Chapter Thirteen #2
“I’m sure she’s not,” he replied. “Weren’t ye going to send Mrs. Bron to help make it habitable?”
She let out a huff. “Ye know what I mean, son. Are ye going to disappoint me by claiming that ye dinnae? That poor lass has no friends here. Having come to Glenblath as a bride over thirty years ago, I know how that feels.”
“She’s not…”
She let out a huff, but rather than admonish him, she scraped back her chair and stood.
“Are ye not eating anything else, Ma?”
“I’m not hungry, and I should see to Iona. But I daresay yer wife’s hungry if she’s been busy all morning. Ye might want to take her a slice or two of that pie.”
“Is that what ye intend to do now, Ma? Issue me orders?”
“No, son—I’ll leave the orders to yer conscience.”
She placed her napkin on the table, then exited the dining hall. Hamish glanced at his one remaining companion. The dog opened its eyes and stared at him.
“Are ye going to judge me also, boy?” The deerhound thumped his tail on the hearthrug, and Hamish smiled. “Sometimes I think ye’re my only true friend here, Monarch.”
Which was better than having no friends at all.
He glanced at the slice of pie on his sister’s plate. Then, after wrapping it in his napkin, he exited the dining hall and made his way outside to the path that led toward the river.
*
Hamish couldn’t recall the last time he’d visited Riverview Cottage—not since the passing of old Mrs. MacLennan, when she’d been carried from the place of her passing to her final place of rest behind the chapel.
Widowed and childless, she’d had few mourners save Hamish, who’d attended as laird.
Few ventured near while she was alive, and even fewer since her passing, for fear that her spirit would ensnare the sinful and pull them into the river.
And there’s none more sinful than I.
He heard the river before he saw it, swollen from the recent rain, bubbling and chattering in deep, masculine notes. As he ventured along the path, the trees thinned out until he could make out flashes of light between the tree trunks as the water danced and boiled over the granite rocks.
The path descended toward the river, then turned to run parallel with the water’s edge, before it veered inward toward the forest. Hamish caught sight of a building of gray stone, set in an elevated position and facing the river.
Though bathed in the light of the afternoon sun, the cottage looked forlorn, as if it still mourned the previous occupant.
Even the windows stared at him like dark, baleful eyes, the doorway forming a gaping, toothless mouth.
The log store beside the cottage was now empty, its wooden roof showing signs of rot.
The logs had long since gone, having been scavenged over the years, but old Mrs. MacLennan had no further use for them now.
A white figure materialized in the doorway and emerged from the cottage, seeming to glide over the ground. Hamish’s stomach clenched in fear. He stepped back and a twig snapped under his feet.
“Who’s there?” a female voice called out.
Hamish cursed his foolishness. It wasn’t old Mrs. MacLennan, but a different ghost.
His wife.
He stepped forward, and the woman held up her hand to shield her eyes from the sunlight.
“Oh,” she said, her voice tightening. “Lord MacLennan. I-I wasn’t expecting you.”
“May I come in?” he asked.
“Of course,” she replied. “I’m on your land. You’ve no need to ask.”
“I do, lass. It’s yer home—at least until…”
He trailed off, and she nodded and beckoned him inside. He crossed the threshold, entered a room, and sneezed.
“I’m afraid this room’s very dusty,” she said. “Perhaps you’d prefer to return when I’ve finished cleaning the cottage?”
“No, I’ll stay, lass.”
She nodded and led him into a chamber that overlooked the river.
The room was devoid of furnishings, save a chair beside the fireplace and a threadbare rug, which, no doubt, was crawling with lice.
A broom was propped up in a corner next to a wooden pail with a cloth hanging over the side.
But the fireplace had been raked out and the windows, rather than covered in the grime acquired through neglect, gave a clear view of the river.
A beam of sunlight stretched across the floor, casting four patches of light from the windowpanes.
She clasped her hands together—the same gesture she’d made in his study when he caught the fear and rejection in her eyes. Did she perhaps anticipate his reneging on their agreement and evicting her?
Hamish held out the slice of pie, still wrapped in a cloth. “An offering of peace.”
She eyed it, raising her eyebrows.
“Ye were missed at luncheon, so I brought a slice of Mrs. McBride’s pie. I thought ye might be hungry.”
“I’m not hungry.”
Her stomach let out a low growl.
“Yer body says otherwise,” he said, “but ye cannae eat it here—the room’s empty.”
He approached the chair, and she cried out, “Don’t sit there!
” She colored, and he could swear she cringed as if expecting a blow.
“Forgive me for speaking out of turn, but it’s got a broken leg, see?
” She pointed to a leg that was split along the length and cast her gaze over his body. “It might not hold your…”
She paused, blushing.
“Aye, lass,” he said with a chuckle. “I’m a big man, am I not?”
Her eyes widened, and he caught a flicker of pleasure in them.
“I’ve not heard you laugh before,” she said quietly.
“I’ve had little occasion.”
“Of course. I’m sorry.” She wiped her hands on her apron, crossed the floor, and picked up the cloth.
“Ye’ve been cleaning the place?” he said.
She nodded. “I’ve almost finished this room. I thought it might do for somewhere to treat my patients—that is, if any are willing to come here.” Then she stopped and regarded him with a thoughtful stare. “You look surprised,” she said. “Surely you didn’t expect me to live in the dirt?”
“Of course not, but I didnae expect—”
“You didn’t think an Englishwoman capable of cleaning a house?” She gestured to the empty fireplace. “I’m no fine lady. I can even light a fire—there’s plenty of wood to be foraged hereabouts.”
He cast his gaze over her form, the drab dress the same she’d worn on the day of her arrival, and the apron covered in grime and soot.
Aye, she was no fine lady. But her complexion was ruddy with exertion, her eyes bright with vitality, and she was unafraid of hard work. Which made her better than any fine lady.
“Mrs. Bron lent me the apron,” she said. “I’ll wash it before I return it.”
“There’s no need, lass,” he said. “I’m sure Mrs. Bron meant for ye to keep it.” He glanced about the room, letting his gaze settle on a door leading to another chamber. “Is she here with ye?”
“No, I am alone.”
He let out a huff. “She should have sent someone from the castle to help ye.”
“She sent a manservant—Lachlan, his name was—to see if I needed any furniture. But I have enough.”
“A single broken chair?” he said, raising his eyebrows.
“There’s also a table, in the room yonder,” she said, gesturing toward a door, “and a bed. They only need a good clean, and Lachlan was kind enough to bring me some blankets in the colors of your plaid. They look very pretty.”
“But he didnae stay to help ye clean the place?”
“I’ve no wish to be a burden, Lord MacLennan. It’s—”
“Cannae ye at least call me Hamish?” he said. “I understand why ye’ll not call me husband.”
She looked away, and he cursed himself.
“I-I cannot,” she replied. “We’re not intimately acquainted, and soon I’ll be—”
“I’d like ye to call me Hamish,” he said, lowering his voice. “If we’re not to be husband and wife, can we at least be friends? I’d like ye to leave here having made a friend. Or do ye have so many that ye’re in need of no more?”
“I’ve no friends here,” she said, her voice almost inaudible.
“Ye have one right here.”
“Perhaps.”
He smiled then gestured about the room. “Do ye know aught of the previous occupant?”
“Only what your mother told me. Old Mrs. MacLennan, she called her. I’m sorry that she died.”
“She’s still here,” he replied. “Everyone whose heart is in the Highlands lives on after they pass. We’re the sunbeams that warm the crops on a bright day, the breeze that sings through the trees, and”—he gestured to the view from the window—“Old Ma MacLennan was rumored to be a kelpie.”
“A what?”
“A sprite that takes many forms, for good or mischief—though knowing Ma MacLennan, it’ll be for good.
I heard tales that she took on the sins of all the folk at Glenblath.
Each night she entered the river to melt into the water.
Ye could see her—the ripples of light when the moon was full.
Then, as the first threads of dawn filled the sky, she rose from the water, taking human form once again, having cleansed herself of the sins of others. ”
She fixed her gaze on him, her eyes wide with wonder, as if enthralled by the spell of his tale.
“How did she die? Had the burden of everyone’s sins become to great?”
“She simply passed due to old age,” he said. “She’d seen over eighty summers. She was ancient even when I were a bairn, bouncing me on her knee by that very fireplace, telling me tales of the spirits. Folk hereabouts called her a witch.”
His wife blinked and the spell was broken.
“Too many women are labeled as witches by men,” she said.
“If we’re beautiful, men will call us vain and say that we use our beauty to cast spells on them.
And if we’re not beautiful enough…” She sighed.
“I understand my father’s regret that I wasn’t a boy.
Reason tells me that the fault lies with the men who rule the world, who cannot accept a woman for what she is.
But when has the world listened to reason? ”
She wiped her hands on the cloth, then dropped it in the bucket.
“Do men not realize that if we were witches, we’d not waste our efforts turning men into newts? We’d cast a spell to render a cottage clean at the utterance of a few words, rather than a day’s toil.”
“In the absence of a spell,” Hamish said, “will a foolish man incapable of saying the right thing serve as an alternative?”
She lifted her eyebrows in inquiry.
“I’ll grant that we men sometimes lack the ability to wield our minds,” he continued, “but we can at least wield a broom. We’re to be friends, yes? In which case, permit me to help ye.” He grinned at her. “If ye’re amenable to calling me Hamish, that is.”
He unwrapped the pie and she lowered her gaze. Her tongue flicked out and ran across her lips, rendering them moist and glistening.
“Ye’ll not taste better in all the Highlands,” he said. “I fancy a bite myself, if ye’re willing to oblige.”
Her eyes flared for a moment and his cock twitched at the flicker of desire in them. Did she understand his meaning? Then she blinked and the desire disappeared. But the ghost of a smile remained on her lips as she gestured to the broom.
“If we’re to be on equal terms,” she said, “you must first earn your pie.”
He laughed again, and his soul let out a little sigh as her lips curved into a smile.
“I’ve not seen ye smile much, lass,” he said. “But I take the blame for that. I hope I’ll see ye smile many more times before ye leave us.”
Her smile slipped and he cursed himself once more. Why must he refer to their inevitable parting?
Then he checked himself.
Why did the notion of their parting bother him?
“Here,” he said, “take the pie and let me help ye.”
She nodded and reached for the pie. Their fingers brushed, and Hamish caught his breath at the tiny spark of desire deep inside his center at the feel of her warm, delicate little fingers on his. Her eyes widened and his cock swelled with want as she parted her lips in surprise.
Would those lips taste as sweet as they looked?
He curled his fingers around her hand and drew her close, his cock surging with delight as she gave no resistance. Then he inhaled, slowly, savoring the sweet, rich scent of her—of honey and innocence. What might it be like to dip into that innocence and claim her sweetness?
“Lass,” he breathed.
She flushed a delectable shade of rose, a sweet pinkness that gave a promise of pleasurable pinkness elsewhere.
Her eyelids fluttered as she blinked and her eyes darkened, the pupils dilating as she exhaled and shifted closer. He had only to dip his head and claim those lips as his own, and he had only to lift those skirts to claim her sweet body…
Holy ballocks—what the fuck was he doing?
He jerked back, the heat rising in his cheeks at the bulge in his plaid where his cock pressed eagerly against the woolen material.
A moment longer and he’d have tossed up her skirts and fucked her against the wall, his knees abraded by the harsh stone while he roared out his pleasure like a stag in rut, claiming his woman, biting her neck to mark her as his so that no other male could take her.
Mumbling an apology, he shoved the pie into her hands and retreated. She caught the pie and cradled it to her chest. Her body trembled with distress, her eyes glistening with moisture. Then, overcome by shame, he turned and fled.