For the first time in a long while, he was simply in the moment.
“Thank ye,” he said. “For the meal. For tending my wounds. For not throwing me out when I showed up bleeding on yer doorstep.”
Hazel’s lips quirked. “As if I’d treat anyone so roughly.”
Hazel’s pulse fluttered as she hung the curtain across the corner of the cottage.
For the first time ever, she’d share this space with amanovernight.
This cottage had always been a female domain. Just hers and Siùsan’s; a soft, safe refuge where nothing bad could touch them.
Until her mother had shattered her world.
An ache started to pulse in her chest. How she wished to confide in Craeg Maclean, to let the hurt pour out and share her secrets with a kind ear. But the Chieftain of Moy wasn’t a wise choice. He was easy company, yet a stranger, all the same.
Siùsan’s betrayal had made her cautious of letting her guard down.
Behind the curtain, Hazel quickly stripped off her kirtle. Nervousness started to flutter in her belly then. She’d handled herself confidently while she’d been tending his injuries and while she’d prepared and served supper. But they were entering unfamiliar territory now. She could hear Maclean moving about on the other side—the creak of the stool as he stood, the soft grunt as he tested his injured ankle.
Her brows drew together then. The chieftain had overstepped when he’d hinted she couldn’t manage on her own. Did he think she wouldn’t be safe here?
What about those men Ma told ye about … the ones asking questions in Lochbuie?Irritation spiked through her. She’d dismissed Siùsan’s warning, yet sometimes it still nagged at her like a twinging tooth.Ma misheard. There’s no danger.
Maybe Maclean was concerned that local lads might start paying her visits once they learned she lived alone—and that one might try to take advantage. The thought made her breathing grow shallow. She didn’t want men bothering her. She’d had just one lover over the years—who’d tried to mold her into someone she wasn’t—and wasn’t interested in getting entangled with another man like that.
However, she wouldn’t mind if someone as attractive and fascinating as Craeg Maclean showed up at her door again.
Chiding herself for entertaining such thoughts,Hazel pulled on a clean lèine—her longest one, that brushed her ankles—and tied it at the waist. She splashed water on her face from the basin, then ran her fingers through her hair, working out the tangles. Her reflection in the small bronze looking glass showed flushed cheeks and overly bright eyes. She wasn’t herself this evening. She felt younger. Lighter.
She frowned once more, giving herself a warning.Enough banter and teasing.Remember whom ye are talking to.
Taking a deep breath, she steadied herself and emerged from behind the curtain.
Maclean had removed his other boot and was sitting on the edge of the pallet she’d indicated. He now shrugged off his lèine. Casting the tunic aside, he glanced up when she appeared. His wolfhound had curled up next to the pallet and was already fast asleep.
Hazel felt his gaze travel down the length of her, taking in her unbound hair and the thin lèine that was all that stood between her and nakedness. Self-consciousness prickled her skin.
Cods.She should have thrown a shawl about her shoulders before emerging from behind the curtain. Cutting her gaze away, she darted toward her own bed in the opposite corner.
Slipping beneath the woolen blanket, she found herself painfully conscious of every sound. The creak of the pallet as he lay down. The crackle of the fire between them, banked for the night but still glowing.
Hazel drew in a deep breath and tried to relax. It was impossible. How could she when her chieftain had bedded down a few feet away? It would be a long night.
5: A GOOD WIFE
HAZEL WOKE TO the soft grey light of dawn filtering through the shutters.
For a moment, she lay still, listening. The cottage was quiet save for the steady rhythm of breathing from across the room.
She had a few blessed instants of peace, and then the burn in her gut began. It was a familiar sensation these days—hurt and anger looking for release. However, for a while the evening before, as she’d sat by the fire with Maclean, she’d had a reprieve.
Now though, the resentment returned, biting hard.
How could ye, Siùsan?
Mornings were the worst. Her mother had always risen earlier than her.For years, she’d awoken to the hum of Siùsan’s voice as she sang to herself while she worked, and the comforting smell of simmering porridge. But ever since her death, only suffocating silence greeted Hazel each morning.
She hated it.
