moved past her to check the latch on the far stall without further comment.

Outside, the yard had grown louder. She could hear Duncan somewhere near the Great Hall, hammering a shutter into place, muttering something about the west side always giving him the most trouble, followed by a burst of laughter from one of the stable lads.

Somewhere closer, Mrs. O’Halloran was directing a chain of servants carrying sacks of grain from the outer store into the dry safety of the kitchens, her voice rising sharp and commanding over the wind.

“Two more trips ought to see it done,” she called. “Move, the lot of ye, before this rain decides to earn its reputation.”

Elspeth left the calves settled and went to help with the firewood, forming an easy chain alongside two of the younger MacKinnon children who had stayed on to help with the harvest, passing logs hand to hand from the woodpile toward the Great Hall doors until a respectable stack had built up beside the hearth.

The children worked with seriousness, and Elspeth found herself matching their pace rather than the reverse, passing logs with exaggerated grunts of effort that made the youngest one giggle each time.

“Faster,” Hamish instructed her solemnly. “The storm willnae wait for ye.”

“I am workin’ as fast as me arms allow, I assure ye.”

Across the yard, a commotion broke out near the kitchen garden, and Elspeth turned in time to see Morag the goat bolt through a gap between two servants carrying baskets, scattering the contents of one basket across the wet cobblestones and setting off a chorus of shouting that accomplished absolutely nothing toward catching her.

“Morag!” Duncan bellowed, abandoning his shutter mid-hammer. “Nae now, ye impossible creature!”

The goat, unmoved by the appeal, bolted straight past him toward the open hall doors, her ears flat.

“She kens it’s warmer indoors,” Elspeth called after Duncan, who was giving chase with considerably more enthusiasm than success.

“She kens everythin’; that’s the trouble with her.”

Magnus emerged from the barn in time to witness the pursuit, saying nothing. Elspeth caught the exact moment his mouth twitched, before he schooled it back into an expression more proper and laird-like, and turned back to directing two men wrestling a stubborn shutter into place.

By the time the last of the sheep had been driven into the lower barn, the wind had risen to a proper howl, rain slanting hard enough to sting where it struck bare skin, and the courtyard had emptied of everyone but the last stragglers hauling in whatever remained.

Elspeth found herself soaked through, her hair loose from its pins, helping an elderly tenant navigate the last slick stretch of cobblestones toward the Great Hall.

“Nearly there,” she said, gripping the woman’s elbow. “Mind the step, it’s uneven.”

“Bless ye, lass,” the woman said, breathless, ducking gratefully through the doors Magnus held open against the wind.

Elspeth crossed the threshold last, then Magnus pulled the heavy door shut behind her and dropped the iron bar across it with a solid thud.

The Great Hall, by contrast, had transformed into a warm, chaotic and thoroughly alive microuniverse. The fire had been built up high, throwing generous light and heat across a room now crowded with servants, tenants, and the handful of MacKinnons who had stayed behind to help, all of them dripping and disheveled, and completely unbothered.

Mrs. McAulay had somehow, in the midst of the storm’s approach, organized a spread of bread, cheese, and hot cider that now covered the long table, and people were already helping themselves without waiting for any particular ceremony.

“Everyone accounted for?” Magnus asked, his voice carrying over the noise.

“Aye, me Laird,” Duncan called back, arriving with Morag tucked beneath his arm. “Save for this one, who I found halfway up the stairs to yer chamber, if ye can believe it.”

“She’s decided the whole castle is hers,” Elspeth said, wringing rainwater from the hem of her sleeve. “I daenae think she distinguishes between the hearth and yer bed.”

“She’d better learn the distinction quickly,” Magnus muttered.

He made no move to remove the goat from Duncan’s arms.

Duncan, for his part, carried Morag to a corner near the fire and set her down, where she promptly curled into a contented heap.