Page 54 of Ghost of the Ton

Hamish inhaled and caught a raw scent in his nostrils. “Yer hands stink of whisky, Ma.”

“It’s the lass’s liniment, which I apply every day. It’s eased the pain a little.”

“But—whisky?”

“The whisky’s only to draw out the medicine,” Ma said. “It’s the heather that eases the pain, so the lass said. To think! Something we have in abundance, that I’ve only ever thought of as a pretty flower, is easing my pain.”

“Are ye sure she’s not playing ye false?”

“Ask her yerself,” she said, resuming her knitting, “or are ye content to skulk in the woods and watch her from afar?”

Devil’s cock, how did she know?

He opened his mouth to deny it. His mother paused and fixed him with a hard stare, then continued knitting, the steady click-click of the needles grating on his senses.

“Very well,” he said. “I’ll visit the lass if ye wish it.”

“Yer visit only has value if ye wish it,” Ma said. “I’ll not have ye go under sufferance.”

“It’s not sufferance, Ma.”

He rose and kissed her on both cheeks, then made his way to the kitchen, where Mrs. McBride had already set aside a thick slice of cheese and a loaf, in a basket. He inhaled the aroma of freshly baked bread. The cook, who was dusting the table with flour, let out a huff.

“Mind ye dinnae eat all that yerself,” she said. “It’s for Miss Lucas.”

“Miss Lucas?”

She cocked her head to one side. “I take it ye’d prefer I address her as such, seein’ as she’ll not be Lady MacLennan for long.”

“Did ye conspire with my ma to—”

“Och, be off with ye!” the cook said, placing a ball of pastry onto the floured table. “I’ve supper to prepare and no time for ye getting under my feet. Tell the lass that if she keeps the cheese wrapped in the cloth to prevent the mold getting to it, it’ll last up to a fortnight.”

Before Hamish could reply, she picked up a rolling pin and waved it at him. He grabbed the basket and she shooed him out of the kitchen. Her laughter, like that of a cackling crone, could be heard echoing along the passageway as he approached the main doors, and he could swear he still heard it as he reached the path to Riverview Cottage.

Smoke rose from the chimney in an almost straight line, evidence of the stillness of the day. The cottage was in a sheltered spot where the land formed a hollow, protecting it from the worst of the frosts. If she were still at Glenblath when the winter set in, would she weather the cold? Fine ladies from London weren’t expected to toil in the harsh Highland winters. But then, fine ladies from London weren’t expected to be able to light their own fires, or roast haunches of venison.

As he approached the cottage, he caught the faint sound of singing. Not an accomplished voice, but the tune was a merry air. He paused at the threshold and lifted his hand to knock on the door. Would she welcome the intrusion?

Would she welcome him?

Before he could retreat, the singing stopped.

“Who’s there?” she said.

He paused, hands in midair as he heard footsteps.

“Is that you, Rory? Maisie’s not with me today, so you might wish to—Oh!”

The door opened to reveal his wife, and she let out a cry.

“Forgive me…” He hesitated. What the devil was he supposed to call her? He held up the basket. “Mrs. McBride set aside this for ye,” he said, his cheeks warming as if he were a nervous lad not yet out of boyhood. “A loaf of bread and some cheese.”

She wiped her hands on her apron. “Would you like to bring them inside? And perhaps”—she gestured behind her—“you might wish to see what I’ve done here. With Maisie and Rory’s help.”

When he didn’t respond, her smile slipped. “Of course, there’s no obligation. I’m sure you must have many things to attend to.”

“Nothing that cannae wait, Miss…I mean, lass…” He hesitated again.