Instead, she found herself increasingly aware of her guest. Small things—the way he licked honey from his thumb, the flex of his forearm as he reached for his cup of boiled water, and the dark shadow of beard upon his strong jaw.
Aye, it was hard not to envy his bride-to-be. She had to admit that she liked having this man around.
The sudden thunder of hooves intruded then.
Hazel’s head snapped toward the door. Her heart kicked hard as Faolan started barking.
Maclean was already on his feet, hobbling toward the door. He didn’t bother to put on his boots. Hazel followed him.
They emerged into the cool morning air just as a horse and rider came into view through the trees. A tall man with wild blond hair, leading a chestnut stallion by the reins.
“Alec!” Maclean greeted him.
Hazel took in the man with more interest. Alec Rankin. Captain of the Moy Guard. Although she’d never met him, Rankin’s reputation as a warrior of renown and a loyal husband to Lady Liza preceded him.
He pulled his mount to a halt, sharp sea-blue eyes taking in the scene—Moy’s newly invested chieftain standing barefoot in the doorway of the herb-wife’s cottage, his lèine rumpled and grass-stained, and Hazel hovering just behind him. Faolan pushed his way out, tail wagging now that he recognized the newcomer.
“Ruadh came back without ye last night,” Rankin said, his tone veiled. “I’ve been searching since dawn.”
Maclean limped forward to greet his stepfather. Spying his owner, the stallion tossed his head, as if issuing him a challenge. “A boar spooked Ruadh, and he threw me.”
Rankin’s gaze shifted to Hazel. “And ye took shelter here.”
It wasn’t a question, but Hazel found herself answering anyway. “The chieftain needed tending. He’s cracked a rib, I believe.”
“I see.” Rankin dismounted smoothly. “Can ye ride?”
“Of course,” Maclean replied. “I’ll just need a leg up into the saddle … my ankle’s badly sprained.”
Ruadh tossed his head then and snorted, sidestepping. He’d just marked the small grey donkey that had peeked its head out of its lean-to.Duncan hadn’t made a sound, yet it was clear the stallion didn’t like donkeys—some horses couldn’t abide them.
Rankin nodded before his attention returned to Hazel. “How’s Siùsan these days? I haven’t seen her in a long while.”
Hazel’s pulse quickened. “She died … recently.” She gestured then, to the small grave underneath the oak a few yards distant. “She’d been ailing for a while … I tried every remedy I knew to save her, but nothing worked.”
Rankin’s gaze shadowed. “I’m sorry, lass.”
The simple, sincere condolence made Hazel’s throat tighten. “Thank ye.”
“She was a good woman.”
A lump rose in her throat. “Aye … she was.” The words tasted bitter. Siùsanhadpossessed a big heart and a caring nature—but what she’d done to Hazel was difficult to forgive.
A strained silence settled, and then Rankin turned back to the chieftain. “Ready?”
Maclean nodded, but his gaze found hers. “Thank ye.”
She waved him away. “No thanks is required … it was the least I could do for my chieftain.”
“Yer hospitality was fine indeed.” Maclean’s voice was firm. He ignored his stepfather’s presence, focusing wholly on her. “And I won’t forget it.”
Before she could answer, he’d turned and was limping back toward the cottage. He emerged moments later wearing his boots. Rankin helped him mount Ruadh before vaulting up onto his own horse’s back.
Maclean’s gaze dropped to hers, and his lips curved into a smile. “Go well, Hazel.”
She looked up at him, giving him an answering smile as she pulled her shawl tight about her shoulders. “And ye, Maclean.”
“Craeg Leod Maclean of Moy.” Hamish Macquarie’s voice rumbled through the hall. “Do ye accept my daughter’s hand in marriage?”
