He glanced around the tavern.“This inn is like a second home.”
Gracie huffedand crossed her arms, a retort poised on her tongue. Before she could speak, Mary returned with a tray, setting down a loaf of bread, a wedge of cheese, and two mugsof ale. “Will ye be wantin’ supper, me laird?” Mary asked, eyes bright.
“Aye, but nae now,”Jaxon replied. “We’ll take supper in our room later, once the room is ready.”
Mary smiled sweetly.“Then call for me if ye need me,” she said, and drifted away.
Gracie’s cheeksburned as she watched the woman go.
Jaxon slidthe bread closer to her. “Drink, eat,” he said gently, “it’s been a long ride.” He glanced about the room. “I like to sit here and listen to the local folk, see how things fare in this part of me lands.”
“Mary is very pretty,”Gracie said suddenly. “Does she have a husband?”
Jaxon shruggedand took a swallow of ale. “When I came last, she was nae married,” he said, “but I daenae ken about now.”
Gracie’s gazefollowed Mary as she moved between tables, slender as a willow. The woman’s waist was small, her bosom full, her smile effortless. Gracie felt as wide as the wheel of cheese before her in comparison.
Her fingers roseto the small mole above her brow, touching it without thinking. She had not fretted over it in some time, yetnow it felt like a mark against her. Was she foolish to think she could rival women like that?
Jaxon noticedher silence and leaned forward. “What troubles ye, Gracie?” he asked.
She hesitated,then said, “I dinnae realize how many places ye are known at.”
He chuckled softly. “A laird travels,”he said. “It’s naught to fret over.”
“It iswhen every woman looks at ye as though ye belong to them,” she muttered.
Jaxon’s eyes widened,then softened. “I belong to ye,” he said quietly. “The rest is only courtesy.”
She met his gaze,uncertain. “Courtesy feels like somethin’ more when she smiles so,” Gracie said.
Jaxon tilted his head.“Ye are jealous,” he said, not unkindly.
Her chin lifted.“Would that please ye?”
“Aye,”he replied. “It tells me ye care.” His voice lowered. “And I would have ye care, just as I care.”
Gracie’s breath caught,and she reached for her ale to hide it.
He torethe bread and set a piece before her. “Eat, Gracie. The road awaits us in the morn, and Glenmoor will need all the strength we carry.”
She took the bread,warmth spreading through her fingers. The jealousy did not vanish, yet it softened into something else, a fragile hope. Across the table, Jaxon watched her as though she were the only woman in the room.
Gracie watchedas the tavern door swung open, and a handful of local folk trickled in, their eyes lighting up at the sight of their Laird.
One stout farmer approached,hat in hand, and said, “Laird McMillan, the crops are poor. If ye can spare seed, we’ll see better harvests come spring.”
Jaxon nodded gravely,taking note, and promised he would see it done, his voice steady and commanding.
Another man,younger and lean, stepped forward, bowing slightly. “Me laird, I’ve had a dispute with the neighborin’ lands over grazin’ rights,” he said.
Jaxon’s brow furrowed,and he assured the man he would send a mediator to settle the matter honorably. Gracie’s gaze lingered on him, noting the quiet authority in the way he spoke.
A womanwith rough hands but kind eyes curtsied, her voice trembling.
“Congratulations on yer marriage, Laird,”she said, glancing at Gracie, “ye’ve chosen a fine lady for our clan.”
Gracie felther cheeks warm but held her composure, nodding respectfully. Jaxon smiled, thanking her, and asked how her family fared with the recent drought, his concern genuine.
