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Brodie suppressed a faint twitch of his lips as he stepped up beside his son. His massive frame dwarfed the boy and the casks alike, his dark wool plaid draped broad across his shoulders. He reached out, tapping a massive cask with his heavy knuckle. A deep, dull thud echoed back.

“It does nae grow like a turnip,” Brodie said, his deep rasp cutting through the quiet gloom. “It comes from grapes. Small, sweet berries that grow on vines far south of our glen, where the sun shines warm enough to ripen them.”

Angus squinched his nose, looking up at the high ceiling. “How do ye turn berries into drink? Do ye squash them with a mallet?”

“Nae with a mallet,” Brodie answered, leaning his hip against the wooden frame of a rack. “The men who harvest them jump into big wooden tubs and crush them with their bare feet.”

Angus froze, his jaw dropping in absolute horror. “Their feet?”

“Aye,” Brodie rumbled, a rare glint of dry humor touching his dark eyes. “They wash them first, lad. Then the juice is poured into these very barrels and left to sit in the dark for months, sometimes years, until it ferments.”

“What does ferments mean?” Angus pressed immediately, stepping closer to inspect the brass spigot driven into the base of the wood. “Does it rot?”

“It changes,” Brodie corrected smoothly. “The sugar turns to spirit. That is what gives it its warmth.”

Angus looked down at the spigot, his eyebrows scrunched tight in thought. “Can I try some? If I am to be a laird and take me watch, should I nae drink the Laird’s wine?”

Brodie snorted softly, a low rumble deep in his broad chest. He reached out, his massive, calloused hand cupping the back of Angus’s neck in a firm, protective hold, thumb resting lightly against the boy’s jawline.

“Ye’re too young, Angus,” Brodie said, his voice dropping into a stern but quiet rhythm. “A drop of diluted ale at supper is plenty for a growin’ lad. Wine is for feast nights, and for men who have earned the strength to carry its weight.”

“Master Corbet drinks it,” Angus mumbled.

“Master Corbet has fought in three wars and stands six feet tall,” Brodie replied, his fingers giving the back of Angus’s neck a firm, gentle shake before releasing him. “When ye can lift an armin’ sword without wobbly knees, ye may have a cup of French red.”

Angus huffed, but the disappointment quickly gave way to fresh curiosity as he swung the torch toward the back wall. “What is in those smaller crates back there? Is it more wine?”

“Nay,” Brodie said, turning his head to follow the light. “That is the smoked salt and dried venison for the lower guards. Come. We need to check the ironwork on the south gate before the blacksmith closes his forge.”

They left the cool, damp quiet of the vaults, locking the heavy timber door behind them, and emerged into the bright, crisp afternoon air of the inner courtyard.

The keep was bustling. Village boys hauled armfuls of fresh green rushes across the cobbles, while carpenters hammered together wooden staging for the upcoming festival. The smell of sawdust and wood smoke filled the air, mingling with the crisp Highland wind blowing down from the heather-covered peaks.

As they walked toward the armory, Angus trotted beside Brodie, trying desperately to match his father’s long, sweeping stride. Three short steps for every one of Brodie’s heavy footfalls.

“Father?” Angus called out, gasping slightly as he hurried to keep pace.

“Aye?”

“When Lady Sheona marries ye… will she live in the big bedchamber with ye?”

Brodie stopped dead in his tracks. He turned slowly to look down at his son. Angus stopped too, looking up with complete, innocent sincerity, his hands folded behind his back as he waited for an answer.

Brodie’s jaw set in a hard line, his dark eyes narrowing as the image of Sheona—her flushed cheeks, the soft moan that had escaped her lips in the solar, and the fiery grace she had shown in the birthing room—flashed unbidden through his mind.

“That is adult business, Angus,” Brodie rumbled, his voice turning low and dark. “Nae for ye to concern yerself with.”

“I only asked because Cook said she’ll be the Lady of the Keep now,” Angus explained rapidly, unbothered by his father’s sudden sternness. “And she bakes good cakes. Even if ye said there was too much flour.”

Brodie looked at the boy for a long moment, the hard lines of his face struggling against a quiet, stubborn warmth. He reached out, resting his heavy hand on Angus’s shoulder, guiding him forward toward the ringing anvil of the smithy.

“Aye, lad,” Brodie muttered softly under his breath, his eyes drifting up toward the stone tower window of the solar. “She bakes fine cakes.”

The heavy wooden gate opened onto the grand expanse of the village green, where the autumn festival was already in full swing.

“Daenae do anythin’ foolish now,” Brodie commanded, resting his broad hand heavy on Angus’s shoulder.

The lad barely heard him. He was bouncing on the balls of his feet, his dark eyes wide and brilliant as he stared out over the bustling crowd.