Page 65 of Ghost of the Ton

She let out a cry as the man gripped her arm and pulled her away from the child on the table.

“What witchcraft are ye weaving, woman?”

“N-nothing, sir, I assure you,” Mia said, wincing as he tightened his grip. “Your daughter had an accident.”

“Aye—I heard,” the man growled.

“Allan, please,” the woman said, “why dinnae ye hear what this woman has to say?”

“But that young Calum said—”

“And ye listen to that wee terror? This woman’s no witch, for all that she’s English.”

Dear Lord! As if the marks on Mia’s face weren’t enough to engender prejudice, did these people hate her because of the country of her birth?

“Then what’s that in Ada’s mouth?” The man snatched the willow shaving from the girl’s lips and threw it on the floor. “Do ye taint my bairn with yer poisons?”

Mia wrenched herself free. “Sweet heaven, will you listen to yourselves? Do you really think I’d pick up an injured child and carry her all the way back here just to…to what? Chant an incantation or two and turn her into a salmon?” She gestured to the girl on the table. “She’s hurt—look at her shoulder! I was trying to alleviate her pain with that piece of willow bark that you saw fit to throw onto the floor.”

“But…” the man began, and Mia folded her hands and glared at him.

“But what?” she said. “Have you believed the rumors about the pockmarked whore rather than formed your own opinion? By all means, take your daughter home—that is, if you wish her to continue to suffer and risk being maimed for life. After all, men care nothing for daughters, do they?”

“M-maimed?” the woman said, her voice wavering, and she rushed to her daughter’s side and took her hand.

“Not if I can help it,” Mia replied. “I don’t know what you’ve been told, but this poor girl was injured by others, not by me.”

The man turned to Jamie. “Is that true, lad?”

Jamie nodded, his eyes bright. “B-but we didnae mean to!” he said. “It’s just that Billy—”

“Och, I might have known Billy had something to do with it,” the woman said. “He probably sent Calum to tell us because he was too much of a coward to come himself. What happened, Jamie, lad?”

“I-I dinnae know…”

“Ye’ll not be in any trouble for telling the truth. My Allan will see to that, won’t ye, Allan? Ye’ll have a word with Billy’s da.”

“Aye,” Allan said, after a pause.

“It was Billy,” Jamie said. “He pushed Ada down the hill and she fell. But I”—he glanced at Mia—“I did nothing to stop him.”

“But you stayed behind for Ada, didn’t you?” Mia said. “You’re the only one who helped her.”

“And ye,” the boy said. He turned to the man. “This lady carried Ada all the way here, even though it was a long way, and she nearly fell twice. But I stopped her from falling.”

The man patted Jamie’s head. “Good lad,” he said. He gestured to the piece of bark on the floor. “Willow bark, eh?”

“It helps to relieve pain,” the woman said. “Dinnae ye remember my telling ye about it at school, Jamie, lad?”

The boy nodded.

“Och, lass, if ye were helping our Ada, then Allan’s sorry for what he did, aren’t ye, Allan?”

The man grunted and shrugged. His wife flashed him a look of irritation, but Mia knew that for a man, an apology was often considered a declaration of his lack of manhood. A grunt and a shrug were, in all likelihood, the most profuse declaration of regret that she was ever likely to witness from these Highlanders.

As she returned her attention to the little girl on the table, footsteps approached and another man appeared in the doorway. Her stomach gave a flutter as she recognized Hamish.

“Laird MacLennan!” The woman dipped into a curtsy and the man inclined his head.