Evelyn shrugged and knew that the gesture was petulant, but she didn’t want the old man to see how difficult it was for her to hear those words. Conall had obviously been shirking his duties as the MacKerrick to haunt her here at the Buchanan town.
“If he is about, then Gregory and I will simply go out another day,” she said firmly, turning to sit on her cot with the babe, feeling hugely disappointed. And furious that Conall MacKerrick was still ruling her days.
“As I said, Andrew has him enslaved at the loch,” Angus offered. “Go out, Eve. Take some air and clear your thoughts. I’ve a feeling Conall MacKerrick will hound the both of us until you speak with him directly. For all our sanity, think upon it.”
Evelyn frowned. She did so long to be free of the dark, stuffy longhouse. “I wish Duncan had stayed.”
“As do I,” Angus sighed. “But I’ll go along with you if you’ve nae wish to be alone.”
“Nay, Angus, I’ll take Bonnie. You rest,” she said, considering the old man’s gray complexion. “You’ve not been sleeping well with Gregory crying through the night.” Evelyn stood. “I’ll just venture to the edge of town near the stream. I shan’t be long away.” She kissed the wrinkled cheek before moving to the door. “Bonnie, to me.”
Setting her jaw, Evelyn opened the door fully and then drew in a deep breath as the warm sunlight hit her face—it was delicious. She set off in the opposite direction of the loch, determined not to think of the man laboring only a stone’s throw away.
As far as Evelyn was concerned, Conall MacKerrick had ceased to exist.
She strolled down the wide main thoroughfare, and was nearing the edge of the town when a child’s frantic scream in Gaelic split the air. One word only, but Evelyn understood it clearly.
Faol.
Wolf.
“Oy! MacKerrick!”
The warning was given in the very instant the wet, heavy hunk of straw and mortar smacked into Conall’s temple.
“Catch it, now!”
Conall staggered sideways on his feet, the unwieldy load of long timber supports on his shoulder shifting and sliding. He strained to steady the load but gave a hoarse cry as the topmost board slid free and the whole lot fell to the ground with an echoing crash.
Conall’s face burned as the amused guffaws of the Buchanan workers taunted him. He wanted to fight them all, one by one, if he had to. They goaded his temper mercilessly, constantly, as if daring him to lose control. But Conall gathered every shred of patience and humility he could scrounge and took their provocation. Took the jabs, the jests, the outright insults. He had been reduced little more than a slave, and yet he welcomed it.
Eve was so close, he could feel her with his waking breath each morning in the primitive tent he’d erected just beyond the Buchanan town. She was here, his wife, and Gregory, his son. Conall would be patient if it killed him. He would endure the Buchanan ridicule until the day he died if that was how long it took for Eve to come to him.
He would wait. And he would be here for her whenever and if ever she wanted him again.
Conall scraped the sticky mess from the side of his face with his fingertips, then bent to begin restacking the fallen beams. Andrew Buchanan’s loathsome boots came into his line of sight.
“Leave it,” the Scot said imperiously. “I’ll take them from here. We’re out of mortar.”
Conall stopped, taking a slow, deep breath. Could the man not be bothered the courtesy of asking? Conall wanted to smash his knuckles into Andrew Buchanan’s face, pound his flapping tongue down his throat.
“I’ll go back to shore and ready another batch,” he gritted between his teeth and straightened.
Andrew clapped a hand on Conall’s shoulder with a booming “Good man!” before turning away. He didn’t make the first move to collect the fallen beams, and Conall knew the pile would still be waiting on him once he made the laborious journey to shore and back.
At least he would be fatigued come nightfall. Mayhap he could find some small escape in sleep.
Conall made his way to the island’s rocky beach where a line of primitive rafts were landed. Grabbing up a long, wide-tipped staff, he shoved one of the rafts into the quiet, lapping water and splashed aboard, pushing himself out into the deep.
It took him the better part of a half hour to reach the far shore, and as he drew near, he could both hear and see the commotion on the edge of town. Conall ran the raft aground and scrambled up the bank to the knot of women and children gathered together.
“What is it?” he demanded of the closest Buchanan wife. She was clutching her reluctant daughter to her side.
“’Tis the missus—she’s gone mad,” the woman said grudgingly, her eyes barely meeting Conall’s.
Conall’s heart began to pound. The missus was Eve.
“What do you mean, woman?” he barked.
