Page 28 of The Dragon Laird’s Obsession

“Ma’am,” he stammered, “ye cannae⁠—”

“I can,” Ailis had said sweetly. “And if ye stand there gawpin’ much longer, I shall think ye wish to join the muck pile.”

After that, he helped.

By the time the sun leaned westward, the stables smelled less of damp straw and old manure and more of fresh rushes, hay, leather oil, and cool earth.

The stalls had been swept clean. Fresh bedding had been laid. Buckets had been scrubbed. Saddles hung straighter than soldiers awaiting inspection. Even the old cobwebs above the beams had been attacked with such determined violence that the stable boy had watched her with the wide-eyed awe of a lad witnessing a miracle.

Or a madwoman.

Ailis did not care which.

Once the work was done, she climbed onto a hay bale near the back stall, tucked her skirts beneath her, and drew.

The mare nearest her was a sweet gray creature with a dark mane and the gentlest eyes Ailis had ever seen. She stood quietly, one hind leg at rest, her head angled toward the window where late light slipped through the slats and touched the curve of her neck.

Ailis’ fingers moved over the parchment. Charcoal smudged her fingertips and darkened the side of her hand. A curl had fallen into her face, and she blew it away twice before giving up and letting it hang there.

There was peace in drawing. Peace in making a line become a shape, a shadow become softness.

For a while, she forgot she was meant to be proving a point by cleaning the stables as Gordon had ordered. For a while, there was only the mare, the straw, the soft shift of hooves, and the sound of her own breathing.

Then the stable boy made a strangled sound.

Ailis looked up. Gordon stood at the stable entrance.

Her hand stilled over the parchment.

He filled the doorway as if it had been built too small for him. The afternoon light fell behind him, turning the edges of his hair and shoulders dark.

He wore no cloak, only his plaid and a linen shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms. His gaze traveled over the spotless stalls, the fresh straw, the polished tack, the scrubbed buckets.

Then it moved to the stable boy. The lad straightened as though Gordon had struck him with a spear point.

“Me Laird,” he said, “I tried to get her to stop, but she insisted.”

Gordon looked from him to the stalls again. His brows drew together, not in anger but in a sort of silent disbelief.

Ailis bit the inside of her cheek.

Gordon’s gaze finally settled on her, and she smiled.

“Ye may go,” Gordon said to the boy.

The lad blinked. “Me Laird?”

“For the remainder of the day.”

The boy’s mouth fell open. He looked at Ailis as if she had performed witchcraft. Then he remembered himself, dipped his head, and hurried out before Gordon could change his mind.

Ailis returned her attention to her sketch though every part of her knew Gordon still watched her.

“How did ye manage to clean an entire stable,” Gordon asked, “and still find time to sketch?”

She looked up at him, letting her smile turn bright and infuriating because it had never failed her before.

“I’m fast,” she replied.