Duncan tossed his head, as if in agreement.
Aye, she couldn’t put it off much longer. She was ready to face people now, strong enough to tell them of her ‘mother’s’ passing without giving herself away. The people of Lochbuie loved Siùsan Maclean. They deserved to know.
The rumble of wheels on the forest path made her freeze.
Hazel straightened, shading her eyes against the sun. Through the trees, she spotted a wagon making its way toward her cottage.
Her fingers tightened around the handle of her pitchfork. Occasionally, ailing villagers visited her for help, although things had been quiet of late. In truth, Siùsan’s tale had left her leery of strangers.
The wagon emerged into the clearing, pulled by a feather-footed garron. A grizzled man of middling age sat at the reins, and behind him, the wagon bed was piled with goods.Clay jars rattled as the man drew up his pony. The cart shuddered to a halt.
“Mistress Hazel?”
“Aye,” she replied, eyeing him.
The servant climbed down from his seat, his weathered face creasing into a smile. “I’ve a delivery from Moy Castle.”
Hazel frowned. “But I didn’t order anything.”
“No … but the laird was most insistent.” The servant gestured behind him. “Fresh cream. Aged cheese from the castle stores. And heather honey … enough to last ye a year, I’d wager.”
Hazel’s breathing caught.Cream. She’d apologized for not having any butter that morning, had mentioned needing to get to market.
But Maclean had remembered.
“I can’t accept this,” she said, even as her gaze lingered on the goods. It was a fortune in provisions. More than she could afford in a year of selling her remedies.
The servant huffed. “Maclean said ye’d say that. But he was very clear. Ye tended his injuries, and he pays his debts.” The man’s gaze traveled over her disheveled appearance, lingering just a moment too long. “Very clear indeed.”
Hazel stiffened. His tone made her hackles rise.
“It wasn’t like that,” she said sharply.
“Of course not, mistress.” But the slight quirk of his mouth suggested he thought otherwise. “Shall I unload it for ye?”
Hazel wanted to refuse. Wanted to send it all back with a curt message that she didn’t need charity—or whatever else people might think this was.
But cream, rich and delicious. And honey. They were luxuries indeed.
“Very well,” she said finally. “Set it inside the cottage.” She didn’t have much storage space, but she’d find room, somehow.
The servant made quick work of unloading, carrying the heavy pot of cream and the wrapped wheels of cheese into her cottage while Hazel stood in the yard, arms crossed, feeling embarrassed and pleased in equal measure.
Duncan ambled over, snuffling at the wagon hopefully.
“There’s nothing for ye, greedy beast,” she told him. He snorted, nudging her in the ribs.
“While I’m here … can I trouble ye for a remedy?” The man had emerged from her cottage and now approached.
“Aye,” she replied. “What ails ye?”
“My gut.” Lowering his hand, he rubbed the paunch that strained against his tucked-in lèine. “It’s sour these days … especially after I’ve eaten.”
Hazel nodded. That sounded like a common enough ailment. “I’ll fetch ye a tincture,” she replied, businesslike now. Returning to her cottage, she set about mashing up dried mint, lemon balm, and wormwood into a powder with a pestle and mortar. She then added some cooled boiled water and decanted the liquid into a clay bottle.
When she re-emerged, the servant had hauled himself back up onto his seat and gathered the reins.
“Here,” she handed him the bottle. “Take a mouthful before or after each meal. It should help.”
