“My grandmother was the same.” She took a deep breath and nodded at the door. “I hope she likes me.”
“She will. I feel sure of it.” His tense smile cast significant doubt on that statement as he swung open the door.
The modest sitting room was not only immaculate but also empty. Cut flowers filled several pitchers and vases, lending their sweet fragrance to the brightness of the room. Teague made a sweeping motion that encompassed the area. “She yearned for lots of windows, and now ’tis rare she even makes it in here.” He stared off into space with a sad smile. “She threatened to skin me alive when I offered to have her carried to that window couch each day.”
Mila gave his arm a reassuring squeeze. “Stubborn and independent. Sounds like someone I know.”
“I suppose so.” He rolled his shoulders as if fighting off the melancholy of his grandmother growing weaker. After pulling in a deep breath, he strode to the bedchamber door and softly knocked. “Grandmother?”
“’Tis about time,” came the tart reply from the other side.
He lifted a brow at Mila. “Ye have been warned,” he mouthed. He eased open the door while waving her forward. “I have someone I would like ye to meet, Grandmother.”
“As I said—’tis about time ye brought yer wife to me.”
Fighting the urge to turn tail and run, Mila adopted her best smile. She stayed close to Teague as he led her over to the side of the bed. After an awkward moment, she managed a clumsy curtsy. “Lady MacDonald. It is so good to meet ye.”
While the tiny woman seemed frail, she possessed the bright, snapping eyes of a hawk. “Mila Carthson.” Her wrinkled face quirked with a faint smile. “Beg pardon, I should say Mila MacDonald.” With a regal nod, she held out a hand crippled with arthritis. “Step closer, child. Let me get a good look at ye.”
Mila did as asked, taking the lady’s hand carefully so as not to cause the elder any pain. Lady MacDonald’s grip surprised her. It was—strong for one so infirm.
The white-haired matron studied her for a brief moment, then snapped her focus back to Teague. “I have a fearsome hunger for some freshly fried bread. Sizzling hot from the pan, mind ye. Slathered in butter and soaked with honey. Fetch it for me, aye?”
“Fetch it for ye?” Teague eyed her suspiciously. “What are ye playing at, sly one? I dinna fetch things. I send for them.”
She released Mila’s hand and shook a curled finger at him. “Ye refuse my request? Deny the woman who raised ye? The verra one who wiped yer arse and yer nose and kept ye safe and warm when all was lost?” She shook her finger again, then thumped her hand to her chest. “Shame on ye, Drummond Maclain Teague MacDonald. For shame, for shame.”
Teague’s jaw flexed as if he fought to avoid saying something he shouldn’t. He scrubbed a hand across his face, then lifted it in surrender. “Fine! I shall fetch ye the bread.”
“Hmpf! Good enough, then. Be quick about it, aye?” Lady MacDonald dismissed him with a curt dip of her pointy chin.
“Shall I help?” Mila needed to escape. She ached with the need to laugh.
“Why no, child,” the matron said. “Stay here and keep an old woman company while he carries out his chores.”
With a roll of his eyes, Teague spun about and charged out the door, but did not slam it. He respectfully closed it behind him without a sound.
Lady MacDonald immediately transformed into an even feistier elder. She pushed herself up in the bed, leaned back against the headboard, and patted the spot beside her. “Now we can speak freely.”
“I suppose we can.” Mila eased down to sit on the bed and forced a smile. “What would ye like to talk about?”
The pert matron smiled, then leaned forward with a teasing wink. “Ye dinna remember me, do ye?”
Mila wondered if dementia made the lady think they had met before. “I am afraid not, m’lady. Could ye jiggle my memory about where we met?” She didn’t want to upset Teague’s grandmother by yanking her back to the present with the truth. There was no harm in playing along.
“Bless me, child. Ye are Francene made over.” The senior’s pleased expression melted into a faraway look. “I knew ye would grow up to be just like her the moment I saw ye playing with that wooden bowl and spoon I gifted her before I left.”
Mila couldn’t move. Or swallow. Or breathe. Surprisingly enough, her heart continued to beat, even though the shock of what Lady MacDonald just said had locked every faculty she possessed.
“How is my dear Francene? I do so miss our chats.”
“I am afraid my grandmother is gone,” Mila said, forcing out the words. “Cancer took her. A little over a year ago now.”
Lady MacDonald lifted a trembling hand to her mouth, and her eyes filled with tears. “Ach, no. She was my dearest sister under the moon.”
“The moon,” Mila whispered as the faintest memories from her childhood emerged. “We danced under the full moon with braids of flowers in our hair. I remember now. Ye are Cora Campbell. Ye visited Gran all the time.”
The old lady nodded, the corners of her sad smile quivering. “Aye, lass. Although it is CoraMacDonaldnow. And we did dance. Every month, remember? The goddess always blessed us because we brought her such joy.”
