The maids started whispering to each other. Hazel didn’t want to hear what passed between them, but she caught snatches of it, all the same. Words like ‘shameless’, ‘bastard’, and ‘thinks highly of herself’ stung her ears.
Her jaw tightened. She hauled the bucket up, arm muscles burning. Anger spiked through her then. She didn’t need to be here—didn’t have to put up with such disdain.
Water slopped over the sides as she lifted the pail onto the rim.She then poured the water into her own bucket and plunged her hands into the cold water, scrubbing at the residue of herbs and infection that clung to her skin with the block of soap.
The women finished filling their pails. As they turned to leave, one of them—a comely redhead—spoke just loud enough to be heard.
“Can ye believe it? A common born, shamelessbesom, thinking she can be Lady of Moy.”
Her companion laughed. “Aye, who does she think she is?”
“Mark my words, the clan-chief will put an end to this nonsense.”
“If he doesn’t, Craeg Maclean will. Once he’s plowed her furrow a few more times, he’ll tire of her. She’ll be back in her hovel in the woods before Samhuinn.”
Fury washed over Hazel in a hot prickling wave, but she didn’t look up. Instead, she pretended she hadn’t heard them. She was a woman of one and thirty, not some spineless chit of sixteen who’d burst into tears at an insult.
All the same, she wanted to hurl her bucket of water over them.
Their laughter faded as they walked away, leaving her alone at the well with her basket of healing supplies.
Anger pulsed in her throat.
Those lasses thought they’d cow her with their vitriol, but instead, they just made stubbornness harden like a core of iron in her chest. Aye, she had her reservations, yet her pride was greater.
Craeg had chosenher, and together they’d prove all the naysayers wrong.
22: BRUISED PRIDE
“WHAT THE DEVIL have ye done?”
Loch Maclean’s voice lashed across the solar.
Craeg held his ground. “I’m prepared to accept the consequences for breaking this betrothal.”
“Are ye?” The force of Loch’s glare flayed him. At fifty winters, the chief of Clan Maclean was still formidable—tall and powerfully built. He had a presence that made men drop their gazes. “Ye break a formal betrothal. Ye dishonor a powerful ally. And for what? A lass ye barely know?”
The words stung, but Craeg kept his expression veiled.
“Hamish Macquarie sent men tomurderher,” Craeg said, his voice steady despite the hammering of his heart. “His own daughter. Is that a man ye would have me bind myself to?”
“He gave ye a generous dowry … and promised his military support.” Loch moved from the hearth. His solar was an intimidating chamber, much bigger than Craeg’s own back at Moy. Tapestries depicting Maclean victories hung from the stone walls. A massive oak table dominated the center of the solar, covered in maps and scrolls. The scent of peat smoke, from the smoldering hearth, and old leather hung in the air. “His alliance is important. The MacDonalds are making a nuisance of themselves again. He could help defend Moy from raids.”
Craeg stiffened. “I don’t need his protection.”
Loch snorted a bitter laugh. “None of us survive without allies, Craeg. One day, ye’ll understand how important that is.”
“And I’ll make others,” Craeg shot back, his temper rising now.
“And what about yer duty to yer clan?”
“Some things matter more.”
Loch’s mouth twisted. “Like what …love?”
Heat flooded Craeg’s face. “Like honor,” he ground out. “Macquarie ravished a Maclean woman … and sent men onto Maclean lands to kill one of our own. Ye can’t expect me to—”
“I expect ye to be a chieftain!” Loch cut him off, striding forward until they were nearly nose to nose. “I expect ye to put yer clan before yer own desires. To make the hard choices … even if they cost ye.”
