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and mistakes it entirely.

His answering grin is slow and certain, as if he thinks he’s won something.

Smug bastard.

And worse, I suspect I’ve given myself away. I’m standing here staring at him like I’ve never seen a man lift anything heavier than a bucket.

I tear my gaze away, a breath too late.

Tug-of-war follows, louder, messier, full of laughter and shouted insults. Someone tries to rope me into “balancing” the teams and I shut that down with a look sharp enough to curdle milk.

Róisín, on the other hand, steps in with gleeful tyranny. She arranges men like chess pieces, tapping chests, shoving shoulders, threatening them with her tongue if they so much as grumble. “You, over there. No, not you—ye’ll blow away in a strong wind. Alex—aye, ye’ll do fine.” She lingers a beat at his side, all bright eyes and trouble, and he grins back like he’s enjoying being handled by her.

When he leans in to say something to her and she laughs—proper laughs, head tipping back, unguarded—I feel a rush of fondness so sharp it almost hurts.

Good. Let her have it.

Let her find a man who makes the world feel bright and easy.

The rope is dragged into place. Hands take hold. Boots dig into turf.

I keep swearing I won’t linger. I keep fighting the pull—but my gaze finds James.

Again.

By late afternoon, the air is thick with smoke from cook fires set outside and the smell of roasting meat. Oatcakes and bannocks pass from hand to hand. Someone brings out a bowl of pale, custard-thick caudle: eggs and butter and milk and oats beaten together. The older folk murmur the old words and tip a little onto the ground before anyone eats.

Children run about with sticky mouths and wild hair, fearless and loud. Watching them, I’m startled by how easily I can remember a time when life felt simple, and how easy it is to forget how little of it ever lasts.

I keep busy until the tasks thin out and the day no longer requires my hands. I settle onto the low wall, watching instead of doing, which has always been the harder work.

James kept his promise.

He’s doing the sort of work that leaves your arms shaking long after you’ve stopped.

He’s helping haul the last stacks of wood into place. All across the yard comes word that the byres are sorted, the gates checked, the beasts settled and ready.

Two servant girls linger nearby, thinking themselves out of earshot. Their voices drift over, light and breathless with admiration.

“The Laird’s son’s been at it since dawn,” one says, peering toward the yard. “Haulin’ and liftin’ like he’s got something to prove… and look at the state of him for it.”

“Aye,” the other says, in a voice gone near dreamy. “Kilt sittin’ low, all that sweat shinin’ on him. It’s near sinful.”

The first girl gives a soft, scandalised laugh. “And those arms... every time he lifts somethin’, I forget my own name.”

“It’s no’ his arms I’m hopin’ to see,” the second adds. “If the wind had any sense, it’d catch that kilt proper.”

A giggle slips out between them.

“Indeed, haul it right over his head, and put us out of our misery,” the first breathes, far too delighted with herself.

The scoff leaves me before I can stop it.

They startle, whipping around to find me watching them from my position against the wall.

“Mind yer tongues. Cluckin’ like hens, ye are,” I say coolly. “He’s not some prize bull to be eyed up and down.”

Their faces flame, but the bolder of the two lifts her chin instead of dropping it.