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F erguson Keep rose from the Highland mist like a monument to decay and neglect.

Once-proud walls now showed gaps where stones had fallen, and the main tower listed slightly to one side as if weary of holding itself upright.

Weeds grew through cracks in the courtyard, and the smell of damp and rot hung in the air like a shroud.

Laird Bhaltair Ferguson sat in what had once been the Great Feasting Hall, surrounded by the evidence of his uncle's failures.

The previous laird had run their fortunes into the ground through drink, poor decisions, and a complete lack of care for his people or his lands.

Bhaltair had inherited not a proud Highland stronghold, but a crumbling ruin and a clan on the verge of collapse.

He was tall and broad-shouldered, with dark hair that fell to his shoulders and eyes the color of winter storms. His face bore the kind of austere ruggedness that spoke of ancient bloodlines, but it was marked by a perpetual scowl that had only deepened since taking control of his failing clan.

Today, that scowl darkened further as Dugald and his men entered the hall, dragging with them a bound and gagged woman whose eyes blazed with fury despite her predicament.

"Laird," Dugald announced proudly, "we have someone who will reverse our fortunes."

Bhaltair's gaze moved from his captain to the woman, and his expression grew thunderous. "Who is this? And why is she bound and gagged?"

"'Tis the bride of the MacNeil," Dugald replied, oblivious to the building storm in his laird's eyes. "The one with the skill for brewing, among other things."

"The MacNeils of Barra?" Bhaltair's voice dropped to a dangerous whisper.

"Aye."

"This is their laird's lady wife?"

"Aye."

"And ye stole her so she can brew our whiskey?"

"Aye."

Without warning, Bhaltair stormed across the room and punched Dugald square across the jaw with enough force to send the man staggering. "Are ye daft, man?" he roared. "Ye dinnae steal someone else's wife!"

Lileas flinched at the violence, then shuffled backward as this imposing stranger turned toward her with that thunderous expression. But when she cowered, he immediately raised his hand in a calming gesture, his voice gentling as if he were speaking to a frightened horse.

"Steady there," he said quietly. "I'll not harm ye."

Moving slowly and deliberately, he approached and carefully removed her gag, then drew his dagger. Lileas tensed, but he had already turned her around and sliced through the ropes that bound her wrists with quick, efficient strokes.

When she faced him again, rubbing feeling back into her hands, she found herself looking up at a man whose anger was clearly directed at his own men rather than at her.

Dugald was getting to his feet, blood trickling from his split lip. "We got her to help ye," he spluttered.

"I dinnae need this kind of help," Bhaltair snapped. "The last thing I want is a clan war. We can barely spare the men as it is. Is this what ye lot have been off doing while I've been trying to salvage what's left of this place?"

His men looked suddenly uncomfortable, shuffling their feet like children caught in mischief.

"I've been asking ye to help rebuild the keep, get the seeds into the ground, crops out of the fields, fix the water system, mend the roof, repair the cottages and ye've been off kidnapping a married woman?" Bhaltair's voice rose with each word, his fury evident.

The men now looked openly contrite, avoiding their laird's blazing gaze.

"Bloody hell!" Bhaltair shook his head in disgust, then began barking orders. "Ada! Bring refreshments for our... guest. And ask Gregory to ready my horse."

An elderly woman with kind eyes appeared and gently led Lileas to a chair by the fire, pressing a warm cup of mead into her hands. Lileas thanked her and took a sip then immediately winced at the taste.

"What are you doing, Laird?" Dugald asked, still nursing his jaw.

"I am returning this woman to her husband," Bhaltair replied curtly, "that's if he doesn't murder us all beforehand."

Lileas looked up from her cup, studying this unexpected turn of events. "This tastes terrible," she announced bluntly. "Who brewed it?"

Bhaltair blinked at her directness. "What?"

"It has too much barley in it. Try a little more honey and less grain next time. The balance is all wrong."

"Aye... all right," he replied, clearly taken aback by her casual criticism.

"And that corner there that keeps leaking," Lileas continued, gesturing toward a spot where water dripped steadily into a bucket, "ye can patch it with straw bound in mud clay, and it willnae trouble ye anymore."

"Anything else?" Bhaltair asked, his tone caught between irritation and amusement.

"Aye, that rash on yer sword arm," Lileas said, noticing the angry red welts that covered his forearm and how he unconsciously scratched at them. "The one that troubles ye."

"Yes, 'tis from some plant in the woods," he replied, surprised that she had noticed.

"No, it's not."

He raised an eyebrow.

"'Tis a reaction to the oak gall."

"What?"

"Yer sword, aye? Ye clean it with oak gall mixed with vinegar?"

"Aye, it removes the rust and blood better than anything else," he said, confusion evident in his voice.

"'Tis the oak gall causing the rash. Some folk are sensitive to it. Here, may I?" She reached for the small pouch that still hung at her belt, the one Dugald's men had overlooked in their haste.

Bhaltair sighed and in a sarcastic voice replied, "By all means, it’s not like I have anything pressing to do today. My keep is crumbling, my men dinnae follow orders, yer husband will likely murder me, and my skin is on fire. So help yerself, Lady MacNeil."

Lileas gave him a sympathetic look before she mixed a small amount of the nettle root she had gathered with some chamomile from her pouch, creating a paste that she carefully applied to the irritated skin on his forearm.

Bhaltair closed his eyes, feeling relief for the first time in weeks as the cooling mixture soothed the burning itch.

"See, 'tis nettle root and chamomile," she explained. "It will draw out the irritation, but dinnae use oak gall anymore. For yer sword, try river sand mixed with a bit of oil, or just plain lye soap. It'll clean just as well without the rash."

The room went quiet as everyone watched this remarkable display of knowledge and skill.

"Bloody hell," Bhaltair breathed, staring at his arm in amazement. "No wonder the MacNeils are thriving."

"I told ye, she is worth keeping—" Dugald began.

"She is still someone else's wife!" Bhaltair roared, his anger returning full force. "And when her husband arrives—which he no doubt will—we're going to return her with our apologies and pray to the good lord he doesn't slaughter us all for yer stupidity."

As if summoned by his words, the sound of horses thundering into the courtyard echoed through the hall, followed by the distinctive war cry of Clan MacNeil.

"Too late for prayers now," Bhaltair muttered. "Show the MacNeil inside. We need to return his wife before this becomes a bloodbath."

Moments later, the doors of the Great Hall burst open, and Ewan MacNeil strode in with several men. His green eyes blazed with fury, and his hand rested on his sword hilt as he took in the scene before him.

"Lileas!" he called out, relief flooding his voice as he saw her sitting unharmed by the fire.

She rose immediately, moving toward him as he crossed the room in quick strides. But before they could embrace, Bhaltair stepped forward, his hands raised in a gesture of peace.

"MacNeil," he said formally. "I need ye to ken that I had no knowledge of this kidnapping. My men acted without my orders, they will be punished accordingly, and I was preparing to return yer wife to ye when ye arrived."

Ewan's gaze moved between Bhaltair and Lileas, his jaw clenched with barely controlled rage. "Is this true, love?"

"Aye," Lileas said quickly, stepping closer to her husband. "He was furious when they brought me here. He was about to escort me home himself."

For a moment, the tension in the room was thick enough to cut with a blade. Then Ewan's arms came around his wife, pulling her against his chest as if he could shield her from all the world's dangers.

"I'm sorry I could nae protect ye," he said roughly against her hair.

"No, 'twas my fault for being stubborn and leaving the keep," Lileas replied, her voice muffled against his chest. "I'm sorry."

"No, twas my fault and I'm sorry," Ewan insisted.

Bhaltair Ferguson just rolled his eyes at the display. "Perhaps," he said dryly, "we could discuss reparations, rather than standing here watching ye apologize to each other until next Michaelmas."

Ewan glared at Bhaltair while Lileas for the first time since her kidnapping, burst out laughing.

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