His lips quirked. “Capable women like my mother.” He paused then, his gaze capturing hers once more. “Or ye.”
She shot him an arch look. “Me? A common-born herb-wife? I think not.”
“There’s nothing common about ye, Hazel.” His tone grew serious now, his dark eyes intense. “Something tells me, ye’d manage Moy admirably.”
Heat flushed over her, and she tore her attention back to the nettle bed.
God’s troth. What was the man blethering about? A woman like her would never be Lady of Moy.
A bastard born of vicious rape.
Queasiness assailed her as the past rose like a specter between them. Aye, rank separated them, but that wasn’t the worst of it. How would he look at her if he knew?
Craeg cursed then, yanking his hand from the hawthorn bush. Blood beaded on his fingertip before he sucked it. “Vicious wee bastard.”
His words shattered the tension between them, and Hazel managed a laugh. “A hard life, eh?”
He glanced her way, amusement sparking in his peat-brown eyes.
Their gazes fused then, and as the moment drew out, Hazel’s innards knotted.
Jezebel’s tits. She was sliding down an icy path now, gathering speed as she went.
And only trouble waited at the bottom.
Drawing a woolen shawl around her, Hazel moved to the open window. The sun was setting beyond—a flare of crimson and gold. It was more ominous than beautiful, and the anxiety that had been fluttering against her ribs like a moth all afternoon beat its wings once more. She’d returned from foraging, Craeg walking at her side, more unsettled than ever.
“The longer ye stay, the harder it’ll be to leave,” she whispered aloud.
She leaned against the stone lintel then, watching the way the setting sun gilded the loch beyond. Her time at Moy Castle had gone quickly. She’d proved her worth repeatedly. The initial stream of patients had reduced to a trickle, and Lady Liza had recovered now. Hazel was no longer needed at Moy. Of course, she could visit the castle, once a week if needed, but she couldn’t linger for much longer.
Not if she didn’t want to end up in Craeg Maclean’s bed.
Not if she didn’t want to ruin herself.
Aye, she wasn’t oblivious to the heat kindling between them again. The pull was getting harder to resist. And if she remained here, she’d eventually weaken. She’d eventually do something stupid.
His marriage was looming, and she’d be damned if she’d be here when his bride arrived.
She’d rather spend the rest of her life alone than be the mistress of a married man. Craeg hadn’t actually proposed such an arrangement, yet she wasn’t going to give him the chance to either.
If she didn’t set her own value, no one would. Aye, the past had left a stain upon her. She couldn’t help but blame herself for Rhona’s tragic end, but she wouldn’t let shame make her its prisoner. She wasn’t doomed by the start she’d had in life.
Jaw clenching, Hazel started to unfasten the sacking. She lowered it, blocking out the vermillion sunset. Alone in her bedchamber, she moved to the flickering hearth and lowered herself onto a stool.
Of course, there was another reason she’d been putting off returning home.
Her hunters.
A few days had passed since she’d overheard those men at the Lochbuie Inn. Perhaps they’d gotten tired of searching for her. Maybe they’d moved on.
She hoped so.
Her stay at Moy had given her a much-needed reprieve. But it was time to face the future. “I must get on with my life,” she told herself firmly. “I don’t belong here.”
Craeg Maclean was too far above her, and his fine castle was no place for a bastard. She’d gotten a taste of another life, yet it was like a borrowed gown. One she couldn’t keep.
Squaring her shoulders, she rose to her feet and crossed to the scuffed leather satchel she’d brought from her cottage. Her possessions were few; it wouldn’t take long to pack. And then, once she’d broken her fast the following morning, she’d leave.
