Page 36 of Ghost of the Ton

She stiffened at his use of her name and turned.

But what could he say to her? That he was the worst of all cads? That, despite his feelings now, he couldn’t deny that he had not only wished that she had died, but he had voiced that wish to others? What purpose would that serve, other than to destroy her more than he had already done?

“I’m sorry for what has befallen ye, lass.”

A wholly inadequate speech to convey his regret. It was as well that they were to part, for she deserved a better man than him.

“There’s no need for apology,” she said, “not if, after we’ve concluded our business, we both end up with what we want. Perhaps, rather than regret what has befallen us or what we have said and done, we should forget the past and look to the future and to our dearest wish—even if our wishes are not the same.”

Before he could respond, she exited the chamber, leaving him with his conscience.

Chapter Twelve

As soon as she closed the door, Mia’s resolve threatened to crumble and the tears she’d fought to keep at bay swelled and stung her eyes.

Do not falter now.

She fisted her hands, digging the nails into her palms, letting the pain serve as a distraction.

I’ll be damned if I let him see me cry.

She allowed her mind to wander to happier times—lessons from Dr. McIver in applying bandages and manipulating bones…

…and the time she’d tended to Lady Portia’s bullet wound. Granted, not a joyous occasion, but Mia could never forget the spark of professional pride in being the one person Portia’s maid had sought out to tend to her mistress. Then there was the time Mia had assisted Dr. McIver in resetting Captain Floret’s broken leg. Rather than dismiss her as a weak-bellied woman, the doctor had issued firm instructions to her as his helpmate. Afterward, he’d provided her with a study text on tending to broken and dislocated bones in the manner of a tutor who rewarded an able pupil not with fatuous praise, but with more challenging tasks.

That was what she needed to focus on during the months ahead—that and her end objective. There was little point in crying over what might have been, over a love she could never have hoped to have experienced.

She lifted her sleeve and gave her eyes an angry wipe. She was not some feeble woman to be indulged or bullied. And she’d prove it to…him. The expression on his face when she’d set out her demands was almost comical. But, given that she had not a penny to her name, she had nothing to lose. And when a person had nothing to lose, they were at their most dangerous.

For the moment, she needed to return to her chamber, where she could give vent to her emotions in privacy before composing herself for the next challenge.

She slipped along the passageway, her footsteps echoing off the granite walls, then paused at the end as it forked into two. Should she go right, or left?

Footsteps approached from behind. Unwilling to endure a further encounter, she took the right fork and, at length, reached a staircase. It led down rather than up, but, with the footsteps getting closer, she had no wish to retrace her steps, and pressed on.

The other footsteps, curse them, seemed to be following. Mia hurried her pace and found herself once more in the entrance hall with the tapestry depicting its gruesome scene. But in the morning light that stretched across the hallway, illuminating the woven fibers, the scene lost some of its malevolence and instead seemed to pulse with a primal vitality.

She moved closer to the tapestry and her gaze fell upon the man brandishing the spear that pierced the stag. No, not a man. A giant: broad-shouldered, wearing a plaid in muted colors, but with a thick mop of red hair. Mouth open in a roar of triumph, he was looking over his shoulder, directly outward from the tapestry.

At her.

She reached toward him, then withdrew, her heart fluttering. Such vitality, such primal strength—it seemed almost sinful to even be looking at him, let alone touching…

“The likeness is remarkable, is it not, ma’am?”

Mia turned to see the housekeeper standing beside her.

“M-Mrs. Bron,” she stammered, “forgive me for…”

“For what, lass? For looking at the likeness of yer husband?”

Mia’s cheeks warmed as she resumed her attention on the man in the tapestry.

“Of course, it’s not Master Hamish, seeing as it was woven nigh on a century ago,” the housekeeper said. “It’s his grandfather’s grandfather, Hamish Malcolm Alastair McCallum. A fine man, by all accounts.” She gestured to the mounted stag’s head high up on the wall. “Awld Hamish, he called him. An eighteen-pointer.”

“A what?” Mia said.

“I’ve never seen one in all the Highlands,” the housekeeper continued. “There was a rumor that the MacKenzies had one, but it turned out to be false. Not even Master Hamish has felled an eighteen-pointer. The best he’s managed is fourteen. I daresay ye noticed it when ye were in his study?”