The maid hurried across the room, caught her by the arm, and gently tugged her all the way to the farthest wall in the bedchamber. “Lady MacDonald is himself’s grandmother,” she whispered, as if the draperies hid spies. “No one sees her unless they go to her chambers because she is bedridden.”
Disappointed as a child who had just received plain white socks for Christmas instead of a bicycle, Mila wasn’t sure what to say. She stood there for a long moment, waiting for the rest of the story. It didn’t come. “Why were ye so afraid to speak about her downstairs? Why all the secrecy?”
“She is a pagan.” The maid cast another look around the room. “And some say she is well over two hundred years old because she honors the old religion.”
“Rumors. Ye know how people love to make stories bigger than they are.” Teague probably rushed from the room because someone signaled that his invalid grandmother needed him. Totally understandable.
Weariness and waning adrenaline triggered a yawn. Mila turned and pointed at her back. “Undo me, aye? I am ready to be done with this day.”
“Ye dinna understand, mistress,” Grissa insisted. “Folk only go to Lady MacDonald when they need a spell or an ill wish cast upon an enemy.”
Mila had heard enough. She was tired, worried about surviving, and still none too sure that she and Robbie could change history and save Teague. Unintentional sharpness crept into her tone. “Whatever they send out shall come back to them thrice.” She flexed as the bodice fell away and her stays loosened. “And if that doesna work, I’ll light a black candle on Lizzie’s arse. That’ll fix her negativity for her.”
Grissa gasped, making Mila realize what she had just said.
“Well, damn.” Without looking at the girl, she climbed into bed. Might as well stare at the ceiling and figure a way to tell Robbie she would soon be burned at the stake for witchcraft. “Goodnight, Grissa.”
“A good night to ye, mistress,” the maid whispered, then ran from the room as if demons chased her.
“I am such a fool.” Mila scrubbed her face with both hands, then let them fall away. “I hope Robbie fares better than I just did.”
Chapter Eight
“Iremember atime when ye hurried to see me first thing. Soon as ye entered the gate.”
“I came to see ye earlier, and Bethia said ye were asleep and not to be bothered.” Teague kissed his grandmother’s cheek. “Dinna scold me, sly one. Not when yer maid just gave the signal and scared me white-headed.”
She peered up at him from her throne of pillows and hissed like a boiling kettle. “Dinna lie to yer grandmother. Yer hair is still black as new soot.” With a coy wrinkling of her nose, she patted a spot beside her. “Sit and tell me of this new guest yer jilted Lizzie spoke of to Bethia.”
“Ye know good and well I did not jilt Lizzie.”
“Whether ye did or did not matters to no one but Lizzie.” She dismissed the subject with a flip of her arthritis-knotted hand. “Who is this lass who arrived dressed so strangely?” Her wizened face puckered with a thoughtful scowl. “And a boy. I believe Bethia mentioned a lad too? He belongs to her?”
“Her godson. Master Robbie Abernathy.” Grandmother Cora might be aged and bedridden, but a sharper mind could not be found. She knew everything happening within the clan and guessed the rest with astounding accuracy. Her unknown sources were so thorough that he often consulted her with the sole purpose of learning all she ferreted out. She had even foretold the future a time or two. Many thought her to be a white lady with the sight. Teague neither knew nor cared. She was Grandmother. The woman who had forged him into the man he was today.
“Well? What about the woman? Tell me more.”
“Lady Mila Carthson of Roxburghe.” He maintained a neutral expression, knowing the family name for the Roxburghe peerage was Ker and not Carthson. He’d had a run-in with that Lowlander duke over a shipment of brandy.
“Mila Carthson,” she repeated slowly. Her critical squint sharpened. She plucked at her covers and wiggled her narrow shoulders. “Fix my pillows, aye? I wish to sit higher.”
He leaned forward so she could wrap her thin arms around his neck as she had done countless times before. She hated help of any kind. Hated asking for it even worse. But this way seemed to appease her, since it made her feel as if she still had a hand in her own care. “Hold tight now. Ye’ve wallowed one of them down under yer wee behind.”
“I tire of riding this bed,” she grumbled. She hugged him tighter, sniffing his hair in the process. “Ye bathed? This lass must be a beauty. Dare I hope to see a great-grandchild afore I die?”
“Dinna start.” He plumped her pillows with one hand while supporting her with the other. “And I bathe regular. Ye know that.”
“I know my idea of regular and yer idea of regular dinna always agree.” She settled back in her freshly plumped nest and nodded. “I thank ye. Now, get on with it. This Mila Carthson—”
“Lady Mila,” he corrected her, then dared to grin.
“We both know Carthson is not a name belonging to the Roxburghe peerage.” She folded her hands in her lap and stared off into space. “Tell me where ye found her, how ye found her, and what she claims as her story.”
The prospect of a fresh mystery to solve added color to his precious grandmother’s cheeks. The sight made his heart glad. Every time he’d traveled of late, he dreaded returning, fearing she would be gone. He could not bear the thought of her passing. She had helped birth him and raised him with a loving fierceness that had switched his wee arse red whenever he crossed her, and healed his skinned knees with kisses and fanciful stories. The world would be a darker place when she left it.
She poked him. “Well? Get on with it. I am not getting any younger, ye ken?”
“Found them on the road overlooking the Three Sisters. When they spotted us riding their way, they tried to hide.” He gave her a look he knew she would read correctly. “Weinvitedthem to the keep, since they appeared quite worse off from whatever experiences they had endured. Drenched through, covered in mud, and lying. Badly.”
