Chapter Thirty-Four
The minister finished the final prayer. Then he closed his Bible and bowed his head. Silence descended over the company in the churchyard as the trio who stood apart from the main group shuffled toward the open grave.
Murdoch, with his children Ailsa and Billy.
The huge Highlander unfolded a piece of paper in his hand. Then Ailsa linked her arm with his, tilted her head to meet her father’s gaze, and nodded while Billy clung to his hand.
A baby cried, quickly silenced, then Murdoch spoke.
“May we hear her in the breath of the Highland wind.
May we see her in the light of the winter sun.
May we feel her warmth by the hearth of our home.
We will remember her when the day is done.”
Mia blinked, her eyes stinging with the tears she fought to keep at bay. A hand touched her shoulder and she reached for it, running her fingertips over the roughened skin.
“Hamish…”
“Aye, Mia, I know.”
She leaned against him, succumbing to her need for his strength. He dipped his head and she felt his warm lips brush the top of her head.
“Come, lass,” he whispered. “Let them say their last goodbye to Evie. We have our duty to be strong for our clan.”
Our clan…
He paused, and when she whispered her consent, he linked his arm through hers.
He turned and nodded to Reverend Sutherland, who began reciting a prayer.
Then he led her through the company, who parted and bowed their heads.
Eilidh followed, Iona by her side. Then the rest of the clan lined up behind them, forming a procession toward the castle building.
The great hall, no longer a makeshift hospital, had been transformed. Long tables lined the perimeter, laden with pies, soups, and roasts. A feast to honor the departed—ten souls in all, of whom Evie was the last to be buried.
Mia caught her breath as she recalled the last time she’d seen the great hall ready for a feast—the wedding feast that her arrival had interrupted. The man beside her now, the disappointed bridegroom, paused, as if recalling the same memory.
“Forgive me, Mia,” he whispered, his eyes glistening.
Were his tears for Evie, for his clan…or for her?
“What for?”
“For everything,” he said. “For not taking the vaccine—which brought about deaths that will lie heavy on my soul—and for causing so much work for ye while my people suffered. But most of all…” His voice cracked and he closed his eyes, his nostrils flaring as he inhaled.
When he opened them again, moisture pooled in the corners.
“Most of all, for not being the husband ye deserve. For not loving ye as ye deserve.”
Mia’s heart clenched.
He had said it. Though he begged forgiveness—his humble plea only making her love him more—in the same breath he admitted that he didn’t love her.
She would have borne it better had he been a cruel man.
But he was not. He was a man of honor, loyal to his clan and the people who depended on him. And to not be loved by such a man…
“There’s nothing to forgive,” she said. “And if there were, you’d have my forgiveness without needing to ask.”
He led her toward the high table at the far end, seated her in the center, then sat beside her.
The company followed, pausing before them to nod in greeting before taking their seats—first Eilidh and Iona, who took the seats either side of Mia and Hamish, then the rest of the clan.
When Murdoch approached, he paused and bowed his head.
“Laird MacLennan, Lady MacLennan…”
Mia opened her mouth to protest, and Hamish squeezed her hand.
“Please, Mia,” he whispered. “Today, ye’re my wife and Lady of Glenblath, even if ye wish ye weren’t.”
She glanced at him, but his face was in profile and she couldn’t see his full expression. But she caught a glimmer of moisture in his eyes. Then he blinked and it was gone.
After the company was seated, the feast began, to honor the lost souls and give thanks for those who had survived. Amid the backdrop of soft music, the company ate, their conversation muted, the deep tones reminiscent of the sounds of the river.
How she would miss them—the servants and tenants who now looked upon her with affection and gratitude.
The handful who still made their dislike clear—Shona, and one or two others—could not lessen her sense of belonging.
But she would be leaving, once Iona’s child arrived.
Hamish had raised funds to repay most of her dowry, and a letter had arrived from Portia offering Mia a home and expressing her desire to see her again.
A light hand touched hers and Mia turned to see Eilidh watching her, compassion in her clear green eyes.
“Are ye well, lass?”
Mia nodded, unable to speak lest her sorrow betray her.
“Today’s not a day to be unhappy, lass. Evie wouldnae have wished it.”
“I-I know, Eilidh. She’s at peace now.”
“Och, lass, I wasnae referring to yer sorrow over Evie’s passing. I was referring to yerself, and how ye’re soon to be leaving us once Iona’s had her bairn.”
The man beside Mia stiffened.
“Has young Brodie been giving ye satisfaction?” Eilidh continued, then she glanced at Hamish as his knife slipped to the floor and fell with a clatter.
He turned his gaze to her, his expression hardening. Eilidh merely smiled and nodded to him.
“Brodie’s been so helpful, son,” she said. “Not content with fetching and carrying for yer sister, even though she’s perfectly capable of fending for herself, Brodie’s been helping Mia pack her belongings for when she leaves Glenblath.”
“Is that so?” Hamish said, his voice a low growl as his gaze settled on the young groom sitting beside Ailsa. Brodie glanced up and his eyes widened. Then he colored and resumed his attention on the plate in front of him.
On Hamish’s other side, Iona sat, staring at Brodie across the hall as she pushed her food around her plate.
“Are ye going to eat that, sister,” Hamish said, “or play the fool with it?”
Iona leaned back in her seat. “I’m not hungry.”
“Are you well?” Mia said. “Your cheeks are red.”
“I’m hot, that’s all,” Iona said, narrowing her eyes, a flicker of pain in their expression.
“You look uncomfortable.”
“A slight ache in my back,” Iona said. “I rose too quickly this morning and hurt myself. But it’s better now.” She took a bite of meat as if to prove her point. “Brodie’s just as bad as ye—asking if I’m well twenty times a day.”
“Och, yes,” Eilidh said, her lips curving into a smile. “He’s such a kind lad. He’s been writing a catalogue of all Mia’s medicines for her to take with her. I remarked on the excellence of his penmanship, did I not, Mia?”
“You did,” Mia said.
“But I swear,” Eilidh continued, “I’ve never seen penmanship as exquisite as Lady Portia’s.”
“Who the devil is Lady Portia?” Hamish growled.
“Mia’s particular friend,” Eilidh said. “She’s invited Mia to stay with her. Would ye credit it, she’s the sister of a duke—the Duke of Foxton!”
“So ye prefer a duke to a laird?” Hamish said, fixing his gaze on Mia, and she caught a flash of frenzy in his eyes—the look of a stag when faced with a rival.
“I doubt I’ll see Portia’s brother when I visit her,” Mia said.
“That must be a misfortune for ye,” he muttered, before taking a bite of venison, his jaw bulging as he chewed.
“Besides,” Mia continued, “Portia’s brother is a rake who thinks too highly of himself.
Countless women—young and old—pine over him in the hopes that he might bestow them a scrap of his attention, but he’s too devoted to self-gratification to notice, except when congratulating himself on adding another shattered heart to his tally. ”
“And did he shatter yer heart?” Hamish said. “Is that how ye became friends with this Lady Portia?”
“Och, no, son!” Eilidh said. “Mia treated Lady Portia for a bullet wound.”
“A what? How does a lady sustain a bullet wound?”
“In a duel,” Mia said.
“Hellion!” Hamish grunted, resuming eating.
“But I will confess,” Mia said, “her brother is very handsome.”
“The swiving fucker.”
His voice was barely a whisper—so faint that she might have imagined it, save for the flash in his eyes, the reflection from the fire in the hearth giving them a reddish glow.
An uncomfortable silence descended, where he seemed to bristle with annoyance, his body tense, like a hunting dog poised to pounce, hackles raised, ears erect and alert.
Each time Mia spoke to Eilidh, he shifted closer, as if straining to hear her words, while the conversation around the hall grew noisier as the guests imbibed wine.
But when the feast was over and he stood to deliver a speech, the compassionate man returned as he honored the fallen and gave thanks for the survivors.
Then he turned to Mia and offered his hand.
With several pairs of eyes on her, she took it and stood.
Was he about to declare that they would soon be rid of her?
“And now,” Hamish said, after the whispering abated, “I wish to honor one among us who did more for our clan than any other. My wife, Euphramia Mary MacLennan, Lady of Glenblath!”
The scraping of chairs filled the hall as the company rose and lifted their glasses.
“Lady of Glenblath!” they chorused.
Mia blinked back tears and sipped her wine. Then Hamish lifted her hand to his lips and declared the feast to be over. The party filed out, save for the servants, who left their seats and began to clear the plates. Mia picked up her plate and reached for Hamish’s, but he caught her hand.
“No, lass,” he said. “The Lady of Glenblath has earned her rest.”
“But I’m not—”