Chapter Sixteen
Her basket over her arm, Mia pulled her shawl tight around her shoulders and continued along the path, which was becoming steeper the higher she climbed.
The smooth surface underfoot had long since become treacherous, loose stones and rocks ready to entrap unsuspecting ankles.
Twice already she’d slipped and fallen with a jolt as a stone shifted under her feet.
Perhaps they were right. The Highlands was no place for a Sassenach. Eilidh had been kind enough to lend her a sturdy pair of boots, though they were too big for her and her heels already carried the telltale soreness of blisters.
She spotted a flat rock ahead and picked her way over the rocks until she reached it. Then she climbed onto it and surveyed her surroundings.
From her vantage point she could see the castle, with its turrets at either end, surrounded by the lush green gardens, and whitewashed outbuildings and other dwellings dotted about.
The road curved in an arc from the building, before disappearing into the dark green forest, only to appear again farther away, and fade into the distance.
Along the skyline, mountains formed a jagged ridge that dipped and rose into sharp, white-topped peaks.
Shielding her eyes from the sunlight, she let her gaze wander over the land until she spotted the river, gleaming like a giant silver snake, winding around the contours of the land.
She followed the line of the river to the cluster of pine trees and smiled to herself as she caught sight of a building near the river’s edge. Riverview Cottage. Her home.
Only it wasn’t her home, though she’d been here almost a month. She was merely a passerby, stopping briefly on her path to achieving her dream.
When Hamish had last visited, he’d referred to her as my wife.
In the eyes of the law she was his wife, but to hear it on his lips brought forth a rush of hope that had taken the air from her lungs, and she’d almost lost her composure.
But he was only being polite to placate his mother.
Mia would have preferred his censure—preferred it if he doled out the taunts that other men made when she’d come across them while collecting the calendula flowers.
Murdoch, the older man’s name was, and she recalled him from the day she’d arrived.
His companion, Robbie, had seemed more congenial until he laughed as she’d stood to face them and lost her balance, spilling the orange flowers on the pathway.
Only Maisie and her threats to “rip yer cocks out of yer breeches” had sent them on their way.
Even if Hamish had wanted her to stay—even if she herself had wished it—the people living in Glenblath would never accept her. Only Eilidh, Maisie, and a handful of the servants at the castle looked upon her with anything other than hostility.
And Rory.
Higher up along the path, just before the grass and heather disappeared and the rocks took over, Mia could discern a small stone building nestled among a handful of pine trees, their trunks glowing a pinkish brown in the sunlight.
A wisp of smoke rose from the building, swirling in the wind before dissolving into the air higher up.
Would Rory welcome a visit, or would he see it as an intrusion, particularly if Maisie were with him?
And would it be wise to continue climbing?
Mia’s foot was already sore, and Dr. McIver had always said that if one could already feel the soreness in one’s feet, then the blister was inevitable.
Perhaps it was also true of the heart—when a soul felt the first seeds of longing, then heartbreak was an unavoidable certainty.
But now was not a time to dwell on regrets.
It was a time to relish the joy of being alone on a mountainside.
Resuming her attention on the valley below, Mia pulled out the remains of the bread from her basket and nibbled on it while she gazed at the view, setting aside all notions of how she would have come to love that view forever had life taken a different turn.
Then she dipped her hand into her bounty, the pink flowers she’d spotted on the path, nestling among the rocks on her way up.
She pinched one between her thumb and forefinger, relishing the aroma—sweet and woody, with an undertone of mint.
When brewed as a tea, it would help ease the symptoms of coughs and colds.
If anyone came to her for treatment, that was.
Since her arrival, she’d had only two visitors for treatment—Elspeth for a cut to her finger, and Eilidh.
But even if the whole estate shunned her, it mattered not if she could ease one person’s suffering.
The joy in Eilidh’s eyes when she spoke of her pain having eased enough for her to undertake the ordinary tasks that others took for granted, such as pouring a cup of tea or knitting a scarf—it was enough to make Mia feel as if she had some value in the world.
Would she find solace when she returned to England? Or would the people there shun her as well, her face rendering her a pariah until the day she died?
Don’t be such an ungrateful fool!
Her conscience chided her, reminding her that she had much to be thankful for. Such as the view before her now—a view she could happily sit and watch until the sun slipped below the horizon.
But Rory had warned her of the dangers of remaining out on the mountainside for too long.
Not only did the cold take a grip on a person’s body, seeping into their bones before they realized it, but darkness fell quickly after sundown, catching many an unwary soul on the slopes, where grown men had been known to die from the cold.
The land here might be beautiful and wild, but it was also unforgiving.
With a sigh, she climbed off the rock and began her journey back to the cottage. Beinn Blath would not be going anywhere, and she would have plenty of opportunities to enjoy an hour or two’s solitude on the slopes before she left Glenblath forever.
As she descended toward the valley, Mia spotted another clump of tiny purple flowers peeking out from between the rocks. She stooped to pluck a handful, then she stiffened as she heard a sharp cry.
Mia looked up, her gaze moving over the pale-blue sky. But there was no sign of the eagle or his mate. She stood up, rubbed her lower back, then resumed her descent, picking her way through the rocks and moving slowly so as not to exacerbate the blisters forming on her heels.
The scream came again, this time much closer, and a thin, high voice cried out.
“No! Leave me be!”
Then she heard laughter—not the merry laughter born of mirth, but the sharp taunts of those who sought to make sport of another for the gratification of their cruelty.
The path curved to the left around the side of the hill. As Mia approached the turn in the path, the ground below came into view, sloping steeply downward and dotted with huge rocks. Standing atop one rock were three figures, pointing toward the ground and laughing.
Then she heard the scream again, like an animal in pain.
“Ha-ha!” a voice cried. “Stupid girl! Stop yer bellyaching and get up or it’ll be the worse for ye.”
“I cannae! It hurts!
“You there!” Mia cried. “What’s happening?”
The figures turned, and as Mia approached, taking care not to stumble as she descended the slope, she saw that they were boys. One she recognized from the day she had first arrived at Glenblath—he’d been clinging to his father’s hand and staring at her wide-eyed.
“What’s it to ye?” the largest boy sneered. “Pockmarked hure, that’s what ye are!”
The middle boy let out a laugh, while the smallest shifted from one foot to another. “That’s enough, Billy,” he said. “Do ye want a thrashing from yer da?”
“I’m only saying what my da says, Jamie,” the larger boy said. “He says she’s a witch.”
“Then best be quiet, or she’ll cast a spell on ye,” the second boy said. “She’ll turn ye into a newt.”
“Shut yer mouth, Calum, ye weak-bellied fool!” Billy said. “And ye can stop yer mewling as well!” he added, gesturing to the ground.
“Is someone hurt?” Mia said.
“It’s none of yer business!” Billy said.
“But Billy,” the smaller boy, Jamie, pleaded, “she hurt herself when ye pushed—”
“I said shut yer mouth!” Billy interrupted. “All girls cry. It’s what they do. They’re sniveling little wretches. That’s what my da says.”
Evidently Billy had learned much from his father.
“Has a girl been hurt?” Mia said. She approached the boys.
“Go away, witch!” Billy taunted her.
“Be quiet,” Mia said, “or I’ll cast a spell on you.”
The boy’s eyes widened with the fear that all bullies harbored when faced with an opponent they believed to be stronger. Then his companion nudged him.
“Come along, Billy. Yer da will give ye a thrashing if ye’re late.”
The larger boy cringed, then the boldness returned and he stuck out his tongue at Mia.
The crying had stopped. Were they playing a trick of some sort?
Then, as Mia drew near, she saw it—the crumpled form of a child, a girl, limbs akimbo, with a mass of ebony curls, her white face turned toward the sky. Eyes closed, her forehead furrowed into a frown of pain, lips parted as if she were screaming.
But no sound came.
“Dear God!”
Mia sprinted over to the child, almost stumbling on the uneven ground, then kneeled beside the girl’s prone form. She placed her hand on the girl’s chest, and relief washed over her as she caught the faint thrum of a heartbeat.
The child was alive, but unconscious.
She glanced up at the boys. “Help me, please,” she said. “We need to take her home.”
“I’m not helping a Sassenach witch!” Billy said. “Come on, Calum.” His companion hesitated, then Billy caught his hand and tugged at it.
“Please!” Mia cried.
“No!” Billy said, tugging at Calum’s arm again. The two boys turned their backs and picked their way toward the path. Mia turned to the third, who stood, white-faced, on the rock.
“Will you abandon your friend also?”