Chapter 15
Jaxon stood beside the loaded cart, his eyes tracing the trunks bound with rope.
“Connor,” he said, his voice low, “what is all this?”
Connor merely shrugged, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth. “It appeared at dawn, me laird, as if by magic.”
Gracie approached from between the stalls, her skirts gathered in one hand and a soft flush upon her cheeks.
“It wasnae magic,” she said gently. “I added it.”
Jaxon turned toward her, brows drawing together as he studied her face.
“Ye have covered for drought and famine,” she continued, “but I wished to take warmth upon meself.” She gestured to the carts. “The maids told me Glenmoor lacks firewood, and the cold bites harder than hunger there.”
Jaxon’s jaw tightened, and a flicker of unease passed through his eyes.
He felt a prickle of anger, not at her, but at the silence of his council.
He felt disappointed with himself for dismissing Gracie’s earlier questions about Glenmoor.
A feeling that now felt like his own failing.
Michael had spoken only of crops and water, never of frost creeping into bones.
It troubled him that his own people might fear speaking fully to him. Gracie watched his face and faltered.
“Ye are displeased?” she asked softly. “Yer brow furrows, and I fear I overstepped.” She clasped her hands. “If I have, I am sorry.”
Jaxon shook his head at once.
“Ye dinnae overstep, ye did well, lass” he said. “I only wonder why this was not in the report given to me.” He exhaled. “It troubles me that me folk dinnae trust me with the whole truth.”
Gracie tilted her head, thinking.
“Mayhap,” she said, “they feared that if they asked for too much, they would receive naught at all.” She met his gaze. “Sometimes folk ask only for what seems least shameful.”
Jaxon nodded slowly, the truth of it settling upon him.
“Show me,” he said at last. Gracie stepped forward and lifted a lid, revealing stacks of knitted blankets, shawls folded with care, hats and gloves arranged in neat rows.
“We worked late into the night,” she explained. “The women, even the bairns helped.”
Jaxon reached out and touched a scarf, rough wool warming beneath his fingers. “Ye did this in a single evenin’?” he asked.
“Aye,” she replied, a hint of pride in her voice. “It seemed wrong to wait when winter waits for nay one.”
Connor let out a low whistle. “By Saint Andrew,” he said, “ye’ve rallied half the castle without so much as a command.”
Gracie flushed. “I only asked,” she said. “They wished to help.”
Jaxon glanced at Connor, then back to his wife.
“Ye have done what many Lairds fail to do,” he said quietly. “Ye made them feel part of the savin’.” His tone softened. “This will mean more to Glenmoor than any decree.”
“I only thought of bairns with cold hands,” she murmured. “I ken how cruel winter can be.”
Jaxon felt something stir in his chest, a warmth not born of lust. He straightened, his voice firm. “These will go with us,” he declared.
“Ye will ride with me at the front. Let them see their Lady brings more than words.”
She hesitated. “What if I fail them?” she asked. “What if I say the wrong thing?”
Jaxon stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Then ye will speak from the heart, and that will be enough.” He paused. “It has been so far.”
Gracie swallowed, then lifted her chin. “Very well,” she said. “I will try.”
Jaxon allowed himself a small smile. “That is all any of us can do.” He signaled to the guards, and the stables filled with motion once more.
As the carts began to roll, Jaxon cast one last glance at the wool and blankets.
For the first time, he saw not merely supplies, but proof that his bride understood his people.
It eased a weight he had carried alone for years.
And in that moment, he knew that Glenmoor would not meet a laird alone, but a laird and his lady together.
Jaxon turned to Connor and said, “There’s a change of plans, I need ye to prepare firewood as well and see it sent on to Glenmoor. We will ride ahead of ye with the guards.”
Connor blinked, then nodded at once. “Aye, me laird, I will see it done,” he replied, already striding off to bark orders.
Jaxon watched him go, then turned back to Gracie.
“It is time,” he said.
He moved to her side and set his hands at her waist to lift her to the saddle.
The warmth of her beneath his palms stirred him in a way he did not welcome in such a public place, yet he could not deny it.
Her form was soft where his was hard, generous where his was lean, and the contrast set his blood to humming.
He reminded himself that she was more than a body, that her mind and heart had impressed him far more than her curves, yet still the heat rose unbidden.
Gracie settled in the saddle and smiled down at him. “Thank ye, Jaxon,” she said, steadying herself. “I ken horses well enough, but I daenae ken yer stable’s ways yet.”
He nodded. “Ye will,” he said. “Everythin’ here will be yers to ken in time.”
He swung up onto his own horse, the guards forming around them as the carts creaked forward.
They rode from the gates of Castle McMillan into rolling hills brushed with morning light. Mist clung to the low ground, silvering the heather and softening the edges of stone walls.
Jaxon pointed with his chin. “That ridge there,” he said, “is where I learned to ride at a young age.”
Gracie followed his gaze, her eyes bright. “It is bonnie,” she murmured. “I would like to see it close one day.”
“Aye, I will take ye,” he said. “Beyond it lies a loch where the trout run thick in summer.”
She laughed softly. “Ye speak as though ye are showin’ me secrets.”
He glanced at her. “They are secrets,” he replied, “and I share them because ye are me wife. These are yer lands now.”
He saw her cheeks warmed at that, and she looked ahead, smiling.
The carts rumbled behind them, laden with grain, water casks, wool. Guards rode in quiet formation.
Gracie said, “I hope it is enough.”
Jaxon answered, “It will be a beginnin’, and beginnings matter.”
She nodded, comforted.
They passed a stream that wound through stones like a ribbon of glass. “I used to sit there as a lad,” Jaxon said. “I would throw pebbles and dream of leavin’ the castle.”
Gracie glanced at him. “Did ye wish to flee?”
He shook his head. “Nay, only to see more of the world, then return stronger for me clan.”
She smiled. “That is a good sort of dream.”
As they rode, he studied her from the corner of his eye.
She sat tall despite nerves, her hands steady on the reins, her gaze thoughtful rather than fearful.
He felt pride stir where lust had been, and it surprised him.
She was not merely beautiful; she was capable, and that drew him more deeply than any curve.
The thought unsettled him, for it meant he was already bound in ways he had not planned.
“Gracie,” he said, “what made ye think of warmth before food?” She considered.
“Hunger kills slow, but cold steals breath in a single night,” she replied. “I thought of bairns wakin’ with numb fingers.”
Jaxon’s throat tightened. “Ye think as a lady should,” he said.
She looked startled. “I only thought as a woman would,” she answered.
They crested a hill, and a distant valley spread before them, pale and thin beneath winter’s grip. Smoke rose weakly from scattered roofs.
Gracie inhaled. “They look so small from here,” she whispered.
Jaxon said, “Aye, but they are ours.”
She turned to him then, meeting his eyes. “I will do me best to be a good Lady,” she said. “That is all I can promise.”
He inclined his head. “It is more than enough,” he replied. The wind tugged at her hair, and for a moment, he forgot duty and saw only the woman riding beside him, brave and uncertain, already changing the land he ruled.
Jaxon rode ahead and raised his hand to the guards. “We will stop at the brook,” he called, “let the horses drink and rest.”
The men answered in unison and guided the carts toward a stand of birch trees. He turned back and took Gracie’s reins, leading her horse down the gentle slope toward the water.
He helped her dismount, steadying her with firm hands. “Careful now,” he said, his voice low. “The stones are slick.”
She smiled up at him. “I am nae made of glass, me laird,” she teased, though she leaned into his support.
Jaxon spread a wool blanket upon the grass where sunlight dappled through leaves.
He fetched his satchel and laid out oat bread, smoked cheese, dried apples, and a small skin of honeyed mead.
The brook murmured beside them, clear and bright, and birds flitted through the branches above.
Gracie settled on the blanket, smoothing her skirts, and looked about as though the moment were a gift.
The guards rested beneath the trees at a respectful distance, some watering horses, others sharing quiet jests. Jaxon poured water from a flask and handed her a cup.
“Drink and eat,” he said. “We’ve a long ride yet.”
She broke bread and offered him half, and he accepted, noting how easily she shared.
He ate in thoughtful silence, watching the way light caught in her hair.
He had known duty as weight and burden, yet here it felt like purpose shaped by her presence.
She had not been raised for this life, yet she stepped into it with gentleness and resolve.
It stirred something in him that was neither command nor desire alone, but a strange hope.
At last he said, “Ye had nothin’ to worry about.”
She blinked. “About what?”
He met her eyes. “About being a lady,” he answered. “Ye already perform yer duties better than many who have led for years.”
Color rose in her cheeks. “Ye are kind,” she said softly. “I only try.”
“I mean it,” he insisted. “Ye listen, ye care, and ye act.”
She laughed under her breath. “That sounds more like a maither than a lady.”
He smiled. “Aye, and that is why it matters.”
Her gaze dropped, shy and pleased, and he felt an unexpected warmth in his chest.
She said, “I feared ye would think me foolish for meddling.”
He shook his head. “I feared I had failed,” he replied. “If me people could nae tell me of their cold, then I must learn to hear better.”
She studied him. “Ye listen now.” He nodded. “Because ye taught me how.”
They ate in companionable quiet, the brook whispering time away. Gracie dipped apple in honey and offered it to him. He accepted, brushing her fingers, and the touch lingered. Neither spoke of it, yet both felt the shift.
After an hour, Jaxon rose and folded the blanket.
“We should go,” he said gently.
She stood and dusted grass from her skirts. “Aye, the folk of Glenmoor wait.” He helped her mount again, steady and sure.
As they rode back toward the road, he glanced at her. “Gracie,” he said, “ye are doin’ well.”
She smiled, small and sincere. “So are ye, Jaxon.”
Hours later, the sky dimmed as they rode, clouds knitting together above the hills, and a fine drizzle began to fall.
At first it was gentle, cool upon Jaxon’s face, carrying the clean scent of rain.
He glanced at Gracie, worried she might be chilled, yet she only lifted her chin and smiled at the sky.
“Perhaps Glenmoor shall ken mercy at last with this rain,” she said, and he found himself hoping she was right.
The road darkened beneath their hooves, turning slick and heavy, and the carts slowed. A wheel caught in a rut with a wet groan, and the line halted.
Jaxon dismounted at once, motioning to the guards. “Come, lads,” he called, “let us free it.”
Mud sucked at his boots as he braced his shoulder to the wood, and Gracie watched with anxious eyes from her saddle.
The men strained together, breath clouding in the damp air. “Push, now,” Jaxon commanded, and with a heave the wheel lurched free, spattering them with muck.
Gracie laughed softly, relieved. “Ye look like ye wrestled the earth itself,” she teased.
He grinned, wiping his brow. “And the earth near won.”
She handed him a handkerchief and he wiped his face clean.
A guard named Gale rode up through the mist. “Me laird,” Gale said, tipping his head, “the road to Glenmoor grows steep beyond the ridge, and when it is wet, it turns treacherous.”
Jaxon studied the hills ahead, their slopes darkened by rain. “Aye, I ken it well,” he replied. “We’ll nae risk the carts nor the folk. We’ll stop at the Rose Inn as we always do,” he said. “We’ll hope for drier weather come morn, though these rains are a blessing all the same.”
She nodded, thoughtful. “Even if we are delayed, the land is drinkin’,” she said. “That matters.”
He admired how easily she held both patience and purpose.
They mounted again, and the procession moved on at a steadier pace. Jaxon rode beside her, mindful of every slick stone.
“Are ye cold?” he asked.
“Nay,” she answered. “Only a bit wet.”
He offered his cloak, but she shook her head. “Me own cloak is just fine.”
The rain thickened, tapping upon leather and wool, softening the world into gray. Jaxon felt the weight of command settle again upon his shoulders, yet it did not press as harshly as it once had.
Gracie rode with quiet resolve, her presence steady as the rhythm of hooves. He thought of Glenmoor, of cold hands and empty hearths, and of the warmth she sent.
When at last the roof of the Rose Inn appeared through the veil of rain, relief passed through the line.
Jaxon raised his hand. “There,” he called, “we shelter and give thanks for what falls from the sky.”
Gracie looked at him, eyes bright despite the storm. “Aye,” she said, “for even a delay can be a kind of mercy when it’s rain that causes it. Since the land has gone dry, rain is now a blessin’ even if it causes a delay in deliverin’ the supplies.”