Chapter 9

9

" N ever wanted marriage," he muttered, his words nearly lost in the crackling of flames. "Never wanted her..."

Magnus stood in the shadowed alcove of his great hall, a silent observer to the flurry of preparations. His gaze followed Erin as she gracefully navigated between the long trestle tables and his staff, her wavy brown hair catching stray shafts of light from the high windows. She moved with an assuredness that belied her youth, her blue eyes flickering with determination, instructing the maids on the placement of thistles and heather in the flower arrangements. A fire crackled defiantly against the chill that sought to invade the room, much like Erin had invaded his carefully guarded existence. He cursed under his breath, the taste of her name bitter as the ale he'd sworn off since she arrived. His tongue licked a strip across his lower lip, her taste still lingered on his skin, heating his cheeks with the memory. "Nay lass, I am stronger than ye."

"Ye look as if yer fightin' ghosts," Scarlett's voice sliced through his brooding thoughts as she appeared in the doorway, a basket of thistle and heather in her arms.

Magnus released a huff so loud he almost announced himself to the whole room. His mind was on Erin, and he did not welcome his sister's distraction. Erin worked tirelessly on the branches in her hand, measuring and comparing them like the very nature on his land was under scrutiny. And yet, she embraced every distraction with the good manners of a lady.

Erin had many of the household staff aiding her preparations, instructing each where to do and what to do. Never once had he seen her tire of their interruptions or questions. She was polite, firm and yet courteous, and they seemed to respect her for that. Any woman who could have the respect of the staff could manage a household.

"Yer admirin' her work or her form, brother?" Scarlett asked with a chuckle.

"Perhaps a little of both," Magnus replied tersely, pushing away from the wall to tower over her. Erin had skilled fingers and his mind was completely on their deftly tying of bows and ribbons. Not on the way her skirts rustled against the table with each delicate movement of her hips. Nor was it on the way her tongue slipped between her lips when the knots outfoxed her. And his tongue was absolutely not emerging from his own lips in time with hers.

"Perhaps a lot of both, brother."

"Perhaps," he admitted, his cheeks flushing with the confession.

His gaze lingered on the flowers meant for his wedding day—a day he didn't desire but was bound to by duty.

"And why nae? She is to be yer wife."

"Scarlett," he acknowledged her words without shifting his focus from Erin. "She knows how to command a room."

"Ye could learn from her. Join us, Magnus. The bride shouldnae prepare for her wedding alone."

"Marriage is not something I care for, ye ken that well," he grumbled, but his sister's piercing stare compelled him forward.

"Yer nae the only one with demons, Magnus," she said, her tone softening though her eyes remained defiant. "But we've preparations to see to. Ye should be helpin'. She daenae want to do this alone."

"Then let us prepare," he conceded, the corner of his mouth twitching despite his mood.

Approaching the tables, he watched as Erin tied off a bouquet, her fingers nimble.

"Tis a gracious sight to see ye before us," Erin noticed him, a shimmer of a smile crossing her face. He would have thought she was goading him if it wasn't for the blush that colored her cheeks and across her delicate button nose. "Have ye come to prepare for yer special day?"

She spoke, and he had been too busy thinking about her sweet little nose and how he definitely didn't want to plant a kiss on it.

"I have come to help prepare for our special day, aye, lass." His eyes quickly dropped from her nose, falling on her chest where each breath filled her blouse. He coughed and turned to the table, fixing his eyes on the thistles, their thorns as sharp as the woman determined to break him.

"Yer hands seem idle, me Laird," Erin's teasing reached him before he could offer assistance. "I was told ye Highlanders were skilled with more than just the claymore."

His hand quickly reached for sprig of ivy from a nearby basket.

"Ye ken how to arrange flowers, Magnus? I'm surprised," Erin coyly teased, casting him a sidelong glance as she tied a knot.

"Ye'll find there's much ye daenae ken about me, lass," he shot back, his hands deftly handling the delicate task. "And there's more to being laird than swingin' a sword and scowlin'."

"Scowlin' seems to be a particular talent of yers, though," she quipped, a playful glint in her eye.

"Ye bring it out in me," he retorted, unable to suppress a chuckle. The sound felt foreign on his lips, a remnant of a life he'd long since buried.

Magnus watched as Erin deftly twisted the thistle and heather together, her fingers coaxing beauty from the wildness of the Scottish flora. The hall was a frenzy of activity, with every surface soon to be adorned with arrangements that spoke of the land itself—hardy, enduring, and full of unexpected beauty.

"Ye seem to have a way with these," he remarked, his tone betraying a hint of genuine surprise. "Where did ye learn such craft?"

Erin didn't pause in her work, though a small, proud smile played at the corner of her mouth. "I watched me maither. She had a keen eye for bringing the outside in, making every event feel like a part of the land itself."

"Preparing without her must be hard on ye," Magnus added, softer this time, acutely aware of the void left by absence.

"Indeed," she replied, her hands never stilling. "But life is nae about dwelling in what we lack but making the most of what we have."

Her words struck a chord in him, a reminder of the losses he, too, had learned to bear. To distract himself from such thoughts, he offered, "I could send for yer maither if ye wish. It would free me from this..." He gestured vaguely at the foliage scattered before him.

Erin's laugh, rich and warm, filled the space between them. "Nay, Laird McCormack. Me maither has done enough. 'Tis high time I showed myself capable of such a feat." Her blue eyes twinkled with mischief. "Besides, I'd take much more pride in mastering this... should ye stand beside me."

The challenge in her voice was unmistakable, and Magnus felt something akin to respect stir within him. Aye, Erin Gibson might be forced into this union, but she was not a woman to be cowed.

"Then let us see if ye can indeed teach an old dog new tricks," he said, stepping closer, their bodies touched, and both were slow to recoil. She was so close that the heat of her body mingled with his, and he didn't completely dislike it.

Their eyes locked, and for a moment, the world narrowed to the space between them, to the shared task and unspoken promise of partnership, however reluctant it might prove to be.

Erin paused, her fingers brushing against his as they reached for the same sprig of heather. Their eyes locked, and for a moment, the world fell away. Time slowed, and the air between them charged with an intensity that threatened to ignite.

"Ah, lass, there are many skills required of a laird," Magnus replied, moving closer. Underneath the banter, an unfamiliar warmth curled within him.

"Indeed? And does that include the delicate art of flower arrangin'?" A playful glint danced in her eyes as she handed him a length of ribbon.

"Flowers can be as treacherous as any battlefield," he retorted, taking the ribbon and attempting to secure a stubborn stem. As he fumbled, his hand brushed against hers, the contact a jolt of unexpected electricity. He withdrew slowly, but not before seeing the corners of her mouth lift into a smile that sent another shock through his system, but from there it seemed they were each thinking the same, as they reached for the same bloom. He withdrew, acting as the fine gentleman Erin seemed to desire.

"Careful, me Laird," Erin chided softly, her tone light but her eyes holding a challenge. "One might think ye afraid of a wee blossom."

"Never," he muttered, his voice low, the moment stretching between them, charged with an intensity that had nothing to do with flora. He targeted the pile Erin was favoring for his next bloom, and their movements became a race. Sometimes he raced for the stem, but more often, he allowed her to reach it first, just so his hand could rest on hers for a few seconds. And each time he touched her warm skin, she giggled with the triumph of winning the flower for her decoration. Magnus didn't mind, as he enjoyed his game with the feisty brunette far more than the flower arranging.

Magnus watched as Erin's fingers deftly entwined stems and blooms, crafting a display that seemed to capture the wild beauty of the moors. A simple task, yet there was an artistry to her movements that he couldn't help but admire. Her independence was a force as formidable as any Highland gale, and it drew him in like a moth to flame.

"Ye handle those flowers as if they were made of the finest glass," he remarked, his deep voice resonating in the space between them. "I cannae say I've seen such care even from the seasoned hands of me own kin."

"Perhaps because yer kin are not preparing to marry off their laird," she retorted, her gaze never leaving the blossoms. "And perhaps because they have not had the weight of expectation pressing down upon them since birth."

Her words carried the sting of truth, and Magnus felt the air thicken with unspoken understanding. He leaned closer, reaching for a sprig of heather, his hand brushing against hers. The contact was fleeting, but it ignited a spark that threatened to consume his stoic exterior.

"Expectations can be heavy indeed," he conceded, his eyes holding hers. "But ye seem to bear them well."

"Only because I must," she replied softly. The vulnerability in her voice was a siren's call, luring him into waters he knew were dangerous.

"Erin," he began, his voice dropping to a husky whisper, "ye need not face everything alone." He paused, wrestling with the desire to cross the chasm of propriety. "If ye would allow me?—"

"Allow ye?" she interrupted, a playful glint surfacing in her eyes. "To share the burden? Or to distract me from it?"

"Whichever ye prefer," he answered, matching her playful tone, yet the intensity in his gaze betrayed his deeper intent.

They worked side by side, the heat from their bodies mingling as the scent of flowers enveloped them. Each briefest touch, each shared smile wove a thread of connection that neither could deny. In these moments, the world outside this hall, with its threats and responsibilities, faded into insignificance.

"Ye've a gentle touch, for a man of war," she observed, breaking the spell as she stepped back to survey their handiwork. He reached to twist a stray sprig, just as her fingers reached at the same time. His fingers stroked against the smooth skin of her hand as he withdrew, leaving his throat dry.

"Yer hands..." Erin began, her voice barely above a whisper. "They're not just made for war, are they?"

"Warrior or not, it seems I'll never master the complexities of yer craft," Magnus replied, half admiring her skill, half frustrated by this unfamiliar terrain.

"Nor are yers just for weaving flowers," Magnus replied, his voice rough with restrained emotion. "Ye've strength in ye, Erin. More than ye know."

"Strength willnae change our fate," she said, pulling away slightly, her brows knit together in a frown.

"Perhaps nae," he agreed, the mirth fading from his features as the reality of their situation settled upon him once more. "But 'tis the hand we've been dealt."

"Is that what this is, then? A mere hand of cards?" Erin asked, her spirit flaring as she met his gaze head-on.

"Sometimes the game plays us," Magnus admitted, his heart heavy with unspoken truths. "But we play nonetheless."

"Perhaps ye simply need a proper teacher," she suggested, her gaze lingering on his before flitting away, leaving him with the unsettling sense that Erin was far more dangerous to his composure than any enemy he had faced.

"Yer will excuse me, Miss Erin, duty calls me to a meeting." Magnus bid his goodbye with a heavy heart.

"Talkin' of teachers," Erin smiled broadly at him, "I have a meetin' of me own to attend."

Magnus dipped his head, but it lifted his hear to see his fiancé as busy as he was.

Magnus strode through the bailey, his boots sinking into the damp earth that generations of clan members had trodden. He could scarcely believe the pace at which the castle had transformed in preparation for the wedding. Tapestries adorned the stone walls, and the smell of freshly baked bannocks filled the air. It was a hasty affair, yet everything fell into place thanks to Erin's meticulous efforts. He met with Caelan, walking out to the main gate to give his approval on the stone for the new bridge before leisurely walking back as clan business distracted them from their pace

"Never thought a lassie could manage so well," he mumbled, watching as she directed two kilted men carrying a heavy bench. Her wavy brown hair escaped its binding, framing her face with stubborn locks, and her blue eyes sparkled with an intensity that matched the blade of her resolve. Then Hayden called to her, and the lass curses her tardiness, before clamping a hand to her mouth and checking around her that her word had gone unheard.

"Ye look like ye've seen a ghost, Magnus." Caelan's voice broke through his thoughts, hinting at mischief.

"Hardly," Magnus retorted, turning to face his man-at-arms. "Just admiring the efficiency of the preparations."

"Ah, admiration," Caelan drawled, one corner of his mouth quirking upward. "Is that what they're callin' it these days?"

"Mind yer tongue," Magnus warned, though the banter did little to ease the knot of apprehension tightening in his chest.

"Of course, me Laird," Caelan replied with mock solemnity before they turned their attention to the matter at hand. The work of a laird involved lots of decision-making, but his directions would be carried out by others. Magnus liked being seen by his people outside of his office, where he carried out the really important work with candles and parchment.

As they discussed the logistics of timber and stone, a movement caught Magnus's peripheral vision. He glanced toward the training grounds where Erin stood beside Hayden, curious about their meeting. Magnus's gaze narrowed as he observed them from a distance, noting how Hayden held himself with that easy charm that came so naturally to him, while arming Erin with a longsword.

"Seems the lady is takin' to swordplay," Caelan commented, following Magnus's line of sight.

"Is she now?" Magnus said, his interest piqued despite himself. There was something about Erin—a fierceness that belied her calm exterior—that drew him to her side even when prudence dictated he remain at a distance.

"Would ye not think it more prudent to keep her out of harm's way? She is to be yer wife, after all," Caelan pointed out, his words laced with a subtle challenge.

"Perhaps," Magnus conceded. "But I'd wager she can handle more than ye think." His voice held a touch of pride that surprised even him.

"Shall we see how she fares then?" Caelan suggested a glint of cunning in his eyes.

"Let us," Magnus agreed curtly, his curiosity a live wire within him.