“And yer mother taught ye all of this?”
“She did.” Her throat worked, and she averted her gaze. “Hermother was also a herb-wife … and hers before that.”
“It must have been a wrench … to lose her.”
Hazel returned to her pot, adding a jug of broth to the simmering vegetables. A toothsome aroma now filled the air. “It was,” she said softly, avoiding his gaze.
“Can ye manage on yer own?”
Her chin kicked up, her blue eyes narrowing as her attention settled on him once more. “Aye.” Her voice was firm with a hint of steel in it.
Craeg studied her, completely forgetting his own cares now. What an enigma this woman was. He was determined to get the measure of her. “Ye were nervous when ye opened the door to me earlier,” he pointed out.
She shook her head, her jaw setting stubbornly, before she patted the sheathed knife tucked into her belt. “Aye … but I can look after myself.”
He eyed her, biting back the urge to remind her that a woman on her own was vulnerable, even if she knew how to wield a blade. Something in her eyes stopped him from being honest with her. Hazel was plucky, yet there was a brittleness to it, as if she was putting on a brave face for his benefit.
Another, uncomfortable, silence followed before he cleared his throat. “I can help ye prepare supper, if ye wish?”
She flashed him an incredulous look. “With that ankle? I think not.” There was a hint of amusement in her voice though, and he was relieved to hear it.
He snorted. “I can stir a pot as well as any man.”
“Can ye now?” One dark eyebrow arched. “And here was I thinking a chieftain wouldn’t know a cauldron from a chamber pot.”
Craeg snorted a laugh. He liked this woman. Her teasing made him want to spar with her. His mood lightened. “Not this one. I had to fend for myself when I was on campaign.”
She looked away then and sprinkled some salt into the bubbling pottage. “Tell me then, Craeg Maclean. What other skills do ye possess that might surprise me?”
The question was innocent enough, but the challenge in her tone made something kindle in his gut. The urge to boast, to impress her, surged up. “I can mend a torn sail. Gut a fish. Build a decent fire in the rain.”
“Impressive.” She wiped her hands on her apron before reaching for a small jar on the shelf. “Can ye also identify this?”
She held out the jar. Inside were dried leaves, pale green and slightly fuzzy.
Craeg leaned closer, squinting. “I’ve no idea.”
“Sage. Good for sore throats and healing wounds.” She set it back on the shelf. “And this?”
Another jar. This one held small dried flowers.
“Chamomile?”
Her eyebrows rose. “Well done.”
“My mother makes a brew with it,” he replied, flashing her a smile. “When she has trouble sleeping.” He paused then before continuing. “I too have taken to drinking it of late.”
She returned to the fire, stirring the pottage slowly. Steam rose from the pot, carrying the earthy scent of vegetables. “I also have restless nights,” she admitted before grimacing. “Although chamomile doesn’t help.”
His gaze roamed her face, and he marked the way her expression shuttered. “I’m not surprised,” he said, gentling his tone. “Ye are still grieving.”
A moment passed before she cleared her throat and abruptly turned from him. “Aye.” She picked up a wooden bowl and started to ladle pottage into it. She then handed him the bowl. “Here, it’s a simple supper … but it’ll fill yer belly.”
He accepted it gratefully, while she dished herself out some stew. It was hot and savory.They ate in companionable silence, the earlier awkwardness fading with each bite. Meanwhile, Hazel tossed Faolan a heel of stale oaten bread. The wolfhound gnawed at it eagerly next to the hearth, his large paws holding the bread in place.
When Craeg had finished, he set his bowl aside and studied her once more, admiring the way the firelight caught in her long black hair, turning it to silk. He noted the delicate curve of her jaw and the fullness of her mouth.
Aye, she was striking. Fascinating. Feisty yet reticent. Open yet reserved. She both intrigued and challenged him. Being in her company settled his restlessness, his frustration at being stuck on Mull while Ailean and Greig fought for Scottish freedom—made him forget he’d just agreed to a betrothal he didn’t want.
