Page 131 of Ghost of the Ton

“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.”