The sporran he wore to disguise his inability to control his lust. Why else would he don a sporran when not kilted? She tightened her grip on the handrail, sure that no other Scotsman would defile their national dress in such a nefarious manner. She’d felt the evidence – the fast and relentless thrusting of his ‘wiggle’ as he’d clutched her tohim.
Her frown returned just remembering. In truth, she should be grateful to the older women for marching into the kirkyard. Otherwise, the scoundrel might have whipped aside his sporranand…
She paused on the top step of the ancient stair and pushed the rogue from her mind. Grand kisser, handsome or not, he was a lout and she’d best forgethim.
All she wanted was to reach her room, strip, and dive beneath her bed’scovers.
To that end, she cracked the stairwell door and peered into the dimly-lit hallway. The floorboards were polished and sometimes creaked, but a blue-fringed runner stretched the length of the passage and if she kept to its center, she’d not make a sound. Still, she waited a moment, holding herbreath.
Nothingstirred.
Only silence and a hint of cold wood hung in the air. Perhaps also a trace of the bouillabaisse served at dinner. After all, the stair’s lower entrance was near to thekitchen.
Nomatter.
She wouldn’t have cared if the passage reeked of garlic. All that concerned her was its emptiness. Exhaling, she relaxed and hurried the short distance to herroom.
Her refuge. Or so she thought until she stepped inside to find her aunt sitting on herbed.
“Aunt Sarah!” Ophelia blinked, sure the floor had just opened beneath her. “What are you doinghere?”
“Waiting for you, my dear.” Her aunt stood, her sad gaze gliding from the top of Ophelia’s head to the tips of her toes and back again. “Where were you this time? Not in the old sealed-off tunnels beneath the city, nor any of the less reputable alleys along the harbor. Your clothes are too clean.Still…”
She came forward to lift the end of Ophelia’s silver-blue shawl. “How did you tear your shawl? Did you run through brambles? Were you chased? Much mayhem is stirred on this night in Aberdeen.” She let the silk drop and stepped back, angling her head as she fixed Ophelia with a troubled look. “I know you favor the shawl. You wouldn’t have damaged itgladly.”
Ophelia frowned. “But Ididn’t.”
“Then you weren’taware?”
“No.” Ophelia glanced down, seeing the rip. “I don’t know how ithappened.”
Shedidn’t.
Her heart sank all thesame.
The shawl was special, so much more than silver-blue silk and warmth. It was a gift from a long-ago friend and – she truly believed – imbued with magic. An enchantment woven of love and that her friend had sworn would protect her always, even when the shawl wasn’t draped around her shoulders. So strong was itsblessing.
Now she’d tornit.
She looked up, hoped the room’s dimness hid the tears burning her eyes. “It must’ve caught onsomething.”
“So it seems.” Her aunt glanced about the cold and tiny room, taking in the bare floor and thin curtains at the window, the cot-like bed and narrow wardrobe near the door. “Nothing here could’ve done such damage. Nor do thorn bushes grow anywhere within these walls. You’d best tell me where you were thisnight.”
“I wasout.”
Aunt Sarah folded her arms. “That is not ananswer.”
“I know…” Ophelia went to stand at the window, seeking time, hoping to compose herself. “I wanted to walk,” she said, easing back the curtains. “It’s a special night. Enchanted for those who follow the oldways.”
“You shouldn’t speak of such things.” Her aunt sighed. “We now live in an enlightened age and the lore of Highland herb wives, charmers, magic, and what-not are known to be only legend. Such frivol should remain where it belongs - in the remote past, and blessedlyso.”
“I do believe in magic.” Ophelia spoke to her aunt’s reflection in the shiny blackness of the window glass. “The old ways are real. The hills would crumble, the heather wither away, if everyone persists in denying centuries oftradition.”
“Ophelia…” Her aunt’s voice softened. “You know I understand. But you are here at Kettle House, beneath this roof, and your uncle disapproves of such thinking. It is becoming harder and harder to calm him when you do such things. Slipping away on All Hallows’ Eve, going out in the bitter cold of Winter Solstice to sneak down to the harbor and stare at the Northern Lights, looking for Viking gods in the heavens.” Her aunt paused, drew a long breath. “Come spring, you rush out in your bed robe to wash your face in the morningdew.
“My dear,” she said again. “I do not know how much longer I can shield you. Your uncle is concerned your presence will stain the house, draw unwantedinfluences.”
“I have done nothing wrong.” Ophelia touched the cold window glass, her throatthickening.
