Page 7 of The Highland Laird’s Hellion Bride

“Laird MacAllister,” he said, his voice low, gravelly, and too close. He gestured with his wine cup toward a heavyset, red-faced man sweating near the hearth. “Good lands. Fair coin in his chests. He’s looked over here twice already.”

Elspeth’s smile vanished. “He is also approximately yer age, Father.”

“Alliances daenae require age.”

“I will handle it.” Her voice came out steadier than she felt.

Her father studied her face for a brief beat. Then he turned and moved back into the crowd.

Elspeth watched his retreating back, and the warmth of the hall suddenly vanished. She was still on display. She was here to be bought. The sweet wine, the fast music, and the women laughing could not change reality. They only softened its sharp edges.

She looked around the hall, watching the lairds—older men, younger heirs, some watchful, some openly bored—and understood they were all performing the same arithmetic her father was. She was just a figure in their ledgers.

Suddenly, and with a violent clarity of thought, all she wanted was to be back in Katherine’s quiet solar, holding a terrible novel with nowhere else to be.

“There.” Katherine materialized at her shoulder. “Daenae look yet. Look at me first. Are ye listening to me?”

Elspeth forced her gaze up from the floor. “I am listening.”

“There is a laird,” Katherine whispered, angling her body so they both faced away from the far end of the hall. “Far end of the hall, near the stone pillar. Dark coat, no expression whatsoever.”

Elspeth took a slow sip of her wine. “That describes at least half the men in this room, Katherine.”

“This one has presence,” Katherine insisted, her voice dropping to a fierce whisper. “And I have been asking the old women questions. Extensive lands. Significant livestock, which I ken sounds dull. But hear me out, Elspeth. He trades across the whole of Scotland. The man is genuinely wealthy, nae just performing for the neighbors. And from what I’ve gathered, he has a massive estate and desperately needs someone capable of actually running it.”

Elspeth turned the pewter cup slowly between her palms. “What is he like?”

“Powerful. Capable.” Katherine hesitated for a fraction of a second. “Quiet.”

“Quiet.”

“Which isnae a flaw in a man. Quiet means he willnae spend yer entire marriage talking over ye or shouting orders at ye.” Katherine reached out, her fingers curling around Elspeth’s arm. “Elspeth, ye have practically managed yer father’s household since ye were fourteen years old. Ye ken accounts, provisioning, staff. Ye have been running an estate without the title or the respect. Demonstrate that to him. Show him that ye can do exactly what he needs, and he will choose ye over every superficial girl here.”

Elspeth looked down at the soft kid leather of her gloves. She considered it, letting the thought take root in the small, embarrassing part of her mind that she usually kept locked away. The part that read novels about Highland moonlight late at night when the ledgers were closed.

A capable laird, quiet enough to listen when she spoke. Someone who needed her for her mind, for real things, and might in time come to want her for herself. Someone who perhaps had a library where the fire burned low. Someone who might, in the evenings, when the work was done⁠—

She caught herself, her jaw tightening. She was foolishly dreaming again.

He probably doesnae compose poetry. He probably composes nothing at all except livestock inventories and timber costs.

But a small, involuntary smile touched her lips anyway, and Katherine caught it instantly.

“There,” Katherine said, her face lighting up with satisfaction. “That is the face. Keep that face exactly as it is.”

“I am nae making a face.”

“Ye are. It’s called smiling. It is lovely. Keep it.” Katherine squeezed her arm once, quick and full of heat. “Daenae worry so much about what ye cannae control.”

Elspeth nodded.

She turned back to the bright hall, the glittering candlelight, the fast fiddle, and the women laughing over their wine. She held the small warmth of that specific thought carefully, knowing it could turn to ash in seconds, knowing she had almost no say in whether it survived the room.

Across the crowded floor, her father had positioned himself near the doors, his eyes tracking her movements.

She stood straight in her pale blue silk, fixed her eyes on nothing in particular, and tried to believe that the evening might, against every piece of logic she possessed, end well.

The fiddle played on, the notes high and piercing. Near the hearth, a broad-shouldered stranger had stopped mid-sentence. He was not looking at the fiddler, or the wine, or the woman beside him waiting for his answer. He was looking at Elspeth, and he had been for some time.