Chapter 6 The Delivery
“SHE SHOULD HAVE been honest with me, Duncan.” Hazel set down the wheelbarrow and grabbed her pitchfork.
She then stabbed it into the soiled straw.
“I had the right to know.” A few yards away, her donkey had picked up a twist of rope in his mouth and was swinging it around.
He was a playful beast and didn’t mind her.
Hazel muttered a curse. Just as well Duncan couldn’t understand her, since her lament was always the same.
She couldn’t let this go.
“I know so little about my real mother,” she continued, stabbing at the straw once more and lifting a forkful into the wheelbarrow. “She robbed me of her.”
Her eyes prickled then, as she imagined Rhona Maclean. Not for the first time, shame quickened her breathing.
Something occurred to her then, and she stilled in her work.
“Maybe Ma blamed me for her sister’s death,” she whispered.
“Maybe she sought to punish me for it … that’s why she never told me.
” Nausea washed over her then. Blaming herself was pointless, yet every time she thought about her birth mother, it was difficult not to feel some culpability.
Duncan snorted, dragging Hazel back to the present. “Look at me,” she muttered. “Blethering on to a donkey.”
In response, Duncan dropped the twist of rope before picking it up once more and flinging it across the yard.
Hazel huffed a sigh. “We should make a trip into Lochbuie, I suppose … we’re nearly out of oats now.”
Duncan tossed his head, as if in agreement.
Aye, she couldn’t put it off much longer. She was ready to face people now, strong enough to tell them of her ‘mother’s’ passing without giving herself away. The people of Lochbuie loved Siùsan Maclean. They deserved to know.
The rumble of wheels on the forest path made her freeze.
Hazel straightened, shading her eyes against the sun. Through the trees, she spotted a wagon making its way toward her cottage.
Her fingers tightened around the handle of her pitchfork. Occasionally, ailing villagers visited her for help, although things had been quiet of late. In truth, Siùsan’s tale had left her leery of strangers.
The wagon emerged into the clearing, pulled by a feather-footed garron. A grizzled man of middling age sat at the reins, and behind him, the wagon bed was piled with goods. Clay jars rattled as the man drew up his pony. The cart shuddered to a halt.
“Mistress Hazel?”
“Aye,” she replied, eyeing him.
The servant climbed down from his seat, his weathered face creasing into a smile. “I’ve a delivery from Moy Castle.”
Hazel frowned. “But I didn’t order anything.”
“No … but the laird was most insistent.” The servant gestured behind him. “Fresh cream. Aged cheese from the castle stores. And heather honey … enough to last ye a year, I’d wager.”
Hazel’s breathing caught. Cream. She’d apologized for not having any butter that morning, had mentioned needing to get to market.
But Maclean had remembered.
“I can’t accept this,” she said, even as her gaze lingered on the goods. It was a fortune in provisions. More than she could afford in a year of selling her remedies.
The servant huffed. “Maclean said ye’d say that. But he was very clear. Ye tended his injuries, and he pays his debts.” The man’s gaze traveled over her disheveled appearance, lingering just a moment too long. “Very clear indeed.”
Hazel stiffened. His tone made her hackles rise.
“It wasn’t like that,” she said sharply.
“Of course not, mistress.” But the slight quirk of his mouth suggested he thought otherwise. “Shall I unload it for ye?”
Hazel wanted to refuse. Wanted to send it all back with a curt message that she didn’t need charity—or whatever else people might think this was.
But cream, rich and delicious. And honey. They were luxuries indeed.
“Very well,” she said finally. “Set it inside the cottage.” She didn’t have much storage space, but she’d find room, somehow.
The servant made quick work of unloading, carrying the heavy pot of cream and the wrapped wheels of cheese into her cottage while Hazel stood in the yard, arms crossed, feeling embarrassed and pleased in equal measure.
Duncan ambled over, snuffling at the wagon hopefully.
“There’s nothing for ye, greedy beast,” she told him. He snorted, nudging her in the ribs.
“While I’m here … can I trouble ye for a remedy?” The man had emerged from her cottage and now approached.
“Aye,” she replied. “What ails ye?”
“My gut.” Lowering his hand, he rubbed the paunch that strained against his tucked-in lèine. “It’s sour these days … especially after I’ve eaten.”
Hazel nodded. That sounded like a common enough ailment.
“I’ll fetch ye a tincture,” she replied, businesslike now.
Returning to her cottage, she set about mashing up dried mint, lemon balm, and wormwood into a powder with a pestle and mortar.
She then added some cooled boiled water and decanted the liquid into a clay bottle.
When she re-emerged, the servant had hauled himself back up onto his seat and gathered the reins.
“Here,” she handed him the bottle. “Take a mouthful before or after each meal. It should help.”
He nodded his thanks, sliding the bottle into a pouch at his belt. “What do I owe ye?”
“Nothing,” she said, waving him off.
“Are ye sure?”
“Aye.”
“Any message ye wish me to carry back to Moy?” he asked. The sly glint in his eye made irritation spike through her.
“Just my thanks,” she replied, wishing the man would be on his way.
He flashed her a smile. “As ye wish, mistress. Good day to ye.”
The stares at market were starting to vex Hazel.
They’d begun the moment she led Duncan into Lochbuie—eyes tracking her movements, heads turning, and murmured comments.
Their behavior confused her. Had news of Siùsan’s passing already reached them?
And if it had, weren’t they sorry to hear she was dead?
Despite that her own feelings toward the woman she’d recently learned was her aunt were conflicted, she’d expected the villagers to express sorrow, or at the very least, sympathy.
Instead, the pointed looks and whispers made her temper simmer.
Callous bastards.
Liar or not, Siùsan didn’t deserve such disrespect.
Jaw tight, she stalked toward the egg-seller’s stall.
Duncan’s hooves clip-clopped on the packed earth, the baskets strapped to his back swaying with each step.
Around them, the market bustled with its usual chaos—fishwives hawking their catches; farmers selling neeps, carrots, and cabbages; and the yeasty scent of fresh bread drifting from the baker’s stall.
She’d brought her healing herbs with her to market—tucked into a satchel slung across her front—just in case any of the locals needed them.
Usually, folk approached her, asking for balms to heal ulcers, unguents for strained muscles, or tinctures for belly complaints. But today, no one came to her for help.
She caught sight of two women standing by the fishwife’s stall then. One murmured something, and the other smirked. And then they both looked at her.
Heat rolled over Hazel, and she choked back the urge to snarl at the besoms. How dare they?
Both women had known Siùsan. She’d helped deliver their bairns. Their cruelty stung.
She spied Ewan then, amongst the crowd. A big man with wavy flaxen hair who was haggling with a hunter selling hares and grouse.
The woodcutter was at market with his wife and bairn.
His son perched upon his broad shoulders, while his wife’s belly was swollen with her second pregnancy.
Husband and wife were both smiling. Content.
Mercifully, Hazel’s former lover hadn’t seen her yet.
Things had ended on a sour note between them five summers earlier.
These days though, he appeared to have left his disappointment behind him.
Her gaze flicked back to Ewan’s wife. She wore a serene expression as she watched her husband haggle.
She looked sweet. Biddable. Exactly the sort of woman Hazel wasn’t.
Resentment pricked at her, an old scar that pulled sometimes. There was a price for a husband’s protection, one she’d always been reluctant to pay—and as a consequence, Ewan had walked out of her life.
Turning away, she tugged Duncan to a halt before the egg vendor.
A portly man with a bulbous nose flashed her a grin. “Morning, Hazel!” His greeting was jovial. Overly so. “It’s been a while.”
She nodded. “I’ll have two dozen eggs.”
“Of course.” He started packing eggs into the straw-filled basket she passed him. “I hear ye have been busy of late.”
Hazel stiffened. “Busy?”
“Aye … patching up our braw young chieftain.”
Her heart kicked, anger washing over her in a crimson wave.
Suddenly, she understood.
The stares. The whispers. It wasn’t about Siùsan. They were gossiping about her and Maclean.
Her heart started to pound. I’ll bet it was that servant.
“I haven’t been humping the chieftain, Blyth.” She ground the words out, enjoying the shock that rippled across his face. “I’ve had more important things to worry about … since my mother died.”
That doused the leer in his eyes. “Och, lass,” he murmured. “I’m sorry.”
Heat pulsed in her belly. “So am I.”
Blyth handed over the basket of eggs, and she pressed a copper penny into his palm.
And then, before he could say anything else, she turned away.
Duncan snorted as she placed the eggs inside one of his pannier baskets.
“Don’t,” she muttered to the donkey. “Not a word.”
Moving through the market, she gathered what she needed—oats, dried peas, and salt. At each stall, it was the same. The veiled looks. The whispers that stopped when she drew near. The smiles that suggested people thought they knew exactly what had happened between her and the Chieftain of Moy.
Some she told about Siùsan’s passing. Others she merely ignored. They’d all hear soon enough, anyway. The tongues in this village flapped like washing in the wind.
She was a private person by nature. On one hand, it was a relief to know that the locals weren’t sneering about Siùsan, yet the real reason for their stares galled her.
God’s troth. Did everyone think Maclean had made her his mistress?
Her temper spiked once more. She wasn’t some man’s ‘other woman’.
By the time she reached the onion seller’s stall, she was seething.
“Onions,” she snapped at the frail woman behind the display. “Two dozen.”
The vendor selected the onions with agonizing slowness, placing each carefully in a cloth sack. “I hear our chieftain’s to be wed soon,” she said conversationally. “To the Macquarie lass.”
Hazel’s fingers tightened on Duncan’s lead rope. “So I’ve heard.”
“Aye, well.” The woman tied off the sack and handed it over. “Some lasses have all the luck, eh?”
Hazel drew in a deep breath and prayed for forbearance. “I wish them both the best,” she replied coldly.
The woman chuckled.
Jamming the sack of onions into another of Duncan’s panniers, Hazel turned to leave. She was done with the market this morning. She wasn’t yet finished shopping, but she’d come back another day for the rest.
At that moment, the pannier strap snapped, and the basket tipped sideways.
Hazel lunged for it. Too late. The basket tumbled to the ground, spilling onions across the packed earth. They rolled in every direction—under carts, between feet, one bouncing off a scratching fowl that squawked indignantly.
“Satan’s stinking bollocks!” Hazel snarled, dropping to her knees.
Around her, people stopped to stare. Of course they did. She could almost hear their whispers.
Did ye hear the foul mouth on the herb-wife?
Ye can’t be surprised … the woman’s a strumpet.
Grabbing for the nearest onion, she barely marked the thud of boots on earth until a hand reached past her, plucking up an onion that had rolled against a cartwheel.
“Here.”
Hazel’s chin kicked up, a curse clawing its way up her throat as she met a pair of frank peat-brown eyes.
Craeg Maclean crouched beside her, holding out an onion. He wore a simple lèine and braies, his wavy dark hair framing his face. Hunting boots hugged his muscular calves. A sash of bright red of the Maclean plaid crossed his chest. A dirk hung at his hip. He looked every inch the laird.
Behind him stood four warriors, all looking on with barely concealed amusement.