Thatwasalie.
“I am glad to hear it.” Kirsty’s eyes said she didn’t believe him. “I’ll also tell you, you needn’t bring me such help every month.” She reached to push a small pouch of coins back across the table. “This house was Patrick’s mother’s. It is now mine. No one can take it from me. I earn well mending nets for the herring fleet. I do other sewing work. It is enough. My wants are notmany.”
They shouldbe.
Greyson kept the words to himself. He did not want to offend her. He also glanced around the low-beamed room, half expecting to see a tiny, black-garbed crone with red plaid shoe laces peering at him from a corner. Of course, he saw nothing but the whitewashed walls, an old wooden cupboard, its shelves neatly lined with cups, saucers, plates, and an assortment of various-sized bowls, jars, and jugs. A few lobster pots Kirsty had transformed into oil lamps, and – his heart squeezed – Patrick’s old Harris Tweed jacket that still claimed pride of place on its hook by thedoor.
“Keep the coins for me,” he said, sliding the pouch back to her. “I will no’ miss themeither.”
He would, but she didn’t need to knowthat.
“We will always argue about this.” She didn’t touch the money. But she also left the pouch where he’d pushed it. “You are welcome here always – with or without a bag ofcoins.”
“That I know.” He did, and he loved her forit.
He also stood, not wanting to overstay his visit, whatever she said. His presence could only remind her of Patrick and he suspected she often cried when he left. His eyes watered, too, each time he stepped from the cottage onto the sea-fronted road. He supposed it would remain that way for both of them. Losing someone dear was bitter, an ache you carriedforever.
“You are even more welcome when you bring Wiggle,” she said, accompanying him to the door. “I hope he will come along nexttime.”
“He will.” He gave her a smile, set his hands on her shoulders. “It might embarrass the wee laddie if I share his secrets, but he is right fond ofyou.”
As he’d hoped, Kirsty beamed. “I won’t say aword.”
“Then all is well, dear lady.” He tightened his grip on her shoulders and then made a quick exit, glad to find the sun shining, a brisk sea wind frothing thewaves.
His spirits rose as he strode down Stony Bay’s main thoroughfare, a curving road hemmed on one side by the village’s row of connected fishermen’s cottages, each one low, whitewashed, and slate-roofed, with peat smoke curling from almost every chimney. The road also led past the local church, ancient and granite-built, a shop, and a small inn, its pub popular with the herring fishers and lobstermen. Greyson glanced at the tiny harbor now, then the broad beach that hugged the road. The tide was out, the whole of the North Sea stretching away to the horizon, the sun glinting on its rollingexpanse.
His breath caught at the beauty, but he quickened his pace and returned his gaze to the road before memories painted the image of his first ship out there – the one ghost he did not care to see, given thechance.
He’d trained himself not to look for theSilver Thistleat Aberdeen’s bustling harbor, buthere…
Stony Bay wasdifferent.
As a boon to besotted Patrick, his first ship, christenedMargaretfor his mother, had always called in at the hamlet first, allowing Patrick to race home to hisKirsty.
None of the crewmen had minded. Far from it, they’d made jests and cheered loudly, happy to watch their friend almost fall over his own running feet as he’d hurried to hisdoor.
Greyson frowned, his mood darkening as he strode evenfaster.
He was almost at the end of Stony Bay when he allowed himself one last glance at the beach, the sea beyond. A woman walked there now. No, she wasn’twalking…
As he watched, she bent and took a stick from the sand, seeming to laugh as she threw the stick and then ran to retrieve it, repeating her actions as she moved along beside the surf. His heart pounded, his breath catching as everything about her slammed into him – the glint of her raven hair, the curve of her hips, the way shemoved.
The flash of the sun off the water made it hard to see her face, but he was sure he knewher.
Indeed, there could be nodoubt.
She was MissRaines.
His Samhainbeauty.
And even as recognition set his soul on fire, he ran onto the sand and raced down the beach, calling after her as she hitched up her skirts and bolted away fromhim.
* * *
“Leave me be!”Ophelia whirled to face him,the regrettably unrestrained rogue from Samhain Eve. Her knees shook, her heart thundered, and the stitch in her side warned that she couldn’t outrun him. Shamed that was so, she fought against bending double and, instead, set her hands against her hips and glared at him. “I want nothing to do with you. Stay away from me. I will scream if you come one stepcloser.”
To her surprise, he stopped running and returned her stare, his handsome face dark with the same annoyance beating through her. He wasn’t wearing his sporran – much to herrelief.
