Craeg thought of the lass in the hall. Her downcast eyes. Her nervous hands. “Duty.”
Alec nodded slowly. “Sometimes a first impression can be wrong, ye know? For better or worse, Isla might surprise ye.”
Craeg didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure about that.
Silence settled between them before Alec finally shattered it. “Don’t tie yerself in knots about it, lad. If ye truly don’t want this marriage, then tell Hamish Macquarie to take his offer elsewhere.”
“And the alliance?”
“Macquarie will grumble, and Loch won’t be happy … but let them both worry about that.” Alec stood, placing a hand on Craeg’s shoulder. The weight of it was solid. Reassuring. “Duty is important. Honor matters. But so does happiness. So does finding someone who makes ye want to give up yer freedom rather than feeling like it’s being taken from ye.”
The last shovelful of earth fell with a hollow thud.
Hazel stood over the grave, her hands raw and blistered, dirt caked beneath her fingernails. The mound of dark soil looked so small. So insignificant. How could a life be reduced to this? A patch of disturbed earth beneath the gnarled oak where her mother—whereSiùsan—had loved to sit on summer evenings.
Siùsan.The name hit her like a mallet to the chest.
A reminder of her mother’s betrayal.
No. Not her mother. Heraunt.
“How could ye keep such a secret from me, Ma?” Hazel whispered. Her throat burned now, but no tears came. She’d wept herself dry over the past two days—great, shuddering sobs that had left her hollow. All that remained was bone-deep exhaustion and a bitter taste in her mouth. But despite that sorrow over losing Siùsan leached all color from the world, anger pulsed like a stoked coal under her ribs.
The woman in that grave had raised her, loved her. She’d taught her everything. How to identify feverfew from chamomile, to ease a fever, and to deliver a babe. Her mother had been her whole world. But she was also a liar.
The name of Hazel’srealmother was Rhona. Siùsan’s younger sister. A spirited lass who’d fought the bastard who raped her. That hadn’t stopped him though; it hadn’t prevented his seed from quickening in her womb. And it hadn’t saved her on the day Hazel emerged into the world.
Something deep inside Hazel’s chest twisted.I killed her.
She clenched her sore and dirt-encrusted hands at her sides. “No,” she said aloud, her voice catching. “I will not shoulder the blame for any of this.Hekilled her.”
Queasiness rolled over her then, as she imagined Rhona’s terror, both as she fought her ravisher and as she labored to push out her bairn.
Poor woman.
She longed to know more about Rhona. Had Hazel gotten her eyes, her laugh … or her stubborn streak … from her? Death had come for Siùsan before she could share such things with her.
They’d run out of time.
Pain twinged in her chest once more. Lifting her fist, she rubbed it against her breastbone.
Duncan brayed softly from where he stood tethered nearby, rousing her. The small grey donkey watched her with liquid, solemn eyes, as if he understood her conflict.
She’d never thought it was possible to battle with grief and fury at the same time. A storm raged inside her.
Exhaling a shuddering breath, Hazel focused on the mound of dirt once more. She’d fashioned a crude cross from two branches bound with twine and planted it at the head of the grave. It wasn’t much, but Siùsan had asked to be buried here, under her favorite tree, not in the kirkyard at Lochbuie with prayers spoken over her. Her mother had never been a woman of faith, and after hearing her secrets, Hazel now understood why.
How could anyone believe in God after seeing a loved one suffer like that?
And how could she either, after learning her identity was a lie?
A breeze stirred the oak leaves overhead, sending dappled shadows dancing across the fresh grave. Hazel wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly cold despite the July warmth. Lost—that’s what she was—truly, utterly lost. No mother. No roots anchoring her to the earth.
Anger flared hot in her chest once more.Damn her. The secret hadn’t been Siùsan’s to keep.
Her breath caught then, as guilt rushed in. She needed to cool her temper. Her aunt had given up her own life, her own chances at marriage and children, to raise someone else’s bairn. She needed to remember that.
“I’m not made of eggshell, Ma,” she murmured finally. “I wouldn’t have shattered if ye’d told me.”
