Chapter 9 Black Hair. Blue Eyes
THE ELDERLY WOMAN’S hands were gnarled like tree roots.
Hazel knelt beside her, gently working the salve into the swollen joints. The cottage was dim and stuffy despite the summer warmth outside, the air thick with the smell of peat smoke.
“Does that ease the pain, Elspeth?” she asked softly.
“Och, aye.” The woman sighed, her weathered face relaxing. “Ye have yer mother’s touch, lass. God rest her soul.”
Hazel’s throat started to ache. Lord, I miss her.
Five days had passed since her visit to Lochbuie market. And with the passing of each one, the kernel of bitterness lodged deep in her chest had softened. Hearing the genuine respect and affection for Siùsan in Elspeth’s voice made grief break over her in a rogue wave. “Thank ye.”
Across the smoky room, seated by the hearth, Elspeth’s husband, Malcolm, cleared his throat. “We were sorry to hear of her passing,” he said gruffly. “Siùsan had a big heart. Kept to herself … but was always there when we needed her.”
“She was.” Trying to ignore the pain that had now spread to her chest, she finished applying the salve and reached into her basket for the clay jar she’d prepared.
Siùsan had kept the truth from Hazel, but until that fateful conversation, she’d been her world.
Her absence had left a void. “This is comfrey and willow bark mixed with goose grease. Use it morning and night. It should help with the joint ache.”
Elspeth accepted the jar with trembling fingers. “What do we owe ye?”
“A copper penny will do.”
“That’s not enough, lass.”
“It’s plenty.” Hazel stood, wiping her hands upon a damp cloth. Truth was, she could barely afford to charge so little. But Elspeth and Malcolm were poor as kirk mice, and she wouldn’t take food from their mouths.
Malcolm rose stiffly and crossed to a shelf, returning with a single penny and a wrapped bundle. “Then take this too. Fresh bannocks. Morag next door made them this morning.”
The gesture brought tears to Hazel’s eyes. “Ye don’t need to do that.”
“We want to.” Elspeth’s gaze was shrewd despite her age. “Ye are alone now. No shame in accepting help.”
Alone. Hazel’s breathing quickened. Aye, loneliness had started to gnaw at her of late. Anger had been easier to deal with. Solitude gave her too much time to think, and even Duncan’s easy company couldn’t ease the hollowness in her chest.
Accepting the bundle, she tucked it into her basket alongside her other supplies.
“There’s talk in the village,” Malcolm said then, his tone wary. “About ye and the Maclean.”
Hazel stilled, even as her heart jolted. “It’s just gossip.”
“We know that.” Elspeth reached out, patting Hazel’s hand with her twisted fingers. “But others might not be so understanding. A young chieftain, betrothed to another … folks will draw their own conclusions.”
“There’s nothing between us,” Hazel said, even as irritation bubbled up.
“He took a tumble from his horse, and I tended him. That’s all.
People need to mind their own business.” The words came out sharper than intended.
Softening her tone, she added, “I’m not foolish enough to get tangled up with a chieftain. ”
Elspeth and Malcolm exchanged a glance—the kind of wordless communication that came from long years of marriage. Finally, Elspeth nodded. “Sorry, lass … we didn’t mean to upset ye.”
“Ye haven’t.” Hazel squeezed the old woman’s hand gently, mindful of the aching joints. “I’ll check on ye again in a fortnight.”
Leaving their cottage, she emerged into bright afternoon sunlight. The village was busy—women hanging washing, bairns chasing a dog through the lane, the ring of a hammer from the smithy. Normal summer sounds that should have been soothing.
But Hazel wasn’t in the mood to appreciate the beautiful day.
A plague on the wagging tongues of Lochbuie. People needed to find someone else to whisper about. Her throat tightened then, disappointment twisting. She’d have expected better from Elspeth and Malcolm.
Walking through the village with her basket over her arm, she held her head high.
She’d left Duncan behind this afternoon, for it was quicker to travel into the village and back without him.
A few people nodded to her in passing. Blyth, the egg-seller, called out a greeting.
She responded politely but didn’t stop to chat.
She’d nearly reached the edge of the village when she approached the ale house.
It was a ramshackle building that leaned slightly to one side, as if weary from holding up drunken patrons for so many years. The door stood open, and the warm day had driven men outside. They sat on benches and upturned barrels, drinking and talking in the summer heat.
Hazel would have walked straight past if not for the voices.
“—Rhona Maclean.” The accent wasn’t local. “Have ye heard of her?”
Ice washed over Hazel. Lurching to a halt, she moved into the shadow of an alder tree beside the ale house. Fortunately, no one had seen her.
Carefully, she peeked out at the group of men. Three burly newcomers sat with the locals, their clothes dusty from travel. They wore no clan sashes, so there was no way of knowing where they were from. But she knew. Macquaries.
“Rhona.” The miller scratched his stubbled chin. “Aye … there was a woman by that name. Died years ago, though.”
“Aye … in childbirth.” An older man added, a grizzled cottar who worked the fields outside Lochbuie.
“And the bairn?”
“The poor wee mite died with her mother.” The cottar frowned then. “Why?”
The biggest of the three men—a bald warrior with a pugnacious jaw—muttered an oath under his breath. “Very well … we’re looking for a woman. Black hair. Blue eyes. Lives somewhere in these parts.”
“Black hair and blue eyes?” Another one of the villagers snorted a laugh. “That’s half the lasses in Lochbuie, that is.”
“She’s likely to be tall.”
Hazel’s heart hammered so hard she thought they must hear it. Her fingers tightened on her basket until the handle bit into her palm.
“Could be talking about old Morag up the hill,” a fisherman suggested. “Though her hair’s more grey than black these days.”
One of the newcomers made an annoyed sound in the back of his throat. “She’ll be younger … around thirty summers.”
Dizziness assailed Hazel. Christ’s bones.
“Why are ye looking for her?” The miller asked, suspicion creeping into his voice. “Is she in some kind of trouble?”
“Are ye insinuating that Rhona’s bairn lived?” the cottar added, incredulous now.
The bald man grunted. “Maybe.”
“Well, ye are wasting yer time, pal. Lochbuie’s a small place. We’d know if—”
Hazel didn’t wait to hear more. Turning sharply, she headed back the way she’d come, walking as fast as she dared without breaking into a run. Her pulse roared in her ears.
Oh God. Oh God.
She’d dismissed her mother’s warning, yet Siùsan had been right. Men were looking for her.
Ducking down a narrow lane between cottages, she pressed herself against the wall, trying to catch her breath. Her hands shook. The basket of herbs trembled.
Black hair. Blue eyes. Tall. Around thirty.
Aye, there were a handful of women in Lochbuie who fitted that description. But how long before those men questioned them all? How long before someone pointed them toward her cottage?
Hazel’s hand went to the hilt of the knife tucked into her belt. She thought of Duncan and her garden and her quiet, simple life. What do the Macquaries want with me? She wanted to reassure herself that these men wished her no harm, but her gut told her otherwise.
How she wished Siùsan had been able to give her answers.
Closing her eyes, she forced herself to breathe slowly. To think.
She needed help. But to whom could she turn?
The answer came unbidden, unwelcome.
Craeg Maclean.
Her belly pitched. No. She couldn’t involve him. She had to handle this on her own.
No one could learn her secret.
This was why Siùsan had kept the truth from her. She’d wanted to protect Hazel from scandal and shame. She was a product of rape. She’d killed her own mother. Such knowledge was a burden, and it wasn’t something she wanted others to learn about.
Opening her eyes, she continued down the narrow lane. The men would be busy for a while yet. And while they asked more questions, she’d take another path into the woods.
Once she got back to her cottage, she’d bar the door and keep her knife close.
And then, she had to decide what to do.
Whether to run, as Siùsan had begged her to.
Or to stay and fight for the only home she’d ever known.
The stallion shifted as Craeg lifted his hoof.
“Easy, Ruadh.” He ran his hand along the horse’s leg, soothing him.
The barmkin was warm with afternoon sun, and sweat trickled down his spine beneath his lèine.
Around him, the castle hummed with activity—servants hauling water from the well, the rhythmic clang echoing out from the small forge, a fowl scratching in the dirt.
Bracing the hoof between his knees, Craeg examined the shoe. Loose, just as he’d suspected. He’d need to pull it and fit a new one before the iron did damage.
“Shall I fetch the farrier, Maclean?” Nat called from across the yard.
“No need. I can manage.” Craeg reached for his tools.
He’d shod horses since he was a lad—it was satisfying work.
It also distracted him from the restlessness that still churned in his belly.
His new life brought with it plenty of responsibilities.
He was busy from dawn till dusk, yet couldn’t seem to outrun his demons. However, he could make himself useful.
Nearly a moon had passed since he’d stepped into his new role. Somehow, it felt longer. Each morning, he awoke to a suffocating sensation he did his best to quash.