Chapter Twelve
As soon as she closed the door, Mia’s resolve threatened to crumble and the tears she’d fought to keep at bay swelled and stung her eyes.
Do not falter now.
She fisted her hands, digging the nails into her palms, letting the pain serve as a distraction.
I’ll be damned if I let him see me cry.
She allowed her mind to wander to happier times—lessons from Dr. McIver in applying bandages and manipulating bones…
…and the time she’d tended to Lady Portia’s bullet wound.
Granted, not a joyous occasion, but Mia could never forget the spark of professional pride in being the one person Portia’s maid had sought out to tend to her mistress.
Then there was the time Mia had assisted Dr. McIver in resetting Captain Floret’s broken leg.
Rather than dismiss her as a weak-bellied woman, the doctor had issued firm instructions to her as his helpmate.
Afterward, he’d provided her with a study text on tending to broken and dislocated bones in the manner of a tutor who rewarded an able pupil not with fatuous praise, but with more challenging tasks.
That was what she needed to focus on during the months ahead—that and her end objective. There was little point in crying over what might have been, over a love she could never have hoped to have experienced.
She lifted her sleeve and gave her eyes an angry wipe.
She was not some feeble woman to be indulged or bullied.
And she’d prove it to…him. The expression on his face when she’d set out her demands was almost comical.
But, given that she had not a penny to her name, she had nothing to lose.
And when a person had nothing to lose, they were at their most dangerous.
For the moment, she needed to return to her chamber, where she could give vent to her emotions in privacy before composing herself for the next challenge.
She slipped along the passageway, her footsteps echoing off the granite walls, then paused at the end as it forked into two. Should she go right, or left?
Footsteps approached from behind. Unwilling to endure a further encounter, she took the right fork and, at length, reached a staircase. It led down rather than up, but, with the footsteps getting closer, she had no wish to retrace her steps, and pressed on.
The other footsteps, curse them, seemed to be following.
Mia hurried her pace and found herself once more in the entrance hall with the tapestry depicting its gruesome scene.
But in the morning light that stretched across the hallway, illuminating the woven fibers, the scene lost some of its malevolence and instead seemed to pulse with a primal vitality.
She moved closer to the tapestry and her gaze fell upon the man brandishing the spear that pierced the stag.
No, not a man. A giant: broad-shouldered, wearing a plaid in muted colors, but with a thick mop of red hair.
Mouth open in a roar of triumph, he was looking over his shoulder, directly outward from the tapestry.
At her.
She reached toward him, then withdrew, her heart fluttering. Such vitality, such primal strength—it seemed almost sinful to even be looking at him, let alone touching…
“The likeness is remarkable, is it not, ma’am?”
Mia turned to see the housekeeper standing beside her.
“M-Mrs. Bron,” she stammered, “forgive me for…”
“For what, lass? For looking at the likeness of yer husband?”
Mia’s cheeks warmed as she resumed her attention on the man in the tapestry.
“Of course, it’s not Master Hamish, seeing as it was woven nigh on a century ago,” the housekeeper said.
“It’s his grandfather’s grandfather, Hamish Malcolm Alastair McCallum.
A fine man, by all accounts.” She gestured to the mounted stag’s head high up on the wall.
“Awld Hamish, he called him. An eighteen-pointer.”
“A what?” Mia said.
“I’ve never seen one in all the Highlands,” the housekeeper continued. “There was a rumor that the MacKenzies had one, but it turned out to be false. Not even Master Hamish has felled an eighteen-pointer. The best he’s managed is fourteen. I daresay ye noticed it when ye were in his study?”
“Forgive me…an eighteen-pointer?”
“Och!” Mrs. Bron let out a laugh. “Of course, ye Sassenachs know nothing of stags, do ye?” She gestured again toward the mounted head.
“See his antlers? There’s eighteen points on them—nine each side.
A great stag’s the most magnificent sight to behold, early in the morning, through the mist, when ye’ve heard him roaring. Have ye never seen a stag, ma’am?”
“I’ve seen deer in the countryside in England, but nothing quite so…” Mia trailed off.
“So Scottish?”
Mia smiled. “Yes. He’s very Scottish—wild, free, and filled with life.”
Whereas I’m a weakling who does not belong.
As if she’d read Mia’s mind, the housekeeper touched her arm. “Ye’ll be just like him soon, ma’am, I’m sure,” she said. “I’ve seen it before—when Sassenach lasses come here and marry our men. The land will change ye, grow into yer bones, fill yer lungs with Highland air until ye’re one of us.”
But I’ll never be one of you. I’m not wanted here.
“Och, there’s no need to look so sad,” Mrs. Bron said. “How about I ask Rory to take ye with him to see the stag? The one hereabouts this year is a sixteen-pointer, so Rory says. For my part, I think he’s spinning a yarn to impress that hure he’s always fooling about with.”
What the devil was a hure?
“I wouldn’t want you to go to any trouble on my account, Mrs. Bron,” Mia said.
“Ye’re the Lady of Glenblath. Nothing ye ask is any trouble. Now, ye shouldn’t be dawdling about here when there’s breakfast to be had. Ye’ve led me on a merry chase about the place. Come along, now.”
Mrs. Bron set off, her crisp, efficient tone brooking no denial, and Mia followed obediently.
Rather than take Mia to the huge banqueting hall, the older woman led her past the huge, carved doors and through another series of passageways.
Perhaps it was as well that Mia was destined to leave, for she’d never find her way about the castle unattended.
The building was a labyrinth—complete with its own flame-haired minotaur.
At length, they reached a door, behind which Mia could hear voices.
The housekeeper knocked and the voices stopped, then she opened the door to reveal what must be a dining room, in the center of which was a long wooden table with three occupants.
A maid circled the table, carrying a tureen.
She stiffened and stared, and Mia recognized her as one of the maids who’d been gossiping about her yesterday.
The diners turned to face Mia. Eilidh sat at one side of the table, a gentle smile of welcome on her lips.
Her daughter, sitting opposite, scowled at Mia before resuming her attention on the bowl in front of her.
And at the end of the table sat Mia’s husband.
“I’ve found her, Master Hamish,” Mrs. Bron said.
“So I see,” he replied, rising. Then he frowned at the young girl. “Iona,” he growled.
She pulled a face. “What?”
“Show some respect and stand for our guest.”
“Ye’ve not asked Ma to stand. Why should I?”
“There’s no need to stand on my account,” Mia said. “I’m—”
“I didnae ask ye,” the girl said.
“Iona, that’s enough,” Eilidh said quietly. “Do as yer brother says.”
The girl glared at Hamish, then let out a huff and scraped her chair back. “I’ll do it for ye, Ma, but no one else.”
“Here, Lady MacLennan,” Mrs. Bron said, leading Mia toward the place setting at the other end of the table. The girl’s eyes widened at the housekeeper’s address. She opened her mouth, but Hamish raised his hand.
“Sit, Iona,” he said, “and keep yer thoughts to yerself. I’ll hear no more from ye today unless ye want to be sent to yer chamber with no breakfast.”
The girl spooned a mouthful of food from her bowl, then pulled another face. “I’m not a child,” she said, her mouth full.
Hamish let out a snort. “Act like a bairn and I’ll treat ye like one.”
“Ailsa, some parritch for Lady MacLennan,” his mother said. The maid frowned, then she exchanged a glance with Iona before approaching Mia with the tureen, eyebrows raised.
Mia peered into the bowl to see a cream-colored substance resembling thick gruel.
“Is it not good enough for ye?” the maid said, her green eyes glittering with spite.
“I-I’ve not eaten… I beg pardon, what was it called?”
“Parritch.”
“I’ve not tried parritch before, but I would like some, thank you.”
The maid tilted her head to one side, then ladled some of the mixture into Mia’s bowl. It spilled over, and Mia let out a cry as some fell into her lap.
“Beg pardon, Yer Ladyship,” the maid said as Iona stifled a giggle.
“Ailsa!” Eilidh cried. “Fetch a cloth at once. No…return to the kitchen and remain there. Send Elspeth with a cloth, seeing as ye cannae be trusted.”
The maid blushed and mumbled, “Yes, Lady MacLennan,” then slipped out of the room.
“I’m so sorry, lass,” Eilidh said, leaning toward Mia. “Yer poor dress! Go to yer chamber after breakfast and change into a fresh gown, and I’ll send Elspeth up. I dinnae know what’s come over Ailsa. She’s…” She paused as Iona let out a snort. “Was this yer doing, lass?”
Iona’s cheeks flushed pink and she shook her head.
“Please, don’t trouble yourself or Elspeth,” Mia said.
“It’s no trouble. Now, eat—there’s naught like a good bowl of parritch to set ye up for the day.”
Mia took a spoonful. The texture was a little sticky, but she could not deny the flavor. Both creamy and nutty, it was neither sweet nor savory, but warm and welcoming. She swallowed it, letting the warmth radiate through her body.
“It’s good, aye?”
Mia paused, the spoon halfway to her lips as her husband spoke, and she glanced up to see him staring at her, his gaze as intense as usual but holding a flicker of emotion, almost as if he sought her approval.