Page 51 of A Highlander’s Heart

One of the maids huffed and stomped to the kitchen. Emma didn’t know if she intended to bring her what she’d requested or not.

She took a seat and tapped her fingers on the table. No one came. Should she go to the kitchen and make a scene? Just as she was trying to decide, a young mother hurried into the great hall, holding a screaming lad.

“The healer is missing from the hut. Someone in the kitchen said there is a healer here?”

Emma jumped up. “Aye, I am a healer.”

The woman stopped and studied her. “Aren’t ye the spy?”

She took a deep breath. “Nay. I am Lady Gunn, yer laird’s wife.”

The woman’s brows climbed to her hairline. “A Mackenzie, aye?”

“Aye. I was born a Mackenzie, but I am now a Gunn.” It was difficult to say that, but the poor bairn was still wailing.

The woman drew her lad close to her body as if Emma was about to snatch the bairn from her. “Ne’er mind. I’ll go back to the hut and wait for Margaret to return.”

“Please, mistress, doona let yer lad suffer. Let me take a look at him. I treated the laird for bruised ribs and a serious wound on his leg when I was his healer.”

“Aye, and in order for him to be released from the Mackenzie dungeon, he had to marry ye.” The woman shook her head and turned, leaving the great hall through the kitchen.

Emma slumped and realized she would never be accepted here. The woman would rather see her lad suffer than allow Emma to touch him. There was no other course of action for her but to leave and return to her clan.

She left the great hall, went to the bedchamber she shared with her husband, and packed a few things in one of the sacks they’d brought with them from Castle Leod.

Then she cajoled one of the grooms into letting her take a horse, telling him she was doing an errand for the laird; then rode off without looking back. She headed for the village, where she would send a message to Laird Daniel Mackenzie to bring her home.

*

Morgan used his forearm to wipe the sweat off his forehead, content with how well he’d done on the lists. He worked with the younger lads telling them they would learn best by practicing with the laird. What he didn’t tell them—or anyone else—was that he wasn’t up to practicing with the more seasoned warriors yet.

Patrick remained a problem, but his following seemed slight. The men respected him as the Second-in-Command, but the camaraderie Morgan himself had shared with the men as Second-in-Command to his uncle was not there.

In fact, he planned to replace Patrick in that position soon. There was something that was itching at the back of his neck with regard to that man.

However, he knew his uneasiness had more to do with Emma than anything else he was facing right now. He knew she was unhappy, but she had to make her place in the clan.

A few of the men mentioned that their women had been told things about his wife that were not only untrue, but were most likely keeping her from being accepted. It amazed him how men could shrug off any sort of rumors or tales while women seemed to thrive on them. It was another reason Emma had to take over. He had no intention of supervising servants.

Emma was a kind, caring, helpful woman. She certainly had put up with a lot with him when he arrived in her healing hut yelling and screaming. If she would get involved with healing again, it would probably help her to be accepted.

He trudged up the stairs to their bed chamber, his ribs causing him more pain. Most likely he’d overdone it, trying to impress the lads.

Emma had not been in the great hall, so he assumed she was in the kitchen seeing that the evening meal was coming along.

He eyed the bed, fighting the need to lay his battered body down, but instead, shrugged off his clothes and boots and walked to the bowl of cold water on the table in the corner.

Apparently, Emma was unable to get the maids to do what was necessary in their bedchamber. He felt his anger grow. No matter what they thought of her, he was their laird, and this was his bedchamber. As much as he hated to do it, it might be time for him to step in.

Once he was cleaned and dressed in fresh clothes, he left the bed chamber and headed to the kitchen. There was a table of lasses doing various jobs, and the cook, Mary, who he didn’t know so well since he’d never spent time in the kitchen stirred something in a large kettle. It smelled delicious and had his stomach rumbling.

“Mary, do ye ken where Lady Gunn is?”

The woman stopped her work to look over at him, and smiled. “Good evening to ye, Laird.”

He nodded and repeated his question.

“I doona ken, Laird. I haven’t seen her all day.”