Chapter 4 Different Lives
CRAEG WATCHED HAZEL move about the cottage, gathering the ingredients for pottage.
The awkwardness between them was palpable now.
Her comment about him brooding over his fate had stung. Did she think he was some sulking lad who couldn’t handle the responsibilities of his position?
His jaw tightened. The woman was a stranger to him and far beneath him in rank, yet she spoke boldly. He shouldn’t care, but it galled him that she thought he was whining about a marriage most men would be grateful for. And maybe she was right. Maybe he was acting like a spoiled bairn.
The thought made his gut tighten. That wasn’t the impression he wanted to give the fascinating woman who’d just tended his injuries.
Hazel was full of pert questions and observations, yet there was vulnerability to her too.
Of course, there was. She’d recently lost her mother.
Nevertheless, her company caused the knot of tension in his gut to uncoil.
And if he was honest, the thought of spending the eve at her hearth wasn’t an unpleasant one.
Hazel pulled out a pot and began chopping up an onion with quick, efficient movements. She didn’t look at him or speak; she just worked in silence, focusing wholly on her task. However, a groove etched between her eyebrows once more, and her gaze turned inward.
Not wanting to intrude on the sorrow she clearly still struggled with, he glanced around the interior of the cottage then. Having grown up surrounded by kin and servants, he couldn’t imagine what it was like to live alone.
Craeg shifted on his stool, testing his ankle. The swelling hadn’t yet gone down, although the binding she’d applied gave it support. Now that she’d bound his chest, he’d put his lèine back on. The willow bark brew was helping to dull the pain in his ribs too.
Meanwhile, Hazel had deposited the onion into an iron pot that hung over the fire and was now dicing a neep.
He watched her work, admiring her slender, deft fingers. Once the vegetables were sizzling in lard, she added a few sprigs of thyme. The aromatic, woody scent drifted through the cottage.
Glancing up, he marked the bunches of dried herbs hanging from the rafters. Some he recognized, others he didn’t.
“What herbs do ye use most often?” he asked eventually. The silence was starting to get to him, and he wished to lighten the gloomy atmosphere a little. He also wanted her to think better of him.
She glanced at him, blinking as she emerged from her reverie. “For healing?”
“Aye.”
Hazel set down her knife and pointed to the bunch of herbs hanging directly overhead. “This is feverfew … for headaches and fevers.” Her voice was low and sure. “And next to it hangs meadowsweet … it eases pain and reduces swelling.”
Craeg’s gaze slid down to where bunches of delicate green stems with bright yellow flowers hung drying on the wall. “What’s that one?”
“Goatweed. Good for wounds and melancholy.” She gestured then to where a basket full of herbs sat on a narrow wooden workbench.
“And that’s today’s foraging … woundwort, which stops bleeding and prevents a wound from souring …
and comfrey for knitting broken bones.” She flashed him a smile that held a glimmer of the boldness she’d revealed earlier.
“Although ye’ll not be needing that today. ”
“And yer mother taught ye all of this?”
“She did.” Her throat worked, and she averted her gaze. “Her mother was also a herb-wife … and hers before that.”
“It must have been a wrench … to lose her.”
Hazel returned to her pot, adding a jug of broth to the simmering vegetables. A toothsome aroma now filled the air. “It was,” she said softly, avoiding his gaze.
“Can ye manage on yer own?”
Her chin kicked up, her blue eyes narrowing as her attention settled on him once more. “Aye.” Her voice was firm with a hint of steel in it.
Craeg studied her, completely forgetting his own cares now. What an enigma this woman was. He was determined to get the measure of her. “Ye were nervous when ye opened the door to me earlier,” he pointed out.
She shook her head, her jaw setting stubbornly, before she patted the sheathed knife tucked into her belt. “Aye … but I can look after myself.”
He eyed her, biting back the urge to remind her that a woman on her own was vulnerable, even if she knew how to wield a blade. Something in her eyes stopped him from being honest with her. Hazel was plucky, yet there was a brittleness to it, as if she was putting on a brave face for his benefit.
Another, uncomfortable, silence followed before he cleared his throat. “I can help ye prepare supper, if ye wish?”
She flashed him an incredulous look. “With that ankle? I think not.” There was a hint of amusement in her voice though, and he was relieved to hear it.
He snorted. “I can stir a pot as well as any man.”
“Can ye now?” One dark eyebrow arched. “And here was I thinking a chieftain wouldn’t know a cauldron from a chamber pot.”
Craeg snorted a laugh. He liked this woman. Her teasing made him want to spar with her. His mood lightened. “Not this one. I had to fend for myself when I was on campaign.”
She looked away then and sprinkled some salt into the bubbling pottage. “Tell me then, Craeg Maclean. What other skills do ye possess that might surprise me?”
The question was innocent enough, but the challenge in her tone made something kindle in his gut. The urge to boast, to impress her, surged up. “I can mend a torn sail. Gut a fish. Build a decent fire in the rain.”
“Impressive.” She wiped her hands on her apron before reaching for a small jar on the shelf. “Can ye also identify this?”
She held out the jar. Inside were dried leaves, pale green and slightly fuzzy.
Craeg leaned closer, squinting. “I’ve no idea.”
“Sage. Good for sore throats and healing wounds.” She set it back on the shelf. “And this?”
Another jar. This one held small dried flowers.
“Chamomile?”
Her eyebrows rose. “Well done.”
“My mother makes a brew with it,” he replied, flashing her a smile. “When she has trouble sleeping.” He paused then before continuing. “I too have taken to drinking it of late.”
She returned to the fire, stirring the pottage slowly. Steam rose from the pot, carrying the earthy scent of vegetables. “I also have restless nights,” she admitted before grimacing. “Although chamomile doesn’t help.”
His gaze roamed her face, and he marked the way her expression shuttered. “I’m not surprised,” he said, gentling his tone. “Ye are still grieving.”
A moment passed before she cleared her throat and abruptly turned from him. “Aye.” She picked up a wooden bowl and started to ladle pottage into it. She then handed him the bowl. “Here, it’s a simple supper … but it’ll fill yer belly.”
He accepted it gratefully, while she dished herself out some stew.
It was hot and savory. They ate in companionable silence, the earlier awkwardness fading with each bite.
Meanwhile, Hazel tossed Faolan a heel of stale oaten bread.
The wolfhound gnawed at it eagerly next to the hearth, his large paws holding the bread in place.
When Craeg had finished, he set his bowl aside and studied her once more, admiring the way the firelight caught in her long black hair, turning it to silk. He noted the delicate curve of her jaw and the fullness of her mouth.
Aye, she was striking. Fascinating. Feisty yet reticent.
Open yet reserved. She both intrigued and challenged him.
Being in her company settled his restlessness, his frustration at being stuck on Mull while Ailean and Greig fought for Scottish freedom—made him forget he’d just agreed to a betrothal he didn’t want.
For the first time in a long while, he was simply in the moment.
“Thank ye,” he said. “For the meal. For tending my wounds. For not throwing me out when I showed up bleeding on yer doorstep.”
Hazel’s lips quirked. “As if I’d treat anyone so roughly.”
Hazel’s pulse fluttered as she hung the curtain across the corner of the cottage.
For the first time ever, she’d share this space with a man overnight.
This cottage had always been a female domain. Just hers and Siùsan’s; a soft, safe refuge where nothing bad could touch them.
Until her mother had shattered her world.
An ache started to pulse in her chest. How she wished to confide in Craeg Maclean, to let the hurt pour out and share her secrets with a kind ear. But the Chieftain of Moy wasn’t a wise choice. He was easy company, yet a stranger, all the same.
Siùsan’s betrayal had made her cautious of letting her guard down.
Behind the curtain, Hazel quickly stripped off her kirtle.
Nervousness started to flutter in her belly then.
She’d handled herself confidently while she’d been tending his injuries and while she’d prepared and served supper.
But they were entering unfamiliar territory now.
She could hear Maclean moving about on the other side—the creak of the stool as he stood, the soft grunt as he tested his injured ankle.
Her brows drew together then. The chieftain had overstepped when he’d hinted she couldn’t manage on her own. Did he think she wouldn’t be safe here?
What about those men Ma told ye about … the ones asking questions in Lochbuie? Irritation spiked through her. She’d dismissed Siùsan’s warning, yet sometimes it still nagged at her like a twinging tooth. Ma misheard. There’s no danger.
Maybe Maclean was concerned that local lads might start paying her visits once they learned she lived alone—and that one might try to take advantage.
The thought made her breathing grow shallow.
She didn’t want men bothering her. She’d had just one lover over the years—who’d tried to mold her into someone she wasn’t—and wasn’t interested in getting entangled with another man like that.
However, she wouldn’t mind if someone as attractive and fascinating as Craeg Maclean showed up at her door again.
Chiding herself for entertaining such thoughts, Hazel pulled on a clean lèine—her longest one, that brushed her ankles—and tied it at the waist. She splashed water on her face from the basin, then ran her fingers through her hair, working out the tangles.
Her reflection in the small bronze looking glass showed flushed cheeks and overly bright eyes.
She wasn’t herself this evening. She felt younger. Lighter.
She frowned once more, giving herself a warning. Enough banter and teasing. Remember whom ye are talking to.
Taking a deep breath, she steadied herself and emerged from behind the curtain.
Maclean had removed his other boot and was sitting on the edge of the pallet she’d indicated. He now shrugged off his lèine. Casting the tunic aside, he glanced up when she appeared. His wolfhound had curled up next to the pallet and was already fast asleep.
Hazel felt his gaze travel down the length of her, taking in her unbound hair and the thin lèine that was all that stood between her and nakedness. Self-consciousness prickled her skin.
Cods. She should have thrown a shawl about her shoulders before emerging from behind the curtain. Cutting her gaze away, she darted toward her own bed in the opposite corner.
Slipping beneath the woolen blanket, she found herself painfully conscious of every sound. The creak of the pallet as he lay down. The crackle of the fire between them, banked for the night but still glowing.
Hazel drew in a deep breath and tried to relax. It was impossible. How could she when her chieftain had bedded down a few feet away? It would be a long night.