Page 100 of Ghost of the Ton

Mia nodded and, when the girl made no objection, cut two slices from the root, placed one in each cup, then poured hot water over them.

“If you like the taste, I’ll give you some to take back to the castle.” She cut several more slices and placed them on the table.

“Och, no!” Iona cried, eyeing the small pile. “I cannae have anyone finding out—especially not Hamish.”

Mia began to reach for Iona’s hand, then withdrew. Behind the veneer of resolve in the girl’s eyes, Mia saw a lost soul. But Iona would never trust her if she forced apart that resolve. Instead, Mia relaxed back in her chair and sipped her tea.

“Perhaps you should speak to your brother.”

“Och, no, he’d be so angry. I fear he’d give me a beating, and—” Iona broke off, closing her eyes. When they opened again, the resolve had once more settled in place.

“I meant about the vaccination program,” Mia said. “I’ll be very busy when it takes place, even with Maisie’s help, and would welcome another pair of hands. Hamish might like it if you—”

“No, he wouldnae,” Iona said. “He disnae think I can do anything. Besides”—she lifted her lip in the familiar sneer—“I’m a laird’s daughter and shouldn’t be expected to do work best suited to servants.”

“I understand,” Mia said. “But I’d still counsel you to talk to him. Tell him how you’re…how unwell you’re feeling. He’s a kind man and would want to help you.”

“He’s not kind,” Iona replied. “How can ye say so when he cannae wait to send ye away so that he can take a richer and prettier bride?”

A tear splashed onto Iona’s cheek.

“I-I must be going,” she said. “He’ll be angry if I’m not back soon.”

“Of course,” Mia said. “Thank you for visiting me. It’s been a pleasure.”

Iona opened her mouth to reply and Mia braced herself for another insult, but she merely mumbled her thanks, then fled. Mia watched the girl’s thin frame toil along the path, then she returned to the parlor and cut herself a slice of bread. As she cast her gaze over the table, she noticed that the slices of ginger had gone.

Chapter Twenty-Five

The door to Hamish’s study opened and Brodie appeared.

“Master Hamish, Her Ladyship’s asking whether ye wish to join her and Mistress Euphramia, and”—the lad colored—“Miss Maisie.”

Hamish suppressed a smile. Brodie had yet to discover what his cock was for. To him, a sensual creature such as Maisie, with her experience of cocks, and men, of all shapes and sizes was a goddess to be both desired and feared.

Two words that also described Maisie’s fellow guest.

Mia.

Since Hamish had last seen her—when he’d almost rutted her over that chair in her cottage—Mia had tortured his mind, inviting him in his dreams to bury himself between those hot, damp curls. Each morning he’d woken with a cockstand fit to burst and fisted his pleasure into his bedsheets just like he had fisted himself on her doorstep, shame engulfing him at his inability to step more than five yards away from her door without spending.

How disgusted she must be! He’d behaved like a beast.

Was it because she was forbidden to him? Not by the law, nor the Almighty—but forbidden by his conscience. It was easy to tell his rational self that she was the last woman he wanted for a wife. But the unconscious self—his soul—knew different. In truth, he’d almost forgotten that her face was pockmarked. Instead, he saw only the soft brown curls with a glimmer of chestnut when they caught the sunlight, that pert little nose, the stubborn mouth that spoke of strength of character, and those brilliant hazel eyes that glimmered with a sharp intelligence, then softened with kindness before they darkened with desire.

But if he saw her now, those eyes would only look at him with disgust.

He was the scarred one, with ugly marks on his soul. And he’d almost ruined her out of nothing more than a need for base gratification.

But what pleasure that gratification would have brought!

“Be silent,” he spat out through gritted teeth, as the voice of temptation whispered in his ear.

“Master Hamish?”

He glanced up to see Brodie looking at him.

“What shall I tell Her Ladyship?”