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She looked thinner. He hated that he noticed.

She disappeared through the door that led toward the nursery stairs, and he realized he’d taken a step after her without meaning to. His hands itched to pull her close and feed her.

Even the briefest glimpse of her was enough to undo him. He missed her laugh more than he’d ever missed anything. It frustrated him to no end.

Callum sighed, and Evander ignored it, launching his sword at the post again. Chances were this post wasn’t going to last much longer. It was going to end up getting destroyed, just like the rest.

The blade sank deep into the wood, and splinters flew. Evander pulled it free and struck hard again.

Freya was thinner; he kept coming back to that. How had that happened? They had only been avoiding one another for six days. However, she was visibly thin. At least enough for him to notice.

Brigid had been bringing her meals left and right. Evander had caught her coming in and out of the nursery more than once. Every time, she bowed her head to him, greeting him as she always did, but there was a slight edge to her voice he didn’t bother to comment on.

He could only assume that Freya had told her about their argument. She had every right to divulge what they had discussed. Brigid had become a treasured friend; that much was clear.

He couldn’t fault the woman for her loyalty. Brigid had been at Freya’s side since that day at the camp, a stranger among strangers. It was only natural that she would take Freya’s side in this.

Still, it stung.

He had seen the way Brigid’s mouth thinned when she passed him in the corridor. The way she held the tray a little tighter.

In all his time as Laird and even before, no servant had ever looked at him like that, like he was the one in the wrong.

Perhaps he was.

The thought slipped in before he could stop it.

He shoved it aside, lashing out with the sword. The post wobbled, clearly on its last leg.

Callum made a noise of surprise.

Evander had honestly forgotten that the man was still here. Heat crept up the back of his neck.

He was the laird of this clan. He was meant to be steady and unshakable, the one his men looked to when the world turned to chaos. Instead, he’d let his temper run so hot that he’d lost sight of a man standing a few paces away.

His father would have been ashamed, though Evander had stopped giving a damn what his father thought a long time ago.

He gripped the hilt tighter and drew in a long breath.

“She’s fetching a toy, I’d wager,” Callum said lightly. “Brigid was complaining at breakfast. The wee lad dropped his doll by the hearth in the hall, and he’ll nae sleep without it.”

“How do ye ken that?” Evander asked sharply.

His eyes narrowed on Callum, who didn’t seem phased by his anger. He kept that smile on his face. It never wavered.

Evander wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not.

“I listen, me Laird. Someone has to.” Callum pushed off the fence and stretched his arms over his head. “I’ll leave ye to yer posts. The masons wanted a word about the north wall. Speak with ye later, me Laird.”

He walked away toward the keep, unhurried, whistling some tune about Bruce.

Evander stood in the mud with the sword in his hand and watched him go. Something cold prickled at the back of his neck, the same instinct that had kept him alive at Glen Orchy and every ford since.

The north wall was the other way.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jack. The man didn’t notice him at first, but when he did, he looked over at him with the same expression he had given him the other night. He nodded once.

Evander didn’t have it in him to lash out at Jack, not this time.