Page 55 of The Highland Laird’s Hellion Bride

“I came to ask,” she said, “whether I might finally participate in the preparations for the handfasting and the cèilidh.”

It was, as far as excuses went, a fairly thin one, and he’d wager she knew it every bit as well as he did. The preparations had been made for four days without her permission being sought. They could have waited one more, if reaching him hadn’t been the actual errand.

He said none of it.

“Nay.”

“Magnus.”

“Mrs. McAulay has enough hands.”

“Then what precisely am I to do?” Her voice rose a fraction, frustration threading through it. “Sit in me chamber and admire the wallpaper until the day arrives?”

“Prepare for the handfasting,” he said, as though the distinction were obvious.

“I am tryin’ to. How am I meant to do that if I’m nae permitted anywhere near the preparations?”

Magnus picked the whetstone back up, more for something to do with his hands than any real need to continue the work, and drew it along the blade with deliberate slowness. “Choose yer flowers. Prepare yer rituals. Mrs. McAulay has assured me that ladies enjoy these activities.”

“And will ye be preparin’ yer own rituals?”

“Aye.” He set the stone down again. “By ridin’ the borders. Securin’ the approach.”

Something in her expression shifted, the frustration giving way to an assessing look, her head tilting to the side.

“I could help,” she said.

He very nearly choked on his breath. “Help?”

“Aye.”

“Nay.”

“Why?” The word came out sharp, exasperated, both hands rising briefly before dropping back to her sides.

“Because.”

“Because?”

He set his cup down on the small table beside him, harder than the gesture warranted, and looked at her the way he might look at a man who’d asked why fences needed mending or grain needed drying.

“Because ye are to become Lady Wallace.”

“That sounds suspiciously like ye’ve placed me on a decorative shelf and intend to admire me from a safe distance while the actual work proceeds without me.”

“I have done no such thing.”

“Ye have.”

He watched her breathe in sharply, her chest lifting beneath the plain wool of her gown, and found himself watching it a moment longer than the argument warranted.

“I merely think,” he said, dragging his attention back to her face, “that ye deserve comfort.”

Something in her shoulders eased, just slightly, the sharp edge of her frustration softening into something quieter, more thoughtful.

“I deserve to have a choice,” she said.

He had no answer ready for that.