Page 37 of Ghost of the Ton

“Forgive me…an eighteen-pointer?”

“Och!” Mrs. Bron let out a laugh. “Of course, ye Sassenachs know nothing of stags, do ye?” She gestured again toward the mounted head. “See his antlers? There’s eighteen points on them—nine each side. A great stag’s the most magnificent sight to behold, early in the morning, through the mist, when ye’ve heard him roaring. Have ye never seen a stag, ma’am?”

“I’ve seen deer in the countryside in England, but nothing quite so…” Mia trailed off.

“So Scottish?”

Mia smiled. “Yes. He’s very Scottish—wild, free, and filled with life.”

Whereas I’m a weakling who does not belong.

As if she’d read Mia’s mind, the housekeeper touched her arm. “Ye’ll be just like him soon, ma’am, I’m sure,” she said. “I’ve seen it before—when Sassenach lasses come here and marry our men. The land will change ye, grow into yer bones, fill yer lungs with Highland air until ye’re one of us.”

But I’ll never be one of you. I’m not wanted here.

“Och, there’s no need to look so sad,” Mrs. Bron said. “How about I ask Rory to take ye with him to see the stag? The one hereabouts this year is a sixteen-pointer, so Rory says. For my part, I think he’s spinning a yarn to impress that hure he’s always fooling about with.”

What the devil was a hure?

“I wouldn’t want you to go to any trouble on my account, Mrs. Bron,” Mia said.

“Ye’re the Lady of Glenblath. Nothing ye ask is any trouble. Now, ye shouldn’t be dawdling about here when there’s breakfast to be had. Ye’ve led me on a merry chase about the place. Come along, now.”

Mrs. Bron set off, her crisp, efficient tone brooking no denial, and Mia followed obediently. Rather than take Mia to the huge banqueting hall, the older woman led her past the huge, carved doors and through another series of passageways. Perhaps it was as well that Mia was destined to leave, for she’d never find her way about the castle unattended. The building was a labyrinth—complete with its own flame-haired minotaur.

At length, they reached a door, behind which Mia could hear voices. The housekeeper knocked and the voices stopped, then she opened the door to reveal what must be a dining room, in the center of which was a long wooden table with three occupants. A maid circled the table, carrying a tureen. She stiffened and stared, and Mia recognized her as one of the maids who’d been gossiping about her yesterday. The diners turned to face Mia. Eilidh sat at one side of the table, a gentle smile of welcome on her lips. Her daughter, sitting opposite, scowled at Mia before resuming her attention on the bowl in front of her. And at the end of the table sat Mia’s husband.

“I’ve found her, Master Hamish,” Mrs. Bron said.

“So I see,” he replied, rising. Then he frowned at the young girl. “Iona,” he growled.

She pulled a face. “What?”

“Show some respect and stand for our guest.”

“Ye’ve not asked Ma to stand. Why should I?”

“There’s no need to stand on my account,” Mia said. “I’m—”

“I didnae ask ye,” the girl said.

“Iona, that’s enough,” Eilidh said quietly. “Do as yer brother says.”

The girl glared at Hamish, then let out a huff and scraped her chair back. “I’ll do it for ye, Ma, but no one else.”

“Here, Lady MacLennan,” Mrs. Bron said, leading Mia toward the place setting at the other end of the table. The girl’s eyes widened at the housekeeper’s address. She opened her mouth, but Hamish raised his hand.

“Sit, Iona,” he said, “and keep yer thoughts to yerself. I’ll hear no more from ye today unless ye want to be sent to yer chamber with no breakfast.”

The girl spooned a mouthful of food from her bowl, then pulled another face. “I’m not a child,” she said, her mouth full.

Hamish let out a snort. “Act like a bairn and I’ll treat ye like one.”

“Ailsa, some parritch for Lady MacLennan,” his mother said. The maid frowned, then she exchanged a glance with Iona before approaching Mia with the tureen, eyebrows raised.

Mia peered into the bowl to see a cream-colored substance resembling thick gruel.

“Is it not good enough for ye?” the maid said, her green eyes glittering with spite.