Page 9 of The Highland Laird’s Hellion Bride

He had dark eyes, the blue-black of deep water, and they moved over her once with no particular expression before settling on her face.

“Me Lady,” he greeted. His voice was low, heavy, and used with brutal economy.

“Me Laird,” she returned.

“Yer household experience.” It was a command, not a question. “What have ye managed?”

She blinked, her fingers tightening around her cup. “I beg yer pardon?”

“Accounts. Provisioning. Staff. What have ye managed, and for how long?”

She straightened without meaning to. The question was so direct, so stripped of pleasantry, that her lips answered it before her mind could catch up.

“Me father’s household since I was fourteen. The accounts, the stores, the seasonal provisioning. I manage the staff, the kitchen orders, the wool and dairy scheduling.” She paused, looking him dead in the eye. “Seven years.”

He looked at her for a silent beat, his gaze steady. Then: “The livestock.”

“The—I’m sorry?”

“Yer experience with livestock.”

She stared at him. He did not seem to be jesting; his scarred face remained carved from stone. Behind him, at a comfortable distance, she could see the other women watching their exchange with expressions ranging from sheer relief to absolute fascination.

“I spent considerable time at me father’s farm,” she said carefully, her voice dropping to a professional register. “He had sheep, goats, and a dairy herd.”

“Birthing season,” he countered instantly. “What do ye do if a lamb willnae take the teat?”

“I…” She stopped and started again, her practical mind locking into place. “Ye wet a finger in the milk and press it to the lamb’s mouth first. Give it the taste. Then guide it to the ewe before the lamb has time to decide otherwise.”

She paused, her mouth setting into a firm line. “If the ewe rejects it, ye skin a lost lamb and put the fleece on the living one so she accepts the scent.”

Something shifted in his expression. Very slightly. It seemed like reluctant respect.

“Feed shortage,” he said, stepping an inch closer, his deep voice cutting through the noise of the hall. “Early spring. Grain stores low. What do ye do first?”

“Triage the herd. The breeding females and the youngest animals eat first. The older, non-breeding stock gets reduced. Ye contact the nearest reliable merchant before the shortage becomes visible in the animals, because by then ye’ve waited too long.”

She tilted her chin up, meeting the dark intensity of his gaze. “And ye fix whatever fence failed in the autumn that let ye lose half yer hay to the weather, so it doesnae happen the following year.”

He was quiet. The heat between them felt heavy, sharp, and separate from the warmth of the hearth.

“Stubborn goat,” he said softly. “Keeps breaking through the eastern fence. Ye’ve reset the post twice.”

“Then the post isnae the problem. The problem is the goat.” She folded her hands tightly in front of her stomach. “Ye move her. Separate enclosure, away from whatever she’s going toward. A goat that breaks fences is going toward something, nae just away. Find that something.”

He looked at her long and hard.

The hall continued its frantic spin around them. The fiddle, the glittering candlelight, the murmur of two dozen other conversations, and none of it seemed to reach the suffocating quiet that had settled between them.

Then he nodded once and walked away.

Elspeth breathed out hard through her nose. Her hands, she noticed, had been pressed flat against her ribs with enough force to bruise. She uncurled her stiff fingers, reached for her abandoned wine, and took a long sip.

Well, that was unusual. At least it’s over now.

“Elspeth.” Katherine whispered. “What did ye tell him?”

“I answered his questions.”