When she carried a heavy basket of potatoes to the corner storage herself, a young man rushed forward. “Me lady, let me?—”
“Nay, nay,” Davina said, already knee-deep in the task. “I’m nearly done.”
He stared at her as though she’d sprouted wings. “The laird’s wife… lifting potatoes.”
She offered him a rueful smile. “Hardly the worst thing I’ve done today.”
As laughter rippled through the kitchen, Morag muttered. “Saints bless us, she’s staying. Truly staying.”
Davina looked up. “Pardon?”
Morag wiped her hands on her apron. “Ye are a lady who works beside us instead of above us. Ye’ll dae very well, indeed. Aye.”
Warmth blossomed slowly in Davina’s chest.
Ailis leaned close, whispering just loud enough for Davina to hear. “I told ye. They only needed tae see ye.”
Davina laughed softly, feeling unexpectedly content. For the first time since stepping into the cold stone keep, she felt she truly belonged to something.
“Sinclairs, ye say? Atourborders?”
Kenny jogged beside Baird as they strode across the inner bailey, while the scout who’d brought the message trailed behind them, panting from the run. Instinct led him toward the armory, as he knew that trouble was brewing, the sort of trouble that could only be solved with weapons.
“Aye, me laird,” the scout replied. “Two of them, maybe three. Spotted near Rowanford village just after dawn.”
Baird cursed under his breath. “They’re getting bold.”
“They’vebeenbold,” Kenny muttered. “We just hoped they’d grow stupid with winter coming. Seems they’ve grown hungry instead.”
Baird didn’t slow. They reached the armory door, and he pushed it open. There, he grabbed his sword, buckling it in one quick motion.
“Saddle the horses. We ride now.”
Within minutes, they were thundering down the narrow road leading from the castle to the lower villages, with the wind cutting cold and hard across their faces. Frost still clung to the heather, making the landscape glitter with deceptive beauty.
Baird barely noticed. His mind was already three steps ahead, focusing on supply shortages, blockaded routes, winter storms brewing, and now Sinclairs stealing from Highland villages that struggled even in prosperous years.
They reached Rowanford by mid-morning. Villagers had already gathered in a tight cluster near the well, murmuring anxiously. When Baird swung down from his horse, silence swept the crowd like a wave.
“Me laird,” an older man said, stepping forward. His cap was clutched between his fingers. “We dinnae ken what tae dae. They came in the night and took half our grain stores.”
Baird’s gut tightened. “Half?”
“Aye. And what they didnae take, they fouled.” The man’s voice cracked. “We had enough until spring. Now… now I dinnae think we’ll make it through the winter.”
Baird rubbed a hand across his jaw. Memories of every winter hunger he’d lived through pressed at the edges of his mind: harsh nights, empty cellars and desperation.
“Show me,” he ordered.
They walked to the village storehouse. The lock had been smashed, the wood splintered, and footprints tracked through the mud. There were several pairs, heavy and pointing north.Sinclair boots.
Inside, the shelves were half-empty. The remaining sacks had been ripped open, and grain was scattered like sand across the floor. Some had been soaked with water, ruined completely.
Kenny let out a low whistle between his teeth. “Bastards.”
Baird crouched, sinking his fingers into the spilled grain. It was damp and useless.
His jaw clenched. “They’re testing us. Seeing what they can take before we strike back.”
