Conall ignored the woman’s overtures, turning his numb gaze to the fire pit. He deserved no kindness, no welcome.
Lana spun, a mug in her hand. “Och, now you doona need to go, Betsy! Why, we should—”
“Mam,” Duncan said pointedly. “Conall and I must talk town business. Is that nae right, brother?”
Conall could only nod.
“So soon?” Lana frowned. “But he’s only just returned and—”
“Good night, Bets,” Duncan said softly and opened the door, leading the woman from the house. “I’ll watch you get in safe. Hurry now, lass, ’tis wet.”
Conall heard the faint snick of lips touching cheek and then a moment later the door scraped to.
Lana struggled to revive her faltering smile before bustling to Conall and pushing the mug she’d filled into his hands.
“Now then,” she said breathlessly, perching upon a stool. “Tell me what you’ve been about this long winter, Conall MacKerrick, for Duncan has been as pinch-mouthed as an old tortoise.”
“Go to bed, Mam,” Duncan suggested gently, pulling Lana to her feet. “I’m certain Conall will speak to you in the morn.”
“I willna,” Lana said and pulled her elbow free with a frown. “Havena I the right to visit with me own son?”
Duncan paused and both mother and brother looked to Conall questioningly.
“You may stay, Mam,” Conall said. “’Tis now or later and, in truth, I’d only say what I must once.”
“Are you certain, Conall?” Duncan asked pointedly as Lana sat with a smug look. When Conall nodded, Duncan, too, took his seat with a great, weary sigh. “’Tis bad, is it nae?”
Conall nodded. “The worst.”
Lana’s worried eyes flew between the two men. “What is it? Enough secrets—tell me.”
“I’d start from the beginning, for Mam’s sake,” Duncan advised.
“Aye.” Conall swallowed, trying to order his thoughts through the panic and fear that still chewed at him. “I took to the wood—to the hut in the vale—to hunt and to grieve.” His fingertips automatically found the leather knot at his neck. “That is nae secret, I think.”
“Of course it isna,” Lana said gently. “And deserved of it you were, Conall. After Nonna…” Her words trailed away.
“When I arrived at the cottage, ’twas nae deserted,” Conall continued, narrating aloud the portrait-like memories that flashed through his mind, no longer seeing his mother or brother or his own cozy house, but the snowy past in the recesses of his mind. “A woman was squatting there.” Conall felt a hitch in his stomach. “Evelyn Godewin Buchanan.”
“Buchanan?” Lana squawked and shot to her feet. “Buchanan!” She spun on Duncan. “You knew this?You knew?”
“Mam, please,” Duncan commanded. “Sit and be still.”
Lana looked to Conall, her eyes worried and furious at once. “But what was a lone Buchanan woman—”
“She came with Minerva Buchanan,” Conall said bluntly.
Lana’s face went as pale as the moon-washed windflowers outside the hut door, and she all but fell back onto her stool. “Min…Minerva Buchanan has returned to Scotland?” she croaked, her eyes flicking to the door as if expecting the woman to burst into the house at any moment.
“She did return,” Conall said. “To die. She left Eve at Ronan’s pyre.”
“Oh, merciful God,” Lana wheezed and squeezed her eyes shut for a long moment. They were glassy when she opened them again. “Go on, Conall.”
“When she told me her name—Eve, that is—I thought—” Conall shook his head. “I thought I could—”
“You thought you could break the curse,” Lana finished.
Conall nodded. He was ashamed of what he had to tell her next. “I seduced Eve. Persuaded her to marry me.”
