Chapter Fifteen
“I dinnae understand why ye’ve not been to see yer wife. She’s been at Riverview Cottage almost a fortnight, and she’s had few visitors. The poor lass must be lonely.”
Hamish glanced up from his ledgers and eyed his mother. She sat, in her usual chair, her knitting on her lap. Monarch lay on the hearthrug at her feet and lifted his head at the sound of her voice, before yawning, stretching out his front legs, then tucking them in again with a satisfied grunt.
So, this was why Ma had insisted he spend the morning in her chambers—not to keep a lonely widow company, but to be lectured. She’d not even offered him a glass of whisky—he could smell it as soon as he’d entered the chamber, though there was no sign of the bottle.
“Ye’ve invited her to dine with us every day,” Hamish replied. “If she disnae wish to come, ye cannae expect me to drag her here by the hair.”
For a moment, the image crossed his mind—him, the pagan beast, catching his woman and tossing her over his shoulder to claim her in his cave. His cock hardened almost instantly, and he drew in a sharp breath.
Devil’s ballocks, where had that notion come from?
Perhaps Murdoch was right—he needed a good, hard rutting to ease the lust simmering in his body.
Fisting himself at night could never completely rid him of the itch that lay deep in his center.
But though he’d enjoyed women before, particularly Maisie with her skillful touch and welcoming curves, he couldn’t bring himself to touch another since he’d pledged to be faithful to her.
Ye’re a weak fool, son.
His father’s ghost whispered in Hamish’s mind, but he need only look at his mother to understand the consequences of infidelity. Ma had loved and been betrayed. Hamish would be damned if he’d ever be responsible for the slow erosion of a woman’s soul.
“Perhaps ye should look to yerself when asking why Mia’s not accepted my invitations,” Ma said. “I understand ye’ll be turning the lass out as soon as ye can afford it, but there’s no need to pretend she disnae exist.”
There was no danger of that, seeing as she was always in his mind, simmering away during the day, and coming forth at night to admonish him with her soulful hazel eyes.
“I daresay ye’ve even forgotten what she looks like,” Ma continued.
There was no danger of that, either. He’d never forget how sweet the sound of her laughter was.
Or how the spike of envy had poked at his soul when he’d seen the ease with which she’d shared a moment of mirth with Maisie and Rory. He’d watched—like the outsider she thought herself to be—concealed between the trees, while she laughed with the ghillie and the whore.
Unable to stop himself, he had ventured toward her cottage to watch her every day since, taking a small speck of joy at the sight of smoke rising from the chimney, indulging in the sight as she busied herself with whatever it was she did—venturing to the river and back, setting off on her own, to return later with a basketful of greenery.
Occasionally she’d pause, as if she knew she were being watched, and a hunted expression would darken her eyes, like a deer sensing a predator.
“No, Ma,” he said. “I know what she looks like.”
“Aye,” his mother huffed. “Pity ye cannae see beyond the marks on her skin. They’re fading, ye know.”
“Are they?” he said, unable to temper the hope in his voice. The brave lass didn’t deserve to be censured for her looks.
His mother shook her head, disgust in her eyes. “Perhaps ye’ll soon be able to look at her without flinching. Ye disappoint me. I thought I’d raised ye to be a better man. I expect that sort of behavior from the likes of Murdoch and Robbie, but to see it in my own son…”
“Murdoch and Robbie?” Hamish said. “Have they been giving the lass trouble?”
“No more than ye’d expect,” Ma said. “I spotted them when I visited her. Maisie saw them off—she’s never short of a word or two when she needs it. She’s visited the lass almost every day.”
“Aye, that she has.”
“So ye have been to see her?”
“N-no, Ma,” Hamish said, cursing himself. Ma stared at him, her sharp-eyed gaze unsettling him as it always did when she’d caught him fibbing as a lad. “I know how kind Maisie is,” he continued. “She always takes on the stray dog that nobody else wants.”
“Och, son, must ye disappoint me further, likening yer wife to a stray dog?”
Bloody ballocks, couldn’t he say, or do, anything right in Ma’s eyes?
But his mother was right. Maisie had befriended Euphramia—openly and without prompting. Whereas he…
He let out a sigh. What were a few armfuls of logs, handed over in secrecy under cover of the night in case anyone saw him?
A true act of friendship shouldn’t necessitate secrecy for fear of discovery.
A true friend defended another from the censure of those around her.
A true friend was happy to declare that friendship and weather the contempt of others.
“Ye make me quite ashamed,” he said.
“That’ll be yer conscience,” she replied.
“Perhaps ye should heed that more rather than Murdoch and the like. If ye fear what others think of ye for doing the right thing, then ye’re behaving as a coward, not a laird.
The laird should lead by example and not be afraid to do what he knows in his heart is right.
If ye stand up for the lass, others will follow.
” She took his hand. “What happened to my brave wee boy? He’s grown into a better man than his father.
But ye could be the best of men if ye just—”
“Ma, she wants this annulment as much as I do,” he said. “More so.”
“Aye, and I’ll not quarrel with ye on that if yer mind’s set on it. But that’s no reason not to show her kindness for the brief time she’s here. Give her fond memories of Glenblath—of us. Is that too much to ask, given what she did for ye when she had no need to?”
He opened his mouth to argue that despite Euphramia’s gifting him her fortune, he was now required to pay it back. Then he closed it again.
“Perhaps I’ll visit her,” he said.
“Good lad. Why not take a slice of that cheese? And Mrs. McBride has a loaf fresh from the oven this morning doing nothing. When ye go, tell the lass I’ll be seeing her later, as usual.”
“As usual?”
“Och, dinnae try to fool me, son.” Ma resumed knitting and curved her lips into a smile. “She looked well when I visited her yesterday, did she not?”
The needles clack-clacked against each other as Ma’s hands moved with more deftness than Hamish had seen in a long while.
“Aren’t ye in pain?” he said, gesturing toward her hands.
“Only a little.” She paused and raised her left hand. The joints were as swollen as they’d always been, but had lost a little of their redness.
He leaned closer to get a better look, and she curled her fingers into a fist, her eyes narrowing in discomfort.
“Better, aye?” she said. “I’ve not been able to do that for some time.”
Hamish inhaled and caught a raw scent in his nostrils. “Yer hands stink of whisky, Ma.”
“It’s the lass’s liniment, which I apply every day. It’s eased the pain a little.”
“But—whisky?”
“The whisky’s only to draw out the medicine,” Ma said. “It’s the heather that eases the pain, so the lass said. To think! Something we have in abundance, that I’ve only ever thought of as a pretty flower, is easing my pain.”
“Are ye sure she’s not playing ye false?”
“Ask her yerself,” she said, resuming her knitting, “or are ye content to skulk in the woods and watch her from afar?”
Devil’s cock, how did she know?
He opened his mouth to deny it. His mother paused and fixed him with a hard stare, then continued knitting, the steady click-click of the needles grating on his senses.
“Very well,” he said. “I’ll visit the lass if ye wish it.”
“Yer visit only has value if ye wish it,” Ma said. “I’ll not have ye go under sufferance.”
“It’s not sufferance, Ma.”
He rose and kissed her on both cheeks, then made his way to the kitchen, where Mrs. McBride had already set aside a thick slice of cheese and a loaf, in a basket. He inhaled the aroma of freshly baked bread. The cook, who was dusting the table with flour, let out a huff.
“Mind ye dinnae eat all that yerself,” she said. “It’s for Miss Lucas.”
“Miss Lucas?”
She cocked her head to one side. “I take it ye’d prefer I address her as such, seein’ as she’ll not be Lady MacLennan for long.”
“Did ye conspire with my ma to—”
“Och, be off with ye!” the cook said, placing a ball of pastry onto the floured table. “I’ve supper to prepare and no time for ye getting under my feet. Tell the lass that if she keeps the cheese wrapped in the cloth to prevent the mold getting to it, it’ll last up to a fortnight.”
Before Hamish could reply, she picked up a rolling pin and waved it at him.
He grabbed the basket and she shooed him out of the kitchen.
Her laughter, like that of a cackling crone, could be heard echoing along the passageway as he approached the main doors, and he could swear he still heard it as he reached the path to Riverview Cottage.
Smoke rose from the chimney in an almost straight line, evidence of the stillness of the day.
The cottage was in a sheltered spot where the land formed a hollow, protecting it from the worst of the frosts.
If she were still at Glenblath when the winter set in, would she weather the cold?
Fine ladies from London weren’t expected to toil in the harsh Highland winters.
But then, fine ladies from London weren’t expected to be able to light their own fires, or roast haunches of venison.
As he approached the cottage, he caught the faint sound of singing. Not an accomplished voice, but the tune was a merry air. He paused at the threshold and lifted his hand to knock on the door. Would she welcome the intrusion?
Would she welcome him?
Before he could retreat, the singing stopped.
“Who’s there?” she said.
He paused, hands in midair as he heard footsteps.