With a hiss of annoyance, MacAllister spurred his horse into a gallop and quickly disappeared down the road.
“What an arrogant prick!” Charlotte exclaimed.
“Aye,” Niall agreed. “I think he came out of the womb as an arrogant arse and naught has changed.”
Charlotte snorted a laugh. “You can say that again.”
Niall watched her for a moment, the way the last golden rays of sunlight danced in her hair and made her eyes sparkle. He reached out to gently tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
“Ye were magnificent, lass.”
She turned to look at him, one eyebrow raised. “Was I?”
“Aye. Thank ye for standing by my side.”
“Where else would I be, Niall? You’re stuck with me, remember?”
Oh, he hadn’t forgotten. He would have her company until the merchant train arrived to take her home. But after that, she would be gone from his life as surely as if she’d never been. He found himself hoping for the merchant train to be delayed. Indefinitely, if possible.
“Come,” he said, gesturing to the door. “Let’s go eat. If we delay any longer Flora might well come out and drag us both in by our ears.”
As they went inside, he couldn’t help glancing over his shoulder at the rider disappearing into the distance. Unease filled his gut. Despite his bravado, he knew that MacAllister was indeed a dangerous enemy to make. He had no doubt the man would retaliate. The only question was: how? And when?
Chapter 11
Charlie put her handson her hips and looked around the pottery workshop. The room was filled with the soothing scent of wet clay, overlaid with a hint of wood smoke from the kiln. It smelled like...home. Add to that the warm sunshine pouring through the window, dappling the floor with patterns of light and shadow, and Charlie almost felt...content.
What a strange thing to think, considering how far she was from home. Only a few days ago she thought she would never feel anything but terrified panic at being trapped in this time. Funny how things change.
She walked over to the kiln. Without a thermometer, she couldn’t be entirely sure of the temperature, so she would have to guess if the heat had built sufficiently through the night for firing, but she was pretty sure it was about right.
Great. Time to put things to the test. One of the basic pots she’d made yesterday—to which she’d added a handle and spout to turn it into a teapot—still sat on the table, looking a little forlorn. And useless. What need did Niall and his people have for teapots? What they needed was something far more valuable. They needed homes and the materials to build them.
The germ of an idea she’d had yesterday when discussing the refugees with Niall came back to her. They had the clay, they had the kiln. Why not make bricks and roof tiles to help house the newcomers? It would be a more practical use for her pottery skills and would help Niall and his people long after she was gone.
After she was gone.
