Chapter 5 A Good Wife
HAZEL WOKE TO the soft grey light of dawn filtering through the shutters.
For a moment, she lay still, listening. The cottage was quiet save for the steady rhythm of breathing from across the room.
She had a few blessed instants of peace, and then the burn in her gut began. It was a familiar sensation these days—hurt and anger looking for release. However, for a while the evening before, as she’d sat by the fire with Maclean, she’d had a reprieve.
Now though, the resentment returned, biting hard.
How could ye, Siùsan?
Mornings were the worst. Her mother had always risen earlier than her. For years, she’d awoken to the hum of Siùsan’s voice as she sang to herself while she worked, and the comforting smell of simmering porridge. But ever since her death, only suffocating silence greeted Hazel each morning.
She hated it.
Throat tight, she slipped from beneath her blanket, rose to her feet, and skirted the faintly glowing hearth on tiptoe, careful not to wake her guest.
Moving behind the curtain, she dressed quickly.
When she emerged, Maclean was still asleep, one arm flung over his head, his dark hair tousled against the pillow.
In sleep, the lines of tension that had marked his face yesterday had smoothed.
He looked young. At peace. The blanket had slipped down, revealing his bandaged torso.
The hair on his chest tapered down to a line that traced the center of his flat belly, arrowing straight down to—
Realizing she was staring, Hazel jerked her gaze away.
Best ye stop that, lass. Aye, he was a feast for the eyes, but if the chieftain woke up and found her ogling him, things would get uncomfortable indeed.
Turning, she set about rekindling the fire.
A wet nose nudged her hand then, and she glanced down to see a pair of soulful dark eyes gazing up at her.
Maclean’s wolfhound had awoken and come looking for affection.
Smiling, Hazel stroked his rough coat. Faolan was a big dog, with jaws that could do a lot of damage, yet there was a gentleness to him.
She scratched behind his ears before turning back to her task.
Once the flames were dancing merrily, she fetched her griddle and the bag of oat flour from the shelf.
Often, she made herself porridge to break her fast. But today was special.
She had company, and this morning, she’d prepare some bannocks.
She even had heather honey to drizzle over the griddle scones.
Mixing the flour with water and a pinch of salt, she formed the dough with practiced hands.
The task reminded her of the countless times she’d made griddle scones as she chatted to Siùsan.
The memories were bittersweet, yet the familiar ritual soothed her, grounded her.
Fashioning the dough into a flat round, she then placed it upon the griddle.
It wasn’t long before a nutty aroma filled the cottage.
“Something smells good.”
Hazel startled. Turning, she found her guest sitting up, rubbing sleep from his eyes. He’d pulled on his lèine, and his hair was mussed. He looked deliciously rumpled.
Isla Macquarie is a lucky woman indeed, she thought ruefully.
“I hope ye like bannocks?” she replied, smiling.
“Aye.” He stood up, testing his ankle. A wince crossed his face, but he managed to walk to the table without limping too badly. “Love them.”
“How’s yer ankle?”
“Stiff … but not as painful as yesterday.”
Hazel nodded, pleased. The cut on his temple had scabbed well too. He was young and resilient. His hurts would heal fast.
“And yer ribs?”
He grimaced. “Sore. Every time I rolled over last night, pain woke me.”
“Cracked ribs hurt … as I said. Ye will need to rest for a day or two.”
He nodded, although she could tell by the glint in his eye that he wouldn’t heed her.
“Almost ready.” She turned back to the hot griddle and then flipped the bannock. Its base was golden brown, and her mouth watered. “I’m afraid I’ve no butter to offer ye. I’ve been meaning to get to market and buy some cream.”
“Honey will do just fine.”
Once the bannock was ready, she flipped it onto a wooden trencher and cut it up into wedges. Steam rose from the cake as she set it on the table between them. Then, she handed Craeg a jar of honey and a small wooden spoon. “Dig in.”
Smiling his thanks, he helped himself to a wedge of bannock and set about smearing honey onto it—not too much, she noticed, as if he was worried about using her precious stores. He then took a large bite and closed his eyes.
The groan that rumbled in his throat caused her to still. The masculine sound made heat flare in her lower belly. By the saints.
“Very good.”
“Glad ye like them.” She busied herself with her own bannock.
They ate in silence, and as the moments slid by, an easy, companionable sensation filtered through Hazel—as if they’d shared breakfast a hundred times before. The burn in her belly eased a little, as did the hollow sensation in her chest.
Instead, she found herself increasingly aware of her guest. Small things—the way he licked honey from his thumb, the flex of his forearm as he reached for his cup of boiled water, and the dark shadow of beard upon his strong jaw.
Aye, it was hard not to envy his bride-to-be. She had to admit that she liked having this man around.
The sudden thunder of hooves intruded then.
Hazel’s head snapped toward the door. Her heart kicked hard as Faolan started barking.
Maclean was already on his feet, hobbling toward the door. He didn’t bother to put on his boots. Hazel followed him.
They emerged into the cool morning air just as a horse and rider came into view through the trees. A tall man with wild blond hair, leading a chestnut stallion by the reins.
“Alec!” Maclean greeted him.
Hazel took in the man with more interest. Alec Rankin. Captain of the Moy Guard. Although she’d never met him, Rankin’s reputation as a warrior of renown and a loyal husband to Lady Liza preceded him.
He pulled his mount to a halt, sharp sea-blue eyes taking in the scene—Moy’s newly invested chieftain standing barefoot in the doorway of the herb-wife’s cottage, his lèine rumpled and grass-stained, and Hazel hovering just behind him.
Faolan pushed his way out, tail wagging now that he recognized the newcomer.
“Ruadh came back without ye last night,” Rankin said, his tone veiled. “I’ve been searching since dawn.”
Maclean limped forward to greet his stepfather. Spying his owner, the stallion tossed his head, as if issuing him a challenge. “A boar spooked Ruadh, and he threw me.”
Rankin’s gaze shifted to Hazel. “And ye took shelter here.”
It wasn’t a question, but Hazel found herself answering anyway. “The chieftain needed tending. He’s cracked a rib, I believe.”
“I see.” Rankin dismounted smoothly. “Can ye ride?”
“Of course,” Maclean replied. “I’ll just need a leg up into the saddle … my ankle’s badly sprained.”
Ruadh tossed his head then and snorted, sidestepping. He’d just marked the small grey donkey that had peeked its head out of its lean-to. Duncan hadn’t made a sound, yet it was clear the stallion didn’t like donkeys—some horses couldn’t abide them.
Rankin nodded before his attention returned to Hazel. “How’s Siùsan these days? I haven’t seen her in a long while.”
Hazel’s pulse quickened. “She died … recently.” She gestured then, to the small grave underneath the oak a few yards distant. “She’d been ailing for a while … I tried every remedy I knew to save her, but nothing worked.”
Rankin’s gaze shadowed. “I’m sorry, lass.”
The simple, sincere condolence made Hazel’s throat tighten. “Thank ye.”
“She was a good woman.”
A lump rose in her throat. “Aye … she was.” The words tasted bitter. Siùsan had possessed a big heart and a caring nature—but what she’d done to Hazel was difficult to forgive.
A strained silence settled, and then Rankin turned back to the chieftain. “Ready?”
Maclean nodded, but his gaze found hers. “Thank ye.”
She waved him away. “No thanks is required … it was the least I could do for my chieftain.”
“Yer hospitality was fine indeed.” Maclean’s voice was firm. He ignored his stepfather’s presence, focusing wholly on her. “And I won’t forget it.”
Before she could answer, he’d turned and was limping back toward the cottage. He emerged moments later wearing his boots. Rankin helped him mount Ruadh before vaulting up onto his own horse’s back.
Maclean’s gaze dropped to hers, and his lips curved into a smile. “Go well, Hazel.”
She looked up at him, giving him an answering smile as she pulled her shawl tight about her shoulders. “And ye, Maclean.”
“Craeg Leod Maclean of Moy.” Hamish Macquarie’s voice rumbled through the hall. “Do ye accept my daughter’s hand in marriage?”
Craeg’s pulse quickened. Events were moving swiftly now. After he’d sent Macquarie a missive, agreeing to the match, the chieftain was keen to formalize things with a betrothal ceremony.
Moy Castle’s hall was quieter today. No roaring crowd.
No thunder of approval. Just a small gathering of witnesses—Craeg’s mother and Alec, Lena, and a handful of Macquarie clansmen who’d traveled here with their chieftain.
Ailean and Greig were absent. They’d already left Mull, traveling to the mainland, to Andrew Murray’s side.
Christ’s rood, he wished he were with them. He belonged in battle. Rank and responsibilities didn’t matter there, and neither did the stain he carried. Macquarie’s use of his full name, which included his father’s, made his mouth sour.
But he wasn’t fighting for Scottish freedom. Instead, he stood before the dais, his left ankle bound beneath his boot. His ribs were still sore, although not as uncomfortable as before. Three days had passed since he’d woken in Hazel’s cottage to the smell of bannocks.
And the spirited herb-wife had lingered in his thoughts ever since.
Inconvenient indeed, for Isla stood at his side, her hands clasped before her. She wore a fine kirtle of deep green, and her golden-brown hair had been carefully braided and wrapped around the crown of her head.
Her gaze remained fixed on the floor.
Craeg’s gut tightened. He tried to imagine those downcast eyes flashing with amusement as Hazel’s had when she’d teased him. He tried to picture this quiet, sheltered lass standing in her cottage with a sheathed knife at her belt, declaring she could look after herself.
He couldn’t. All the same, he hoped Hazel was safe and well. Despite her assurances to the contrary, a woman living alone was vulnerable.
“I do,” he said.
A grin split Hamish’s face. “Then let it be known that Isla Macquarie is betrothed to Craeg Maclean. The wedding will take place on the twentieth day of September.”
Craeg’s pulse kicked into a canter, even as his chest grew tight.
He had just under two months of freedom left.
His mother stepped forward, embracing him. But when she pulled back, her dark eyes searched his face with shrewd perception. “All is well?”
“Aye,” he replied. What else could he say? He’d agreed to this.
A few yards back, Alec raised his cup in a silent toast, meeting Craeg’s eye for a few moments.
Craeg nodded to his stepfather, yet quickly averted his gaze.
Alec was even shrewder than his mother. Meanwhile, Lena looked on.
Her blue eyes sparkled, just like when he’d been sworn in as chieftain.
At her age, the idea of marriage seemed exciting and romantic.
She often chattered on about the brave, handsome man she’d one day meet and fall in love with.
Liza’s gaze lingered a moment longer before she turned to Isla. “I look forward to welcoming ye to Moy as my daughter-by-marriage.”
“Thank ye,” Isla murmured.
Silence fell then. Craeg knew he should say something. It was expected. “The Macleans of Mull are fortunate indeed,” he said, wishing they weren’t so awkward together. His bride-to-be struggled to meet his eye.
Isla glanced up briefly, then away, her throat working.
“I hope—” she began, her voice barely above a whisper. “I hope I’ll be a good wife to ye.”
The words were spoken earnestly, yet they made something twist in Craeg’s chest. Guilt.
“I’m sure ye will be,” he replied, his voice gentling.
Isla’s fingers trembled as she accepted the cup of wine a servant offered. She took a small sip, then handed it to Craeg. The betrothal cup. He was meant to drink from it, sealing their union.
He lifted it to his lips. The wine was one of his mother’s finest Iberian reds. It should have tasted like celebration.
Instead, it tasted like vinegar.
He thought of another cup. Willow bark powder mixed with water, bitter on his tongue. Hazel’s capable hands offering it to him. The way she’d sat back on her heels and studied him with those startling blue eyes, unafraid to speak her mind.
Why couldn’t he be betrothed to a woman like that?
“To the happy couple,” Hamish boomed, raising his own cup.
Sitting beside Isla at the chieftain’s table, Craeg was painfully aware of the tension between them.
Conversation flowed around the betrothed couple—Hamish regaling Alec with hunting stories, Lena giggling at something Cameron Macquarie, the laird’s son, had just said. Laughter echoed off the stone walls.
But at the center of it all, silence.
Reaching for his wine, Craeg searched for something to say. “How was yer passage from Ulva?”
“Smooth.” Isla’s voice was barely audible. She pushed a piece of roast venison around her trencher. “The weather was fair.”
“Good. That’s … good.” Good? God’s teeth, couldn’t he do better than that?
More excruciating silence followed.
Clearing his throat, he tried again. “Do ye enjoy riding?”
“I suppose,” She wouldn’t look at him. “When required.”
“How do ye like spending yer time then?”
“I work at my loom often,” she replied softly. “And help my mother in our garden.”
The mention of a garden reminded him, traitorously, of Hazel. “Ye are fond of plants then?”
She nodded, giving him nothing.
The conversation died yet again. Craeg took another gulp of wine, wishing he could be anywhere else.
Glancing at Isla’s profile, he noticed the tension in her jaw. She was nervous, aye. But there was something else in the rigid set of her shoulders.
Wariness. Fear, even.
“Isla—” he started.
“Neither of us wants this,” she blurted out, before pressing her lips together as if shocked by her own boldness.
Craeg stilled. “What?”
She shook her head quickly, her cheeks flushing. “Forgive me.”
“No … speak yer mind. Please.”
But she’d already retreated into herself, her gaze dropping to her trencher. “It’s nothing. I misspoke.”