Page 27 of Ghost of the Ton

“Aye.”

She opened her eyes and he was met by the force of her gaze. Her body may be weak, but her will—the core of steel forged from her Highland ancestors—was as strong as ever.

Hamish retrieved the fallen cup. “It’s fortunate this fell on the rug,” he said, “or it would have shattered.”

She rolled her eyes. “Is that all ye have to say to me, Hamish MacLennan?”

Not Hamish, or son, but Hamish MacLennan.

“What have I done wrong?” he asked, wincing as his conscience needled at his soul.

“If ye have to ask, then I’ll not waste my breath telling ye.”

She fixed her gaze on him. For as long as Hamish could recall, his mother had reserved a very specific stare for when he or his sister behaved particularly badly. It was a stare with the specific purpose of compelling a wayward boy into confessing his sins. A stare that could open a portcullis at fifty paces and set dry logs ablaze in the absence of a tinderbox.

Then she blinked and looked away.

“I’ve no wish to admonish ye,” she said, “but ye cannae be surprised that I’m disappointed at what happened today.”

“Aye, Ma, so am I.”

She muttered something to herself that sounded very much like cursed boy, then leaned forward. “I daresay we’re disappointed for different reasons, Hamish. Have ye never stopped to think how that poor lass may be feeling?”

“I doubt if the Honorable Miss Young will care whether—”

“Ugh!” His mother let out a snort. “Are ye deliberately trying to vex me? I meant yer wife! That poor lass rose from her deathbed, left England with nothing to her name, save what she could carry in her valise. She borrowed the funds for her passage, endured the stares of her fellow travelers for a fortnight, to reach the only place she could call home—in a land of strangers. And what did she find? The man she’d married and given every penny she owned to, on the brink of marrying another and not in the least pleased to discover that she lived…”

She raised her hand as Hamish opened his mouth. “No, dinnae interrupt me. I will have my say, then ye can go to yer chamber and think on yer behavior.”

Devil’s ballocks—was she about to make him stand in the corner, or go to bed without any supper?

“That young lass heard every word ye said to Iona,” she continued. “Doubtless the whole household heard it.”

“It was Iona who called her a pockmarked witch.”

“And there ye go,” she said. “Just like when ye were a lad, blaming everything on yer sister. She knows no better, but ye’re the man of the house. I didnae hear ye say aught in the lass’s defense. In fact, ye said it was yer misfortune to bear.”

He winced as he recalled his words. “We all speak more harshly of others when we dinnae expect to be overheard,” he said. “Anyone who eavesdrops should expect to hear no good of themselves.”

She arched an eyebrow in the manner of a disappointed schoolmistress.

“Devil’s cock, Ma!” he cried. “If I heard everything Iona said about me behind my back, I’d thrash her black and blue on a nightly basis.”

“Does that give ye the right to tell that poor lass that her face is frightening the children?”

Fuck. So Ma had heard that.

Ye’re an utter bastard, Hamish Alastair Jamie MacLennan.

Hamish winced at the scolding from his conscience. But he had to set that aside. The future of Glenblath was at stake.

“My anger today was nothing to do with the lass’s face,” he said.

“At least call her by her name.”

“Euphramia.”

Hamish’s tongue curled over the syllables of the name he’d whispered in his prayers when giving thanks for her generosity.