Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
"Right, let's see what needs daein'."
Alba watched as Lachlann swung down from his horse with easy grace, already scanning the village square with the practiced eye of someone who'd done it a hundred times before.
He moved immediately toward a group of men standing near what looked like a storage shed, his posture shifting from relaxed rider to focused laird in an instant.
Alba dismounted more slowly, taking a moment to steady herself and stroke Shadow's neck. The mare huffed softly, and Alba found herself grateful for the horse's calm presence. Around them, villagers were gathering, their curious stares making her skin prickle with awareness.
She was an outsider here. A stranger on MacNeil lands. And from the whispers she could hear, everyone knew exactly who she was.
"That's the MacKinnon lass."
"Why's she here?"
"… attacked on the road."
"… she's stayin' at the castle."
Alba lifted her chin and ignored them, focusing instead on tying Shadow's reins to the post where Lachlann's men had secured the other horses. She could handle curious stares. She'd been handling them her whole life.
Alba turned and saw a group of women, all around her age or slightly older, setting up the supply distribution for the winter stores at several tables being assembled in the square.
She walked over and addressed them shyly. "Would ye... that is, if ye need... could ye use an extra pair of hands?"
A smile flooded the woman's face. "Oh, bless ye. We would be very grateful fer yer help, me lady. I'm Eilidh. This is Moira and Catriona. "
"Alba." She smiled at them. "What dae ye need me tae dae? Just point me where ye need me."
And just like that, the awkwardness dissolved.
Eilidh led her toward a storehouse where sacks of grain were being brought out and sorted. The building was old stone, cool and dim inside, smelling of wheat and barley and the earthy scent of potatoes stored in barrels.
Alba fell into the work without hesitation, helping to carry the heavy sacks, counting them, recording the amounts in the ledger Eilidh kept. The burlap was rough against her palms, and she could feel the weight of the grain shifting as she hefted each sack.
The work was physical and repetitive, but Alba found it soothing. There was no need for careful words or political maneuvering here. Just honest labor and the easy camaraderie of women working together toward a common goal.
"Ye're stronger than ye look," Moira commented after Alba hefted a particularly heavy sack without complaint. The woman had red hair and laugh lines around her eyes. "Most ladies would be faintin' by now."
"I grew up helpin' with harvest," Alba said, brushing chaff from her sleeves. "Me braither always said I was too stubborn tae admit when somethin' was too heavy fer me."
The women laughed, and Alba felt something in her chest loosen. This was familiar. Comfortable. The kind of work she'd done at home before her father had died, before everything became about propriety and reputation and being the perfect lady.
They moved from grain to wool, sorting fleeces and checking them for quality.
The wool was soft under her fingers, some pure white, others cream or light grey. Catriona showed Alba how to judge the different grades, explaining which would be used for what purposes—the finest for noble garments, the coarser grades for blankets and working clothes.
"The laird's particular about the wool," Catriona explained, her hands moving deftly through a fleece. "Says if we're goin' tae sell it, it needs tae be the best quality. He's nae wrong, we get better prices than most villages."
Alba listened carefully, filing away the information.
Around them, more women had joined the work, and the square had become a hive of activity.
Children darted between the adults, sometimes helping, more often just getting underfoot.
An old man sat on a bench in the sun, mending fishing nets with gnarled but steady hands.
The time passed quickly. Alba lost herself in the rhythm of the work, only vaguely aware that the sun had climbed higher in the sky.
Occasionally she'd catch a glimpse of Lachlann across the square—deep in conversation about things such as boundary stones, examining the construction of a new cottage with a critical eye or settling the grazing dispute with firm but fair words.
Once, their eyes met across the crowded square. Lachlann paused mid-sentence, and for a moment, something passed between them. Then someone asked him a question and his attention shifted away.
"The laird's a good man," Eilidh said quietly, following Alba's gaze. "Fair. Listens when ye speak tae him, even if ye're just a tenant farmer's wife."
"Aye," Moira agreed, shaking out a fleece with practiced movements. "His faither was the same. MacNeils have always taken care of their own."
"Me husband says he's the best laird we've had in three generations," Catriona added. "Kens every family by name, remembers the children's names too. Came himself when our wee one was sick last winter, brought the healer from the castle."
Alba didn't know what to say to that, so she just nodded and returned to sorting wool. But something warm settled in her chest at their words—pride, though she had no right to feel proud of Lachlann.
By the time they finished, the sun was well past its peak and Alba's arms ached pleasantly from the work.
She'd shed her shawl hours before, and she could feel sweat cooling on her neck despite the autumn chill.
Her dress—the green one from the castle—was dusty and streaked with chaff, and her braid had come half undone.
"Thank ye," Eilidh said, beaming at her. "We'd have been here till dark without yer help."
"It was me pleasure," Alba said honestly. "Thank ye fer includin' me."
"Will ye stay fer the meal?" Catriona asked hopefully. "We always share food after the work's done. It's tradition."
Alba glanced around, looking for Lachlann.
"I'm nae sure—" Alba began.
"Please stay," Moira said. "It'd be nice tae have ye. The laird never stays fer our celebrations, but maybe if ye're here..."
Before Alba could answer, tables were being dragged out and set up in the square.
Women appeared with baskets of bread—golden brown loaves still warm from the ovens. Men rolled out barrels of ale, the wood worn smooth from years of use. Children ran about, laughing and playing, while someone tuned a fiddle nearby, the notes bright and cheerful in the cooling air.
The whole village was transforming before her eyes, work giving way to celebration with an ease that spoke of long tradition.
Torches were being lit as the afternoon shadows lengthened, their flames dancing in the breeze.
Someone spread a worn but clean cloth over one of the tables, and suddenly platters of cheese appeared, wheels of it in pale yellow and deep orange.
Smoked fish, apples from someone's orchard, honey in clay pots.
Alba made her way to where Lachlann stood. He was watching the preparations with something like resignation on his face, his arms crossed over his chest.
"They want us tae stay," she said quietly. "Fer the meal and... apparently there's dancin'?"
"Aye." Lachlann sighed. "They always dae this after the supply work. I usually make me excuses and leave before it starts."
"Oh." Alba felt her disappointment settle heavy in her chest. Of course he'd want to leave. He probably had important laird things to do back at the castle. "Can we stay?"
He hesitated.
Lachlann studied her for a long moment, then nodded. "Aye, we can stay."
"Really?"
"We'll stay. Fer a while."
Relief and something warmer flooded through Alba. "Thank ye."
They found seats at one of the long tables, squeezed in between Eilidh's family and an elderly couple who introduced themselves as Hamish and Greer.
Immediately people began pressing food and drink on them. Alba accepted a cup of ale—lighter than the wine Lachlann had given her in the castle kitchen, thank the saints—and a thick slice of bread with cheese.
The bread was still warm, the crust crackling under her fingers. The cheese was sharp and tangy, perfectly complementing the slight sweetness of the bread. Alba suddenly realized how hungry she was and took another bite.
"Eat up, miss," Greer said kindly, pushing a bowl of apples toward her. "Ye worked hard today. Need tae keep yer strength up."
Around them, conversation flowed easily.
Hamish told a story about a sheep that had escaped three times in one week, each time ending up in increasingly improbable locations. The whole table roared with laughter when he got to the part about finding it in the kirk, bleating indignantly from the pulpit.
Children darted between the adults, stealing bits of food and shrieking when they were caught.
It was chaotic and loud and wonderful.
The ale flowed freely, laughter rang out from every table, and the smell of bread and smoke and autumn air filled the square. As the sun sank lower, the torches grew brighter, painting everything in warm, flickering gold.
Alba caught Lachlann watching her at one point, a small smile playing at his lips.
"What?" she asked.
"Ye're covered in flour," he said. "And in yer hair."
Alba's hand flew to her braid self-consciously. "Oh. I must look a mess."
"Ye look happy." His voice was quiet, nearly lost in the noise around them.
Before she could respond, the fiddle player struck up a lively tune. The piper joined in, and suddenly the music filled the square, bright and joyful and impossible to ignore.
Several people immediately stood and moved to the cleared space that served as a dance floor, pulling partners with them.
The music was infectious—a traditional reel that had feet tapping and hands clapping even before the first couples began to dance.