He nodded his thanks, sliding the bottle into a pouch at his belt. “What do I owe ye?”
“Nothing,” she said, waving him off.
“Are ye sure?”
“Aye.”
“Any message ye wish me to carry back to Moy?” he asked. The sly glint in his eye made irritation spike through her.
“Just my thanks,” she replied, wishing the man would be on his way.
He flashed her a smile. “As ye wish, mistress. Good day to ye.”
The stares at market were starting to vex Hazel.
They’d begun the moment she led Duncan into Lochbuie—eyes tracking her movements, heads turning, and murmured comments.
Their behavior confused her. Had news of Siùsan’s passing already reached them? And if it had, weren’t they sorry to hear she was dead? Despite that her own feelings toward the woman she’d recently learned was her aunt were conflicted, she’d expected the villagers to express sorrow, or at the very least, sympathy.
Instead, the pointed looks and whispers made her temper simmer.
Callous bastards.
Liar or not, Siùsan didn’t deserve such disrespect.
Jaw tight, she stalked toward the egg-seller’s stall. Duncan’s hooves clip-clopped on the packed earth, the baskets strapped to his back swaying with each step. Around them, the market bustled with its usual chaos—fishwives hawking their catches; farmers selling neeps, carrots, and cabbages; and the yeasty scent of fresh bread drifting from the baker’s stall.
She’d brought her healing herbs with her to market—tucked into a satchel slung across her front—just in case any of the locals needed them. Usually, folk approached her, asking for balms to heal ulcers, unguents for strained muscles, or tinctures for belly complaints. But today, no one came to her for help.
She caught sight of two women standing by the fishwife’s stall then. One murmured something, and the other smirked. And then they both looked at her.
Heat rolled over Hazel, and she choked back the urge to snarl at the besoms.How dare they?
Both women had known Siùsan. She’d helped deliver their bairns. Their cruelty stung.
She spied Ewan then, amongst the crowd. A big man with wavy flaxen hair who was haggling with a hunter selling hares and grouse. The woodcutter was at market with his wife and bairn. His son perched upon his broad shoulders, while his wife’s belly was swollen with her second pregnancy. Husband and wife were both smiling. Content.
Mercifully, Hazel’s former lover hadn’t seen her yet. Things had ended on a sour note between them five summers earlier. These days though, he appeared to have left his disappointment behind him. Her gaze flicked back to Ewan’s wife. She wore a serene expression as she watched her husband haggle. She looked sweet. Biddable. Exactly the sort of woman Hazel wasn’t.
Resentment pricked at her, an old scar that pulled sometimes. There was a price for a husband’s protection, one she’d always been reluctant to pay—and as a consequence, Ewan had walked out of her life.
Turning away, she tugged Duncan to a halt before the egg vendor.
A portly man with a bulbous nose flashed her a grin. “Morning, Hazel!” His greeting was jovial. Overly so. “It’s been a while.”
She nodded. “I’ll have two dozen eggs.”
“Of course.” He started packing eggs into the straw-filled basket she passed him. “I hear ye have been busy of late.”
Hazel stiffened. “Busy?”
“Aye … patching up our braw young chieftain.”
Her heart kicked, anger washing over her in a crimson wave.
Suddenly, she understood.
The stares. The whispers. It wasn’t about Siùsan. They were gossiping about her and Maclean.
