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The autumn fair had always been Angus’s favorite day of the year. The crisp October air carried the sharp, sweet scent of wet soil and crushed leaves, mingling with the rich smoke of oak fires that warmed the cool breeze. The valley was alive with color—the amber and copper of the dying canopy above mirrored in the deep, rich tartans draped over timber stalls.

For this one day, the heavy burdens of the Laird fell away, replaced by the wild skirl of bagpipes, the rhythmic thrum of fiddle strings, and the irresistible scent of spit-roasted venison drifting across the green.

Brodie looked down at the boy, watching a fierce, unbridled laugh burst from Angus’s chest as a street juggler dropped two wooden apples into the dry rushes. Brodie caught himself pausing, a strange, unaccustomed warmth settling in his chest. Looking at him now, he realized that this brilliant smile had been on his son’s face ever since he had met her.

“Mind yer father, Master Angus!” Douglas grumbled beside them, though the old captain’s rough face softened as he smoothed his gray mustache. “If ye run off into the crowd, I’ll have the smith lock ye in the forge.”

“Ye willnae!” Angus piped up, grinning up at the captain before twisting out from under his father’s hand. “Sheona promised we would go to the baker’s bench first!”

Before Brodie could grab his tunic, the lad darted into the throng, his small plaid fluttering behind him like a banner.

“Go on then, keep an eye on him,” Brodie told Douglas, his voice dropping into its accustomed gravel rasp. “But stay close.”

“Aye, me Laird,” Douglas nodded, falling into step a few paces behind the sprinting boy.

Brodie remained on the edge of the green, framed by the shadow of the wooden timber gallows where the village elders stood gathered.

The crisp October air bit softly at Brodie’s cheeks, thick with the rich, heavy perfume of wood smoke, wet soil, and roasted venison sizzling over open pit fires on the lower green. Beneath his heavy leather boots, thousands of golden and amber leaves crackled and crushed into the damp earth with each stride, releasing the sharp, unmistakable scent of autumn in the Highlands.

All around him, the village green hummed. The high, shrill skirl of bagpipes wove through the steady sound of a wooden fiddle, setting a lively rhythm that seemed to vibrate through the very flagstones of the keep’s outer wall.

A tangle of local children burst past him in a whirlwind of shrieks and flying wool. Their small leather shoes slapped against the mud as they chased one another among the timber market stalls, their cheeks flushed bright red in the cold air. They darted under tables draped in vibrant, hand-woven tartans—deep crimson, forest green, and rich indigo—where local women proudly laid out warm, crusty loaves of freshly baked barley bread and sweet honey cakes, the white steam still rising into the chilly breeze.

Over the boundary stones, the air thudded with brute force. Four burly blacksmiths, stripped down to their sweat-glistening linen shirts despite the frost, swung heavy iron hammers in a rhythmic, deafening chorus. Bright orange sparks exploded into the air like tiny dying stars as they raced against the hourglass to forge and shape the thickest, strongest horseshoe. The heat radiating off their portable hearths hit Brodie’s chest even from twenty paces back.

Further up the grassy rise, in the shade of a massive, dying oak tree, a cluster of silver-haired elders sat perched on upturned ale casks. Their weathered faces were etched with deep lines as they pointed gnarled fingers toward the straw targets downfield, shouting gravelly arguments over the archers’ scores—each old man swearing that the autumn wind blew young Ronald’s arrow off target, while another insisted the lad lacked a steady eye.

Brodie drew the crisp frost, sweet honeyed ale, and burning oak deep into his lungs, his dark eyes sweeping over the vibrant, rowdy explosion of life before the long winter set in.

“The winter storehouses are three barrels shy of salted grain, me Laird, and the sheep tariffs from the lower valley havenae been collected,” One of the clan elders droned on, his withered hand gesturing vaguely down toward the timber roofs of the lower barns. “If we daenae squeeze the crofters before the first hard frost, the keep will be chewin’ leather come January.”

Brodie offered a low, mindless grunt, his dark eyes fixed entirely across the green, his attention nowhere near the old man’s tallies.

“Are ye listenin’ to me, me Laird?” Murdo pressed, his raspy voice rising over the skirl of the pipes. “I said the salt pork in the east vault is turnin’ sour, and Master MacIntyre refuses to pay his share for the timber!”

“We will discuss that after the festival, Murdo,” Brodie said as his gaze went to Sheona.

She stood beneath a canopy of woven wool, bathed in the soft, golden light of the late afternoon sun. Mairi, the young mother Sheona had delivered only days prior, had somehow convinced her to help judge the village baking competition.

From across the green, Brodie watched her. She had shed her heavy velvet mantle for a simple bodice of deep forest green, her dark hair pinned loosely, a few soft curls escaping to frame her throat. She was laughing with the village women over burnt oatcakes and stolen recipes—a real, ringing sound that carried over the din of the pipes—while an older woman presented a blackened, lopsided loaf of barley bread, her shoulders shrugging apologetically.

Sheona broke off a piece, bit into it without hesitation, and offered a warm, earnest nod that made the old woman beam with pride.

“She has a fine way with them, Brodie,” The old elder muttered, noticing where his laird’s eyes had strayed. “The village took to her quickly after the birthin’ of Mairi’s bairn. A strong lass. Proper MacFaris blood.”

“Aye,” Brodie rumbled, keeping his face set like granite, though his throat felt suddenly dry.

Suddenly, Angus burst through the crowd near the baking canopy. He seized Sheona by the wrist, tugging her relentlessly away from the wooden table.

Sheona let out a startled laugh, gathering her dark skirts in one hand as the boy dragged her toward the shepherd’s pens. Brodie watched them go, stepping away from the elders to follow at a slow, deliberate distance, his arms crossed over his chest.

“Sheona! Ye must see him!” Angus cried out, his voice ringing over the baaing of ewes. He pulled her up to the low timber fence where a burly shepherd in a grease-stained plaid was leaning against a post. “This is the Shepherd! He has the biggest ram in the entire west glen!”

The shepherd pulled off his wool cap, bowing his head respectfully. “Me Lady. The young master speaks highly of yer… horse-bakin’ skills.”

Sheona flushed, a bright, beautiful pink dusting her cheekbones as she smiled at the shepherd. “Daenae believe everythin’ Angus tells ye. Though I hear yer fleece won top honors at the loom today.”

“Aye, thanks to the autumn frost,” He grinned, gesturing to the heavy gray ram standing inside the pen.