Davina entered with the quiet assurance she seemed to possess in abundance. She took one look at him and sighed.
“Ye have sharpened three daggers this morning,” she said. “One of them twice.”
“They needed it.”
“They didnae,” she replied. “They are ceremonial.”
“Ceremony dulls a blade,” Baird muttered.
Kenny cleared his throat. “I will… see tae the stores.”
Davina watched him leave. “Ye threatened him again, didnae ye?”
“I did nay such thing.”
“Ye glowered.”
“I always glower.”
She stepped closer, folding her arms. “Ye snapped at the cook.”
“She burned the oatcakes.”
“She didnae.”
“They tasted fearful,” he insisted.
Davina tilted her head. “Ye are worried.”
He looked at her then and found no accusation there, only understanding. That unsettled him far more than judgment ever had.
“Yes,” he said quietly. “I am.”
She reached out, resting her hand against his arm. “We ken why.”
“That daesnae make it easier.”
“Nay,” she agreed. “But it makes it shared.”
He covered her hand with his own, grounding himself in the warmth of her presence. “If this shipment fails?—”
“It willnae,” she said.
“Ye dinnae ken that.”
“I ken ye,” Davina replied. “And I ken ye have prepared fer every outcome except one.”
He frowned. “Which is?”
“That ye are allowed tae be anxious,” she said softly. “And still be a good laird.”
Silence settled again but this time, it did not feel like an enemy.
Baird squeezed her hand once. “If Sinclair has interfered?—”
“Then we will face it,” she said. “Taegether. Preferably after ye eat something.”
A corner of his mouth lifted despite himself. “Ye conspire with the cook.”
