Page 116 of Ghost of the Ton

“Och, are ye a man or a worm? The vaccine’s a small cut to the arm, nothing more. Ye hardly feel it, she’s so gentle, and ye’re only sick for a day afterward.”

“I can weather a cut to the arm, Ma.”

She rolled her eyes. “If ye’re man enough to beat the hide off Murdoch for her, then ye’re man enough to face her for a few moments. She may not wish to see ye, but that won’t stop her from doing what she knows is right. So why is it stopping ye? Are ye afraid of her?” She tilted her head to one side. “Or are ye afraid of yerself? I’ve seen the way ye look at her.”

“I cannae,” he said.

“So ye’ll risk catching the pox for the sake of yer pride?” She shook her head. “That’s not courage, son, it’s cowardice. Did ye not hear that there’s been an outbreak on MacDouglas land? They’re in the next glen but one.”

“It’s just a rumor.”

“It’s not. Young Donald—the lad who helps Rory with the fences—is courting a MacDouglas lass. Rory told Maisie, who told me that—”

“Do ye listen to whores’ gossip now?”

“A whore ye were content to bed, if I recall,” she retorted. “I dinnae ken what to do with ye when ye’re content to put lives at risk.”

“Only my own life.”

“Foolish lad!” she cried. “There’s many hereabouts who aren’t taking the vaccine. Folk here follow yer lead. Have ye not stopped to think why so many at Glenblath cannae accept her—why so many have refused to take the vaccine?”

“Such as?”

“Murdoch, for one. He’s refused it for himself as well as Evie and their bairns. Then there’s Robbie and Shona and their wee lad, and Gordon and his brothers. Twenty families in all, I reckon.” She shook her head, disappointment in her eyes. “When ye rejected that poor lass the day she arrived, ye set yerself, and many others, on a path of prejudice and misunderstanding. She’s borne that prejudice with fortitude and kindness, striving to protect the folk who look to ye for that protection rather than her.”

“I protect the clan,” Hamish growled. “Everything I do is for them. Dinnae ye understand that’s why I married for a dowry, not for love—for the sake of the clan!”

“The qualities needed in a laird’s wife are not a pretty face for ye to admire and a fortune for ye to spend. She must hold the clan in her heart so that it runs through the blood in her veins.”

“Ye mean she must be a Highland lass?”

“No, son, I mean that she must be willing to embrace her responsibility to the souls at Glenblath with pleasure, not duty. Neither birth nor fortune will dictate whether she can do that.”

“Then what will?”

“The Almighty,” she said. “Have ye never asked why He chose to spare Mia and send her here to Glenblath—to us—rather than take her for Himself?”

Yes. He had wondered.

At first, he’d roared with rage at Fate for shackling him to a woman he’d not wanted. But, for many weeks now, he’d roared with considerably more rage at himself for not appreciating the gift he’d been given.

And what had he done? Violated that gift, placing a chasm between himself and Mia.

He snapped the ledger shut and placed it on a nearby table.

Ma nodded at the book. “I take it ye’re almost in a position to repay her dowry.”

“We should have most of it by next quarter day,” he said. “Eight hundred, perhaps more. But if the poor weather holds, the Candlemas rents may not be sufficient. Tenants have less cash to spare after a harsh winter.”

“Mia will understand.”

“I doubt she’ll accept eight hundred in cash and twenty head of cattle.”

“She will if she’s as eager to annul yer marriage as ye. The prospect of freedom will make it so.”

Her voice was toneless—neither encouraging nor judging, merely her stating a fact.

He nodded, not trusting himself to speak.