Chapter 14 I DON’T BELONG HERE
“YE DON’T NEED to escort me … I’m sure Captain Black or one of his men would have.”
“Aye, I’m sure they would.” A stubborn edge she’d come to know well edged Craeg’s voice. “But I’d prefer to do it.”
Huffing an irritated sigh, Hazel tugged Duncan down the slope.
After three days of tending the folk of Moy Castle, she needed to stock up on yet more fresh herbs.
Thick hedgerows grew alongside the road that ran east of the castle.
She’d planned to pop out unnoticed, but the chieftain had seen her make for the gates with her donkey.
And now Craeg walked alongside her.
They’d caused a stir as they crossed the barmkin together.
Two lasses emerging from the bakehouse across the way then, arms laden with loaves of fresh bread, had spied them. Their eyes were as big as moons as they bowed their heads together and started whispering.
Irritation had quickened within Hazel. Didn’t people have better things to gossip about?
But if Craeg had noticed the whispering servants, he hadn’t let on.
Outside the walls, the wind ruffled his wavy hair and tugged at his lèine. His proximity made her feel oddly flustered. When he’d approached her in the barmkin, she’d throttled the urge to tidy her hair and brush dust from her kirtle.
They’d spent much time together over the past days—too much, if she was honest—but always in company.
She enjoyed seeing him, and was increasingly comfortable at Moy, but the man was always popping up like a mushroom.
Wherever she turned, there he was. He made frequent visits to the infirmary, just to see ‘how she was getting on’.
He also insisted on walking her indoors, and on her joining them for every meal in the hall.
“I’m not going far,” she said, not willing to submit just yet.
He flashed her a smile. “It’s no bother.”
Trying to ignore the melting sensation pooling in her belly, she cast a gaze around her.
This road took them alongside the run rigs where cottars grew rows of cabbages, neeps, and onions.
Men and women worked there, bent over their crops.
Hoeing and weeding. A few of them glanced up as Hazel and Craeg approached, curiosity lighting their gazes.
Ignoring them, Hazel led Duncan over to a hedgerow and began foraging through the weeds.
Locating a growth of coltsfoot, she withdrew a thin-bladed knife and cut it, placing the plant in the basket slung over her arm.
Meanwhile, her donkey, pleased to be out of the confines of the barmkin, snatched at grass.
“It’s a hard life ye lead, isn’t it?”
She glanced over at where Craeg watched her work. His arms were folded across his chest.
“Not as hard as some,” she replied, surprised by the question. “Luckily, I enjoy the herb-wife’s craft … and helping others.”
“Ye have worked miracles here, ye know?”
Her lips quirked. “Really?”
He smiled back. “Aye … the smith’s wife swears ye have eased her gout already.”
Hazel harrumphed. “I merely made her a brew of meadowsweet … and told her to stop eating meat for a while.” She didn’t add that she’d also advised Vera to stop swilling the strong sloe wine she brewed. The woman’s overindulgences would cause her more problems than gout if she continued.
“As I told ye, our healer recently retired. Auld Colin Garvie looked after us for years … but then his sight went. He left to live with his daughter in Craignure in late spring.” Craeg paused then. “It looks as if we are in need of someone else.”
Hazel inclined her head. “It seems ye are.”
Walking along the hedgerow, she located some mugwort. Her lips curved as she began to pick it. Siùsan had sworn by this herb—using it for all kinds of ailments, from fatigue to consumption.
They came upon a patch of nettles then. Donning a pair of leather gloves and taking another basket from Duncan’s back, she started picking the prickly leaves.
“Can I help ye?” Craeg asked, moving close and peering down at her as she worked.
Pausing, she gestured over at a hawthorn bush, ripe with berries. “I need some haws … but the thorns are wicked.”
“I’ll pick ye some.” He grabbed another empty basket from Duncan’s back. “I’ll just be careful.”
They worked in companionable silence for a short while. Hazel filled her basket with nettle leaves while Craeg gingerly plucked red haw berries from the bush. “Spending time with ye calms me, ye know?” he said eventually.
Hazel cut Craeg a glance. He hadn’t looked her way—he was too intent on avoiding getting his fingers stuck by thorns. Even so, she marked his earnestness. Her pulse fluttered. She wished he wouldn’t say such things. “Calms ye?”
“Aye. Ever since I returned to Mull and stepped into my new role, I’ve chafed to be elsewhere.”
“With Murray … fighting the English?”
“Aye.”
Hazel studied his profile for a moment. She’d sometimes marked the restlessness Lady Liza had mentioned. Occasionally, when he talked about the clan-chief’s son, Greig, or his other good frend, Ailean, who were on the mainland fighting the English, longing edged his voice.
“When we talk, the frustration eases … I feel like I’m where I should be,” he added then, flashing her an embarrassed look.
“And ye are,” she replied firmly. “Moy needs ye. Mull needs ye. If all our men went off to war, who would rule?”
His lips quirked. “Capable women like my mother.” He paused then, his gaze capturing hers once more. “Or ye.”
She shot him an arch look. “Me? A common-born herb-wife? I think not.”
“There’s nothing common about ye, Hazel.” His tone grew serious now, his dark eyes intense. “Something tells me, ye’d manage Moy admirably.”
Heat flushed over her, and she tore her attention back to the nettle bed.
God’s troth. What was the man blethering about? A woman like her would never be Lady of Moy.
A bastard born of vicious rape.
Queasiness assailed her as the past rose like a specter between them. Aye, rank separated them, but that wasn’t the worst of it. How would he look at her if he knew?
Craeg cursed then, yanking his hand from the hawthorn bush. Blood beaded on his fingertip before he sucked it. “Vicious wee bastard.”
His words shattered the tension between them, and Hazel managed a laugh. “A hard life, eh?”
He glanced her way, amusement sparking in his peat-brown eyes.
Their gazes fused then, and as the moment drew out, Hazel’s innards knotted.
Jezebel’s tits. She was sliding down an icy path now, gathering speed as she went.
And only trouble waited at the bottom.
Drawing a woolen shawl around her, Hazel moved to the open window.
The sun was setting beyond—a flare of crimson and gold.
It was more ominous than beautiful, and the anxiety that had been fluttering against her ribs like a moth all afternoon beat its wings once more.
She’d returned from foraging, Craeg walking at her side, more unsettled than ever.
“The longer ye stay, the harder it’ll be to leave,” she whispered aloud.
She leaned against the stone lintel then, watching the way the setting sun gilded the loch beyond.
Her time at Moy Castle had gone quickly.
She’d proved her worth repeatedly. The initial stream of patients had reduced to a trickle, and Lady Liza had recovered now.
Hazel was no longer needed at Moy. Of course, she could visit the castle, once a week if needed, but she couldn’t linger for much longer.
Not if she didn’t want to end up in Craeg Maclean’s bed.
Not if she didn’t want to ruin herself.
Aye, she wasn’t oblivious to the heat kindling between them again. The pull was getting harder to resist. And if she remained here, she’d eventually weaken. She’d eventually do something stupid.
His marriage was looming, and she’d be damned if she’d be here when his bride arrived.
She’d rather spend the rest of her life alone than be the mistress of a married man. Craeg hadn’t actually proposed such an arrangement, yet she wasn’t going to give him the chance to either.
If she didn’t set her own value, no one would. Aye, the past had left a stain upon her. She couldn’t help but blame herself for Rhona’s tragic end, but she wouldn’t let shame make her its prisoner. She wasn’t doomed by the start she’d had in life.
Jaw clenching, Hazel started to unfasten the sacking. She lowered it, blocking out the vermillion sunset. Alone in her bedchamber, she moved to the flickering hearth and lowered herself onto a stool.
Of course, there was another reason she’d been putting off returning home.
Her hunters.
A few days had passed since she’d overheard those men at the Lochbuie Inn. Perhaps they’d gotten tired of searching for her. Maybe they’d moved on.
She hoped so.
Her stay at Moy had given her a much-needed reprieve. But it was time to face the future. “I must get on with my life,” she told herself firmly. “I don’t belong here.”
Craeg Maclean was too far above her, and his fine castle was no place for a bastard. She’d gotten a taste of another life, yet it was like a borrowed gown. One she couldn’t keep.
Squaring her shoulders, she rose to her feet and crossed to the scuffed leather satchel she’d brought from her cottage. Her possessions were few; it wouldn’t take long to pack. And then, once she’d broken her fast the following morning, she’d leave.
Hazel pulled on Duncan’s lead rope, urging him faster.
The donkey plodded along the woodland path, his small hooves a tattoo on the packed earth. Above them, clouds had rolled in overnight—the first overcast day after weeks of balmy sunshine. The air was cooler now, carrying the whisper of autumn now that the harvest was well underway.
Hazel muttered an oath. Duncan had enjoyed his stay at Moy Castle, had loved the attention the stable lads had lavished on him. His sluggish pace made it clear he wasn’t ready to return home.
And, curse her, neither was she.
She’d slept fitfully the night before. She’d been too tense, her mind too active.