Chapter 37
Dawn broke to the sound of hooves and shouted warnings. Baird was already awake when the courtyard erupted. Even through the closed windows of his chamber, he heard his men calling for the laird.
He got up without hesitation.
“What is happening?” Davina asked, sounding still sleepy.
“I dinnae ken yet,” he told her. “But I’m about tae find out.”
He was halfway down the stairs by the time the scouts rode through the gates. He rushed outside to meet them.
“They’re moving,” one of them gasped as he dismounted. “Faster than expected. Sinclair banners, nay attempt at concealment.”
“How far?” Baird demanded.
“Less than a day’s hard march,” the scout replied. “They mean tae strike soon.”
Baird did not swear. He did not hesitate.
“Sound the captains,” he said. “Now.”
Within minutes the war room filled with steel and leather, smelling of damp wool and readiness. The long table was cleared in a breath, maps were unrolled and weighted at the corners.
Baird planted his hands on the table. “They advance from the east,” he said. “That means the low road and the ridge path. They’ll split forces.”
Hands moved at once, fingers tracing routes.
“Archers to the ramparts,” he ordered. “Double on the eastern wall. I want overlapping lines of fire.”
“Aye,” came the immediate reply.
“The main gate gets reinforced,” Baird continued. “Boiling pitch ready, but we hold it unless they force us. Nay wasted fire.”
He pointed to the inner keep. “Fallback points here, here, and here. If they breach the outer wall, we dae nae scatter. We draw them inward and bleed them fer every step.”
A captain frowned. “And the villagers?”
“They stay sheltered,” Baird said flatly. “Nay one leaves the inner halls. I want guards posted at every passage.”
Baird was already turning from the table when a guard stepped forward, hesitating only a fraction. “Me laird, Lady Davina is already taking care of them as we speak. She’s in the lower halls, directing the villagers and servants. Supplies, blankets, food. She has them organized by sections.”
Another guard nodded quickly. “Aye. And she’s… steadying them. The children listen when she speaks. Even the men…” he cleared his throat, looking almost embarrassed, “even the weary ones seem calmer fer hearing her.”
Baird felt overwhelmed. He already knew all of that. Now, his men knew it, too. He looked around the room at his captains and guards, men hardened by years of skirmishes and winters alike.
“We are fortunate,” Baird addressed them all, “tae have her.”
He didn’t speak out of love this time, but he simply spoke the truth.
“She holds the heart of this keep,” he continued. “Which means it is our duty tae hold its walls. Nay Sinclair blade reaches them while we still stand.”
A fierce murmur rolled through the room.
“We are Kincaids,” Baird said. “And we keep every soul within these walls safe, nay matter what the cost.”
Steel rang as fists struck breastplates. Voices rose together, rough and resolute.
“Aye!”
The sound filled the chamber, carrying with it more than readiness.
It carried loyalty. Baird left the war room with his orders given and his purpose fixed, with the echo of his men’s voices still ringing in his ears.
The moment he stepped into the courtyard, he saw Davina near the center, directing the flow of people with calm efficiency.
Blankets were being handed out in careful bundles, and baskets of bread passed along lines of waiting hands. Children clung to skirts, soldiers leaned wearily against walls, and through it all her voice carried without hesitation.
Baird went to her without ceremony and lifted two heavy bundles of blankets from a cart before she could reach them herself.
“Those go tae the great hall,” she said automatically, then looked up and smiled when she realized it was him. “Thank ye.”
“Show me,” he replied.
Together they hauled the bundles toward the doors, their shoulders brushing as they walked. People stepped aside for them, murmuring thanks, and nodding in recognition, not only of their laird, but of the lady beside him who had somehow made fear manageable.
Inside the great hall, the transformation was already underway. Straw had been laid, fires were banked, and space was claimed with quiet cooperation rather than argument. Baird set the blankets down where Davina indicated, then reached for another load without being asked.
For a brief moment, amid the movement and murmurs, their eyes met. No words passed between them. None were needed. It was a shared understanding of responsibility, worry and resolve. They were two leaders carrying the same weight from different ends, meeting in the middle.
Baird reached out, brushing a loose strand of hair back from her face.
“Ye’re doing more good than ye ken,” he said quietly.
She looked back at him with that adoring smile. “So are ye.”
He shook his head faintly. “I give orders. Ye give courage.”
Her lips curved. “Then let us keep doing both.”
He nodded once, already lifting another bundle. Around them, the keep was still breathing. It was crowded and weary, but alive. And as Baird worked beside her, he knew with absolute certainty that whatever the Sinclairs brought to their gates, they would not find a house divided.
They would find one that stood together.
It was only when the light began to thin into evening that Davina realized she had not seen Baird in hours.
The keep was quieter now. It was far from silent, but it felt somehow settled. Children slept wrapped in borrowed blankets. Fires burned low and steady. Guards stood at their posts. For the first time since dawn, there was nothing immediate demanding her hands or her voice.
And Baird was not there. His absence tugged at her.
She wiped her hands on her skirts and crossed the courtyard, searching the faces, half-expecting to spot him among the men. When she did not, she stopped beside a guard near the stairwell.
“Have ye seen the laird?” she asked.
The man straightened at once. “Aye, me lady. He’s been at the battlements since late afternoon.”
“Thank ye.”
She did not hesitate. The climb was long along the stone steps which were worn smooth beneath her boots.
As she ascended, the sounds of the keep fell away.
Now, they were replaced by wind and the distant calls of sentries.
The air grew cooler, carrying the scent of rain and iron.
She emerged onto the battlements just as the sun dipped low, bleeding gold and crimson across the hills beyond the walls.
Baird stood near the edge, with his hands resting on the stone. His broad frame was outlined against the fading light. He was very still, as though the land itself had claimed him for a moment.
Davina paused, watching him. Here, stripped of command and crowd, he looked solitary again… not lonely, but still burdened, the laird who bore responsibility like armor, even when no one was watching.
“Ye will catch a chill if ye linger too long,” she said gently, stepping closer.
He turned at once. Relief flickered across his face before he could hide it. “I didnae hear ye.”
“That is rare,” she replied with a faint smile.
He gestured toward the horizon. “I was watching the road.”
“Are they coming yet?”
“Soon.”
She joined him at the wall, her shoulder nearly brushing his. For a moment they stood together, the vastness beyond the walls pressing close.
“I hadnae realized how much I needed tae see ye,” she admitted quietly.
His hand shifted, close enough to warm hers without quite touching. “Nor I, it seems.”
The sky darkened another shade.
“Baird,” she said his name like a prayer.
He did not look away from the darkening road, but she saw his jaw tighten, which was a familiar sign that his thoughts were marching ahead of him into tomorrow’s bloodshed.
“Dinnae trouble yerself so,” she continued. “Ye are nae standing alone out here, nay matter how it may feel.”
At that, he turned to her.
She met his gaze without flinching. “Everyone inside those walls, every child asleep, every villager wrapped in a blanket, every guard on watch, they are here because of ye. And they will stand with ye when the Sinclairs come.”
He exhaled slowly. “I ken me duty.”
“And ye carry it well,” she reminded him of something he already knew, but sometimes forgot. “But victory daesnae come from one man’s strength alone. It comes from trust, from people believing in the one who leads them.”
She gestured back toward the keep, where torchlight flickered warm and steady. “They believe in ye, Baird. And ye have given them reason tae.”
For a long moment, he said nothing.
Then his hand covered hers. “Ye have given them reason,” he said quietly. “More than I have.”
She smiled faintly. “Then we are even.”
His thumb brushed over her knuckles, a small, intimate motion. “If we are victorious,” he said, “it will be because we stood taegether, inside these walls and upon them.”
“That is exactly why we will be,” Davina replied without a shadow of a doubt. “Because nay Sinclair force can break a keep held not just by stone and steel, but by people who willnae abandon one another.”
The wind swept along the battlements, carrying the distant hush of night. Davina felt the tension in him still humming beneath the calm she had coaxed back into place. It sat in the way his shoulders refused to fully lower, in the way his gaze kept drifting back to the darkened road.
“Come,” she said gently. “Focus on something else.”
He huffed a quiet breath. “Such as?”
She tipped her chin upward. “Look.”
He followed her gaze.
The sky had cleared completely, as the last scraps of cloud was torn away by the wind. Stars spilled across the darkness in startling abundance, as though the heavens themselves had leaned closer to watch.
“I forget,” she said softly, “how many there are until I take the time to see them.”
Baird was silent for a long moment. Then he leaned back against the stone, with his eyes lifting fully at last. “Me maither used tae tell Malcolm and me their names,” he said quietly. “She said it ought tae remind us how small our troubles truly were.”
Davina smiled at the gentleness threaded through the memory. She eased down beside him on a small bench, her shoulder resting lightly against his arm.
“Which one is that?” she asked, pointing.
He squinted. “That one? I think she called it the Hunter.”
“A fitting companion,” Davina said.
He glanced at her. “And that?”
She considered. “That one looks stubborn. Perhaps it is a Kincaid star.”
A low laugh escaped him, surprising them both. They lingered there, the night stretching comfortably around them, neither in any hurry to break the quiet.
“Which one is that?” Davina asked, lifting her hand toward a crooked line of stars.
Baird squinted. “I cannae recall its proper name.”
“Then we shall invent one,” she said. “That is clearly a stag. See the antlers?”
He studied it. “A proud one.”
“Aye. He’s running,” she said, feeling pleased. “Probably from something foolish.”
Baird huffed a soft laugh. “Or toward it.”
She shifted slightly, the cold stone seeping through her skirts. “Me maither used tae say the stars remember everything we forget.”
“Did she?” he asked.
“She did,” Davina replied. “Which makes them terribly indiscreet.”
His cloak moved then, settling around her shoulders before she quite realized he was doing it.
“Better?” he asked quietly.
“Yes,” she said, surprised by the warmth in more ways than one. “Thank ye.”
They sat a while longer. She didn’t even notice that their voices were lowering, while their stories were growing shorter.
“I used tae count them when I couldnae sleep,” Baird said after a moment. “Tried tae give each one a name.”
“Did it help?”
“Sometimes,” he admitted.
Her head tipped gently against his chest, a motion so natural it startled her only after it had happened.
“I hope they remember this,” she murmured, gazing upward.
“The stars?” he asked.
“Aye.”
He rested his cheek lightly against her hair. “Then they will have tae.”
Neither quite recalled when sleep claimed them. The battlements held them through the night, with stars wheeling slowly overhead as the world turned toward morning.