Page 53 of Ghost of the Ton

There was no danger of that, either. He’d never forget how sweet the sound of her laughter was.

Or how the spike of envy had poked at his soul when he’d seen the ease with which she’d shared a moment of mirth with Maisie and Rory. He’d watched—like the outsider she thought herself to be—concealed between the trees, while she laughed with the ghillie and the whore.

Unable to stop himself, he had ventured toward her cottage to watch her every day since, taking a small speck of joy at the sight of smoke rising from the chimney, indulging in the sight as she busied herself with whatever it was she did—venturing to the river and back, setting off on her own, to return later with a basketful of greenery. Occasionally she’d pause, as if she knew she were being watched, and a hunted expression would darken her eyes, like a deer sensing a predator.

“No, Ma,” he said. “I know what she looks like.”

“Aye,” his mother huffed. “Pity ye cannae see beyond the marks on her skin. They’re fading, ye know.”

“Are they?” he said, unable to temper the hope in his voice. The brave lass didn’t deserve to be censured for her looks.

His mother shook her head, disgust in her eyes. “Perhaps ye’ll soon be able to look at her without flinching. Ye disappoint me. I thought I’d raised ye to be a better man. I expect that sort of behavior from the likes of Murdoch and Robbie, but to see it in my own son…”

“Murdoch and Robbie?” Hamish said. “Have they been giving the lass trouble?”

“No more than ye’d expect,” Ma said. “I spotted them when I visited her. Maisie saw them off—she’s never short of a word or two when she needs it. She’s visited the lass almost every day.”

“Aye, that she has.”

“So ye have been to see her?”

“N-no, Ma,” Hamish said, cursing himself. Ma stared at him, her sharp-eyed gaze unsettling him as it always did when she’d caught him fibbing as a lad. “I know how kind Maisie is,” he continued. “She always takes on the stray dog that nobody else wants.”

“Och, son, must ye disappoint me further, likening yer wife to a stray dog?”

Bloody ballocks, couldn’t he say, or do, anything right in Ma’s eyes?

But his mother was right. Maisie had befriended Euphramia—openly and without prompting. Whereas he…

He let out a sigh. What were a few armfuls of logs, handed over in secrecy under cover of the night in case anyone saw him? A true act of friendship shouldn’t necessitate secrecy for fear of discovery. A true friend defended another from the censure of those around her. A true friend was happy to declare that friendship and weather the contempt of others.

“Ye make me quite ashamed,” he said.

“That’ll be yer conscience,” she replied. “Perhaps ye should heed that more rather than Murdoch and the like. If ye fear what others think of ye for doing the right thing, then ye’re behaving as a coward, not a laird. The laird should lead by example and not be afraid to do what he knows in his heart is right. If ye stand up for the lass, others will follow.” She took his hand. “What happened to my brave wee boy? He’s grown into a better man than his father. But ye could be the best of men if ye just—”

“Ma, she wants this annulment as much as I do,” he said. “More so.”

“Aye, and I’ll not quarrel with ye on that if yer mind’s set on it. But that’s no reason not to show her kindness for the brief time she’s here. Give her fond memories of Glenblath—of us. Is that too much to ask, given what she did for ye when she had no need to?”

He opened his mouth to argue that despite Euphramia’s gifting him her fortune, he was now required to pay it back. Then he closed it again.

“Perhaps I’ll visit her,” he said.

“Good lad. Why not take a slice of that cheese? And Mrs. McBride has a loaf fresh from the oven this morning doing nothing. When ye go, tell the lass I’ll be seeing her later, as usual.”

“As usual?”

“Och, dinnae try to fool me, son.” Ma resumed knitting and curved her lips into a smile. “She looked well when I visited her yesterday, did she not?”

The needles clack-clacked against each other as Ma’s hands moved with more deftness than Hamish had seen in a long while.

“Aren’t ye in pain?” he said, gesturing toward her hands.

“Only a little.” She paused and raised her left hand. The joints were as swollen as they’d always been, but had lost a little of their redness.

He leaned closer to get a better look, and she curled her fingers into a fist, her eyes narrowing in discomfort.

“Better, aye?” she said. “I’ve not been able to do that for some time.”