Page 18 of Highland Storm

“Oh, he doesna want me,” she protested.

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” said Clarista in a knowing manner. “I noticed the way he spoke up for you in the courtyard and how he made sure my son didn’t put you in the dungeon.”

“I’m sure it was only because he was grateful since I tended to his wound.”

“Aye,” she said, tying a red ribbon on the end of Phoebe’s long, black braid that hung halfway down her back. “I’m sure you two could be happy together if you tried.”

“Me? Us?” Phoebe’s hand slapped against her chest and she felt her heart beating rapidly beneath her palm. “Oh, nay, my lady. Hawke and I are enemies. We will never be together, I assure ye.”

“Don’t enemies marry for the purpose of an alliance?”

Phoebe turned to face Clarista. “I – I suppose so.”

“How old are you, Phoebe?” asked the woman folding her hands in front of her.

“I am eight and ten years of age,” she told the woman.

Clarista nodded. “You are ten years younger than Hawke. You are also past marrying age but still young enough to bear many children.”

“Is that . . . guid or bad?” she asked, not knowing what the woman meant.

“No matter what happens, I just ask that you be patient and understanding with my grandson. He has some demons from the past that haunt him still. I’m afraid he might never overcome them.”

“I dinna understand, my lady. What do ye mean?”

“Hawke has been married before and it ended horribly,” she told Phoebe.

“Aye,” she said, knowing what Clarista meant. Phoebe picked up the end of her braid and twirled it nervously between her fingers. “He was the MacKeefe who married my cousin, Osla, ten years ago.”

“Aye. And because of his choices at the time, he has never been able to forgive himself for her death.”

“The MacNabs say he killed her. Is this true?”

“Why don’t you ask him?” said Clarista, putting the brush on the dressing table.

“How did it happen? Why would he kill her?”

Clarista picked up her skirts and headed to the door. “There are many stories, but only Hawke knows for sure what happened. It is not my place to say anything more. That is something you will have to ask him about yourself. But for now, I think we should go down and get something to eat in the great hall.”

“Will Orrick be there?” asked Phoebe anxiously, wanting to learn about herbs and magical potions from the old sorcerer before she went home.

“Are you really a healer?” asked Clarista, holding the door.

“I am. But I am still learnin’. One of the reasons we were in MacKeefe territory was because I was lookin’ for the mugwort plant that grows in the Lowlands. I see now I never should have asked my clansmen to veer off our path on the way back home.”

“Your father knows the dangers that lie at the border. Why would he let you come here with just a few men to protect you?” asked Clarista.

Phoebe had said too much. She didn’t want the MacKeefes to know that her father was bedridden or they’d realize the MacNab’s defenses were weak. She’d taken the men and headed to the border to find the herbs she needed to heal him, without her father giving his permission. He hadn’t even known that she left. Now she regretted coming to the border at all.

“I think I am hungry after all,” she said, instead of answering the woman’s question. “Shall we go to the great hall as ye’ve suggested?

* * *

Phoebe felt extremely uncomfortable sitting at the dais dressed in Lady Clarista’s plaid. Even though the woman was English, she was the old laird’s wife and dressed like a Scot as well. But Phoebe dressing like a MacKeefe just seemed wrong.

Everyone from the nobles to the servants glared at her, never letting her forget she was their enemy. With her stomach so upset, she found it hard to eat a thing.

“Where is Hawke?” she asked Clarista, looking around the room, but not seeing him anywhere.