Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
The council had been deliberating for twenty minutes.
Magnus knew this. He had also counted the number of times Angus had repeated himself: four.
The number of times Fearchar had contradicted something he himself had said earlier: twice.
Duncan had refilled his ale three times already, perfectly displaying the quality of his contributions to the discussion, which had not improved with volume.
He sat at the head of the table and said nothing. Elspeth sat to his left without comment, her hands folded on the table. She had changed from last night’s ruined silk into something simpler and darker, and her dark hair had been pinned back into a knot.
“A month,” Angus said in a heavy tone. “Minimum. The arrangements alone take long.”
“Six weeks,” Fearchar countered. “There are contracts still to be signed, I believe.”
“The contracts are signed.” Angus turned to face him. “Were ye nae here yesterday when Duncan told us everything about the auction?”
“I’m speaking of the secondary contracts. The dowry and the rest.”
“The dowry is settled. MacRae signed before the auction was concluded.”
“There is the matter of the Lady’s establishment,” said old Tormod, who had been quiet long enough that everyone had forgotten he was there. “Staff. Household requirements. A lady requires all these things and more.”
“Mrs. McAulay manages the household,” Magnus said.
Everyone looked at him. He had not spoken in some time, and they appeared briefly startled by the gravelly tone of his voice.
“Aye, but me Laird—”
“Mrs. McAulay manages the household,” he said again, at the same volume and with the same inflection, because he did not see what had been unclear the first time.
Tormod settled back into his seat.
The argument immediately resumed.
Magnus looked down at the table. He looked at the single candle someone had lit despite the bright daylight pouring in through the high windows, which was precisely the kind of wasteful thing that happened when he allowed meetings to be organized by anyone other than himself.
He looked at the contracts stacked at Duncan’s elbow, which he had already read thoroughly and were perfectly in order. He briefly looked at Elspeth, who was watching Angus and Fearchar.
He slowly pulled off his left glove, then his right. He set them on the wooden table with a quiet, final sound. The argument did not stop immediately, but it slowed. He turned to Duncan.
“Send word to the minister,” he said, his voice cutting through the room. “We’ll marry in a fortnight.”
Silence ensued. Duncan’s cup of ale stopped halfway to his mouth. Angus opened his mouth.
“Two weeks,” Fearchar said, as if he had not heard correctly. “Me Laird, most folk spend longer deciding on a sheep.”
Magnus considered this calmly.
“I already decided,” he declared. “I need a wife. Winter will come soon, so two weeks is sensible.”
Fearchar looked at Angus, who looked at Tormod. Tormod turned away, suddenly intensely focused on something on the knee of his trousers.
Magnus looked to his left. Elspeth had gone very still. She was looking at the table in front of her. Her hands were tightly folded, her expression shifting in quick succession, as if she were managing thoughts with considerable effort.
“Unless ye object, me Lady.” He said it directly, because indirection wasted time and he had absolutely no patience for it.
But the room had apparently not expected the courtesy, because every single head turned toward Elspeth.
She looked up and met his dark eyes, then looked at Duncan’s cup, Angus’s open mouth, and Fearchar’s folded arms. He watched her take a breath that she managed to make completely invisible, except that he was sitting close enough to see her shoulders move with it.
Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
“Nay,” she said, her voice steadying. “Me Laird.”
The room exhaled collectively.
Good, at least she obeys. Two weeks is therefore settled.
Magnus nodded once and reached back down for his gloves.
“Right,” Duncan said, setting his cup down. He had recovered his expression, mostly, though there was still something in his eyes that suggested he was filing away the last five minutes for future ammunition. “I’ll send word to the minister today.”
“The banns—” Angus began.
“Two weeks,” Magnus repeated.
“Aye,” Angus relented.
Magnus pushed back from the table. The elders took it as the conclusion it was and began the clumsy business of dispersing. Angus gathered his stray papers, Fearchar rose carefully, Tormod said something to Angus, and Duncan reached for the contracts.
Magnus pulled on his leather gloves. He was thinking about the eastern trade figures, whether the minister could be reached before nightfall, and whether the pasture rotation would need adjustment before the wedding; if guests were bringing horses, and whether the north corridor shutters could reasonably be repaired before—
“There’s somethin’ else.” Duncan’s voice had completely changed.
Magnus knew that voice. He had known it intimately for twenty-nine years, through rigorous training, intense grief, and thirteen years of building something from ash. And he knew the exact difference between Duncan performing seriousness and Duncan arriving at it.
He turned.
His cousin had crossed the room toward him quietly, away from the dispersing elders. His expression had shed the lightness it wore by default, and what lay underneath was careful, watchful, and not uncertain.
Duncan did not come to him uncertain. He came to him when he had already thought a matter through and wanted him to think it through as well.
“The western boundary,” Duncan said, his voice low. “The men found unfamiliar tracks. Two days running.”
Magnus went rigid. “How many riders?”
“Two. Maybe three.” Duncan met his gaze squarely. “They didnae cross. Only watched. From the ridge above the tree line, far enough to see the castle road but too far to be seen easily.”
The council chambers had nearly cleared. The heavy door had just closed behind Fearchar. Mrs. McAulay ’s voice sounded from somewhere near, followed by Elspeth’s quiet answer and the soft retreat of her footsteps down the stone corridor.
Magnus pulled his second glove flat across his knuckles, tightening the leather.
“Double the patrols,” he said, the command sharp and absolute. “Every boundary. Nobody rides alone after dusk. Nobody. Secure the western approach first and report anything before ye bring it to me, nae after.”
“Aye.” Duncan held his gaze. “And?”
“And we wait.”
Outside, the cold wind moved restlessly against the high windows. Below, someone crossed the courtyard, the distinct sound of boots echoing on stone.
“Ye think it’s him,” Duncan said.
It was not a question. His voice was flat and even, and beneath it lingered the same detached calm that had been there thirteen years ago, when they had ridden back from training and found nothing but smoke, and Magnus had not spoken a single word for three days.
Magnus looked at the door through which Elspeth had just left.
He looked at it for the space of one heavy breath.
He thought about the western ridge, about invisible riders who watched from a distance and did not cross, about a man who had waited thirteen long years and had not moved until he heard that Ben Cruachan’s laird had finally taken a bride.
His jaw set into stone.
“We’ll see,” he said.
* * *
The ledgers had his full attention.
This was how Magnus preferred to spend the hour after a council meeting. Doors firmly shut, clean numbers in front of him, and the entire day reduced to manageable quantities that behaved according to fixed mathematical rules and did not argue back.
The eastern trade figures needed to be reviewed urgently, before he wrote to Inveraray. The winter grain projection demanded systematic checking against the newly implemented patrol costs. These were solvable issues, and he was very good at such tasks.
Then he heard a knock.
A second knock came, which was already more consideration than Duncan had ever managed.
“Aye,” he called.
Elspeth came in carrying wool.
It was not a small amount of wool. It was a massive armful. Folded garments in various dull shades of brown and grey, and one rather alarming green, stacked all the way to her chin. She set the entire stack down on the edge of his wooden desk.
Magnus looked at the wool. Then he looked at her.
“These were placed in me chambers,” she said.
“Aye.”
She lifted the topmost garment and unfolded it between them. It was one of the spare winter gowns Mrs. McAulay had located from somewhere deep within the castle’s accumulated history. Heavy, practical, warm, and without a shred of ceremony.
“For me to wear to the handfasting,” she added, her voice soft.
“Mrs. McAulay says they’ll keep ye warm.”
“I appreciate Mrs. McAulay ’s thoughtfulness.
Truly.” She said it without a sharp edge, and she genuinely meant it.
She refolded the heavy dress along its original crease lines.
“But I arrived with little more than the clothes on me back. And in two weeks’ time I am to stand beside ye before half the Highlands as yer wife. ”
He waited, his large frame perfectly still.
“I thought perhaps I might have something of me own.” She set the folded dress back down on the pile. She was looking at the fabric rather than at him. “A gown I choose. Ribbons I sew. Gloves I embroider.”
She looked up, her dark eyes locking onto his. “I can make them meself, if there is fabric to spare. I ken weaving. And needlework.” Something in her expression shifted, warming briefly at the thought. “Enough needlework.”
He set his quill down on the desk. He pushed back his heavy chair and rose to his feet, observing her as she watched him rise, noting the slight upward adjustment of her chin as his full height arrived before her.
“Ye wish to sew,” he said flatly.
She looked at him for a long beat. She closed her eyes briefly, as if gathering patience, then opened them again.