Page 67 of A Highland Bride Disciplined

Mrs. Fenwick’s face softened instantly. “Bless ye, m’lady. That’s good sense.”

Scarlett nudged her mare forward, weaving toward the weaving stalls. Cady McCrae stood on a stool, painting the sign for her booth. Unfortunately, the dripping letters currently read “Fine Wobbles.”

“An interesting product,” Scarlett said, lifting a brow.

Elsie flushed. “It’s the paint, m’lady — it runs and I cannae figure out how to fix it.”

“Wipe the drips away once it dries a little. Then, let it dry fully, and go over it again. Just nae as much paint on the brush as before.” Scarlett paused. “And Cady, when the sign is ready, and we can see it during the festival, I’ll mention to the laird ye’ve been working hard.”

The girl’s eyes lit up like candles. “Truly? Thank ye!”

Across the green, a bellow drew her attention. Hamish, the cooper, and Jock, the fishmonger ,were squared off, voices rising.

“I’ll nae have yer barrels smellin’ up me haddock!” Jock barked.

“They’reciderbarrels!” Hamish shot back. “They smell better than yer swamp haddock any day!”

“Swamp haddock!”

Scarlett’s mare picked up her pace unbidden, as if even she knew a mediator was needed. Scarlett slid from the saddle, stepping between them before the insults fermented further.

“Gentlemen,” she said, hands raised. “Hamish, yer barrels stay here because it’s central to the festival. Jock, ye’ll take yer fish stall in the shaded line to keep yer fish from spoilin’. And we’ll all breathe easier with it downwind. And if either of ye feels the need to revisit this pressing matter, I’ll happily bring it to the laird meself.”

Hamish muttered about “fair enough” while Jock grumbled into his beard. They separated, casting glares like poorly aimed arrows.

Scarlett moved on, stopping at Maggie Boyd’s weaving table. The woman held up a length of tartan. “Tell me true. Does this blue look better beside the green or the yellow?”

Scarlett tapped her chin. “The yellow. Makes the blue sing.”

Maggie grinned. “Aye, I thought so.”

Scarlett nodded and moved on, spotting where a few more adjustments could be made.

Shift the cider press farther from the fiddlers’ stage, move the poultry pen downwind from the pie table, space the cloth merchants so their colors would catch the eye from all angles…

These wereherpeople. She’d spent eight months learning their faces, their trades, their tempers. And she intended to see their festival laid out properly, even if it meant ruffling a few feathers.

At the far edge of the square, she found Cam, the carpenter, hunched over the frame of a booth. “It’s too narrow,” he complained, “but if I widen it, the storyteller’s tent willnae fit.”

Scarlett eyed the space. “What if we shift the cider tasting closer to the musicians’ stage? That frees this space for yer booth, and the storytellers can move to the shade under the oak.”

Seamus scratched his head. “Could work.”

“I’ll bring the adjustment to the laird meself,” she assured him. “I ken yer buildin’ him some tables as well?”

That phrase had become second nature to her these last weeks. It was both a reassurance and a line in the sand. She worked with Kian, not around him.

Cam nodded and pointed over to the newly sanded tables, set up against the many rows of tables already in place. Scarlett made a mental note to let Kian know of the progress.

Near the musicians’ platform, the festival coordinator, Morven, was hunched over a ledger. Scarlett approached with her list of suggestions, half of which Morven accepted without blinking, the other half sparking mutters and headshakes.

“Moving the poultry pen farther from the dancing green?” Morven frowned.

“Unless ye want yer reels performed to the accompaniment of clucks and the occasional escapee, aye,” Scarlett replied, lips twitching.

“And the extra tables by the pie stall?”

“They’ll pay for themselves in minutes,” she said. “Trust me. I’ve seen grown men elbow each other into the dirt for the last slice of Mrs. Fenwick’s treacle tart, and that was just a Tuesday!”