Page 49 of Ghost of the Ton

Maisie’s smile faded and she curled her fingers around the broom handle. “Of course, ma’am.”

“I insist you call me Mia.”

The doxy’s smile broadened and she nodded. “Well! It’ll be good to have a friend hereabouts. How about we get a fire going first? I’ve brought a tinderbox, as I doubt Old Ma MacLennan would have left one about the place, and even if she did, those lads would have pilfered it months ago—especially that Billy. He’s a right one. That’s Murdoch’s lad, ye know. Takes after his da, he does.”

She rattled on, and Mia found herself smiling at the woman’s easy chatter. “I’d better go and find some firewood,” she said. “I suppose a benefit of being surrounded by trees is that I’ll never be short of it.”

“There’s plenty in yer log store, and some peat. I’ll help ye carry it through.”

“The store’s empty,” Mia said.

“It was full when I arrived,” Maisie replied. “Perhaps ye missed it. I’ll show ye.”

She led Mia outside, to the lean-to shelter with the rickety roof that Mia had noticed yesterday on her arrival.

Mia let out a low cry. One half was filled with logs in a neat pile and the other half contained what looked like lumps of dark brown earth in the shape of bricks.

“There!” Maisie said. “The logs look well seasoned, but the peat will need to dry a bit more by the looks of it, or it’ll smoke out the place.”

“Did you bring these?” Mia said. “They weren’t here yesterday.”

“Not I. Perhaps it was Rory. It’s the sort of thing he’d do—ever so kind, he is.”

Was it Mia’s imagination, or had Maisie’s voice grown a little lower, and her cheeks a little pinker?

“Rory? Is he your husband?”

“Heavens, no!” Maisie laughed. “What man would want to marry a hure? He’s Master Hamish’s ghillie.”

“Ghillie?” What the devil was that?

“Rory’s da was ghillie to the old Laird MacLennan, and his grandda before him. His family have been at Glenblath for centuries—fought alongside the laird against Longshanks, they did. His ancestor was killed in the uprisings, but he already had a son—and since then, every first son has been called Rory, and has served as ghillie here.” She let out a sigh. “Rory ought to see about getting himself a wife, or the line will stop with him. A lucky lass, she’ll be, for he’s a skilled man in the—” Maisie broke off. “Begging yer pardon, ma’am, for speaking out of turn.”

“There’s nothing to apologize for,” Mia said. “And it’s Mia, not ma’am, remember? Are you fond of Rory?”

Maisie plucked an armful of logs from the store. “I warm his bed, that’s all. But I’ll not take payment from him.”

Her response told Mia all she needed to know.

She took two logs from the store, inhaling the scent of pine.

“Perhaps Old Ma MacLennan left them here during the night,” Maisie said.

“Does her spirit carry logs as well as absorb the sins of others?” Mia said.

Maisie let out a laugh as they returned inside the cottage. “Old Ma MacLennan’s spirit does what she likes,” she said. “She might absorb yer sins, though I doubt ye’ve sinned in yer life. But a hure like me? Not even a thousand Ma MacLennans could absorb my sins, seeing as I’m the greatest sinner in the valley.”

“I see no sinner,” Mia said. “You’ve been the first person here to offer me friendship—save Lady MacLennan.”

“Ah, she’s a rare one,” Maisie said. “She sometimes visits me—when she’s up to the walk, that is—bringing a slice of pie, or a loaf or two. She’s always asking me to come to the house, but of course I cannae be seen there, except when…”

She colored, and Mia nodded in understanding. Except when Maisie was sent for to warm a man’s bed.

“He’s a good man,” Maisie said softly, as if she’d read Mia’s mind. “Take it from one who knows more about a man than even his ma.”

“You do?”

“Aye,” came the reply. “Men only reveal their true selves in bed—when they’re rutting or sleeping. And most men are boys needing a bit of love. Save Murdoch, that is. Murdoch is…” She shook her head. “Never mind him. I must work for my coin, same as others. I’m sure Rory disnae like being up on the slopes of Beinn Blath in a storm, or Master Hamish disnae like having to listen to the disputes among the tenants. But we must all take the less palatable parts of our lives, otherwise we’d not appreciate the pleasurable. For every Murdoch, there’s a Rory, and a Master Hamish…”