Page 16

Her breath catches, and I feel it more than hear it. Here she is, a hand’s breadth from me, close enough for me to see the flecks of gold in her dark eyes, close enough to make my pulse kick hard against my ribs.

“Aye,” I reply. “And for you. Cannae have the whole festival collapsin’ for lack of proper fern placement.”

She huffs the smallest laugh. “That’s not remotely how it works.”

“Is it no’?” I let my smile widen. “Then ye’ll have to explain it to me later. Slowly. Step by step, so even a fool like me can follow.”

She rolls her eyes, but doesn’t hide the small, reluctant curve tugging at her mouth.

The moment between us stretches—warm, taut, impossible—and then she eases back, slipping gently out of my hands. She bends to retrieve her basket.

“There are games this afternoon,” she says, and her voice settles back into something steadier. “Races. Stone-lifting. Ye’ll be expected to make a fool of yerself publicly then, no doubt.”

“I excel at that,” I say. “Will you be watchin’?”

“I’ve work to do.”

“That’s not an answer.”

She hesitates, then: “If I happen to see you, I shall endeavour not to laugh overly loudly.”

I feel my own grin turn boyish and daft and entirely beyond my control.

“I’ll take that as encouragement.”

“You would,” she quips.

We start down the slope together. At the edge of the birches, our paths fork—hers toward the house with her basket of green, mine toward the yard and Da’s expectations.

“Ellen,” I call after her.

She half-turns.

“For the record,” I say, “I’m not treatin’ yer care for all this like a game.”

Her eyes flick from my face to the primroses and back.

“I appreciate you sayin’ that,” she says quietly. “You take time for yerself. To enjoy the little things. And maybe…” Her throat works. “Maybe I can understand that.”

A brief sadness crosses her face—there and gone, like a shadow passing over water.

“Aye,” I murmur. “That too. And I hope you ken you deserve the same… a moment that’s yers.”

She shakes her head and turns away as if she means to end it there.

But she doesn’t go more than a step before she shifts, as if a thought won’t settle in her body. She draws a breath, then looks back over her shoulder, eyes narrowing on me.

“Ye ken…” she starts, and there’s the faintest hitch to it—annoyance at herself, more than me. “The laird didnae raise a daft sentimental fool. You just…” A small breath leaves her, not quite a sigh. “You keep to yer own tune. Ye dinnae dance to everyone else’s.”

I bring a hand there on instinct, as if I can hold the feeling in place, and the smile that breaks on my mouth feels entirely unearned.

“Gods,” I say, half a laugh in it. “What’s a man meant tae do wi’ a compliment like that?”

Her eyes roll, sharp as ever. “Just a daft fool, then.”

“Maybe,” I say softly. “But a daft fool that’ll be on yer mind the rest of the day.”

She turns away as if she means to deny it with her whole body—chin lifted, shoulders set—yet I see it all the same: the brief, traitorous curve at the corner of her mouth, quick as sunbreak through cloud.