Back in London, Marian sometimes visited the stores, organizing what the house needed and balancing the books alongside the staff to keep her mind sharp.
“What are we doing here?” she asked, her excitement seeping into her voice.
Lachlan cleared his throat, his eyebrows arching slightly. “I see ye’re interested in the store,” he noted.
She quickly gathered herself.
I should keep my guard up.
“It is nothing special,” she said, eyeing one of the shelves behind him. “You have a decent store.”
His brow furrowed slightly. “I see.” He placed a hand on his hip as he looked around. “Well, ye’re here to learn how the clan distributes food stores ahead of winter.”
Marian shrugged lightly. “Aye,” she said it wrong, before turning toward the table at the corner of the store. She took a few steps forward, swiping dust from the table with her fingertip. “We should get started, my Laird.”
Lachlan stared at her for a moment, a look of amusement crossing his features. “Nay, Mairi,” he said finally, shaking his head. “Nae that table.”
He pointed at the long, messy table in the middle of the room, with bags of grains arranged underneath it.
“Here,” he said, his lips quirking up.
Marian stood confused for a moment.
What does he mean?
She pointed toward the ledgers on the shelves beside her, her eyebrows rising in question. “But?—”
“Ye’re here to learn the real deal, Mairi,” Lachlan cut in. “If ye’re goin’ to stay in Glen Carrick or even own it, ye must ken how it is run… by hand.”
He picked up a bag of grains and dropped it with a loud thud on the wooden table. Dust and chaff scattered in the air, filling the room until they settled again on every surface, including his previously dark tunic.
Marian’s eyes widened. She looked at the mess, holding her hand over her nose to keep herself from inhaling the particles.
“Bring me those,” Lachlan ordered, pointing at the empty, large black bowls at the other end of the room, equally covered with dust.
Marian stared at him, hesitating for a moment before touching the bowls. She placed them on the table, and he arranged them. Three in total, for demonstration portions.
Lachlan dipped his hands into the bag of grains, scooped out equal portions, and poured them into each bowl. He did this a couple of times, dust rising with each round, settling on his hair and eyelashes.
Then he stepped away from the bag, gesturing to Marian with his chin.
“Come closer, Mairi,” he said, resting his hand on the edge of the table. His gaze settled on the bowls as though they carried more weight than their contents suggested.
Marian took a few steps closer.
“Each portion goes to a different household,” Lachlan explained, his voice quieter now. “Families who cannae always provide enough on their own.”
Her eyebrows drew together slightly. “They rely on this?”
“Aye.” His jaw tightened faintly. “Through the winter, when the land gives less than it takes.”
Her gaze drifted back to the bowls. “And what if the portions are wrong?” she asked him carefully.
Lachlan’s eyes met hers. “Then families starve.”
Marian paused for a moment, her face falling slightly. Throughout her store visits in London, she had never been made aware of this matter. Now, it felt more delicate. More important than it was fun.
“Now, it’s yer turn,” Lachlan said, the three simple words sounding like a death sentence.
