Leaving their cottage, she emerged into bright afternoon sunlight. The village was busy—women hanging washing, bairns chasing a dog through the lane, the ring of a hammer from the smithy. Normal summer sounds that should have been soothing.
But Hazel wasn’t in the mood to appreciate the beautiful day.
A plague on the wagging tongues of Lochbuie. People needed to find someone else to whisper about. Her throat tightened then, disappointment twisting. She’d have expected better from Elspeth and Malcolm.
Walking through the village with her basket over her arm, she held her head high. She’d left Duncan behind this afternoon, for it was quicker to travel into the village and back without him. A few people nodded to her in passing. Blyth, the egg-seller, called out a greeting. She responded politely but didn’t stop to chat.
She’d nearly reached the edge of the village when she approached the ale house.
It was a ramshackle building that leaned slightly to one side, as if weary from holding up drunken patrons for so many years. The door stood open, and the warm day had driven men outside. They sat on benches and upturned barrels, drinking and talking in the summer heat.
Hazel would have walked straight past if not for the voices.
“—Rhona Maclean.” The accent wasn’t local. “Have ye heard of her?”
Ice washed over Hazel. Lurching to a halt, she moved into the shadow of an alder tree beside the ale house. Fortunately, no one had seen her.
Carefully, she peeked out at the group of men. Three burly newcomers sat with the locals, their clothes dusty from travel. They wore no clan sashes, so there was no way of knowing where they were from. Butsheknew.Macquaries.
“Rhona.” The miller scratched his stubbled chin. “Aye … there was a woman by that name. Died years ago, though.”
“Aye … in childbirth.” An older man added, a grizzled cottar who worked the fields outside Lochbuie.
“And the bairn?”
“The poor wee mite died with her mother.” The cottar frowned then. “Why?”
The biggest of the three men—a bald warrior with a pugnacious jaw—muttered an oath under his breath. “Very well … we’re looking for a woman. Black hair. Blue eyes. Lives somewhere in these parts.”
“Black hair and blue eyes?” Another one of the villagers snorted a laugh. “That’s half the lasses in Lochbuie, that is.”
“She’s likely to be tall.”
Hazel’s heart hammered so hard she thought they must hear it. Her fingers tightened on her basket until the handle bit into her palm.
“Could be talking about old Morag up the hill,” a fisherman suggested. “Though her hair’s more grey than black these days.”
One of the newcomers made an annoyed sound in the back of his throat. “She’ll be younger … around thirty summers.”
Dizziness assailed Hazel.Christ’s bones.
“Why are ye looking for her?” The miller asked, suspicion creeping into his voice. “Is she in some kind of trouble?”
“Are ye insinuating that Rhona’s bairn lived?” the cottar added, incredulous now.
The bald man grunted. “Maybe.”
“Well, ye are wasting yer time, pal. Lochbuie’s a small place. We’d know if—”
Hazel didn’t wait to hear more. Turning sharply, she headed back the way she’d come, walking as fast as she dared without breaking into a run. Her pulse roared in her ears.
Oh God. Oh God.
She’d dismissed her mother’s warning, yet Siùsan had been right. Menwerelooking for her.
Ducking down a narrow lane between cottages, she pressed herself against the wall, trying to catch her breath. Her hands shook. The basket of herbs trembled.
Black hair. Blue eyes. Tall. Around thirty.
