“Thistle, Miss Drummond?”Lady MacMillan sneered at the embroidered flower on Ismay’s handkerchief. “Can you not think of a more delicate flower?”
Ismay looked at it and sighed. She was weary of contending with this woman.
The MacMillans were supposed to leave the same morning Constantine left, but Baron MacMillan, Alison’s father had fallen ill in the night. The castle healer insisted the baron stay at Tor and recuperate. So, five days later, they were still there.
Five days may not be overly long, but in that time, Lady MacMillan had taken over the embroidery room, scrutinizing the ladies’ sewing, especially Ismay’s. When she wasn’t sucking her teeth at Ismay’s sewing skill, or her taste in what she sewed—like thistle instead of the primroses everyone else sewed—she followed wherever Ismay went and always found something about Ismay to criticize.
“Delicate flowers die too easily,” Ismay told her, without looking up. “I prefer something more hearty that will live through the winters of its life.”
For a moment, Lady MacMillan looked about to faint.
Ismay leaped from her chair and reached for her. “Are ye all right, my lady?”
Lady MacMillan, with cheeks as red as a summer sunrise, hauledback her hand and slapped Ismay across the face. “How dare you liken my Alison to something weak and pitiful!”
Ismay furrowed her brow at her. “What? What are ye talking about? I was speaking of flowers!”
But Alison’s mother didn’t want an answer, nor did she wait for one. Taking a step closer to Ismay, she spoke through clenched teeth. “I will see to it that you never step into my daughter’s shoes.”
Hilary, who bolted to her feet when Ismay was struck, stepped forward. “And how will ye do that, my lady? The Lochiel willna listen to ye. He already cares fer her! Quit holding my cousin hostage to yer guilt. Yer daughter died giving birth. I’m sorry to say it happens all the time. Alison was not weak because she died. Ye know that isna what Ismay was saying. Ye simply want to hate her because the Lochiel likes her.”
As usual, Hilary said too much.
Lady MacMillan gasped in a succession of three deep breaths that Ismay thought might make the older woman faint for certain. And then she left the embroidery room.
Alone with the other women of Tor, Ismay covered her face. She wasn’t embarrassed by being slapped. It wasn’t the first time. But she had never fought a ghost’s mother before. It felt terrible, weighing more on Ismay’s shoulders every day.
Where was Constantine? Was he fighting or on his way back? She missed his face, always so impassive, softening into humor or fondness at the sight of her. She was becoming the only thing soft about him. She liked that most, being his soft spot. But wasn’t a warrior’s soft spot his most vulnerable, most valuable possession?
Just how dangerous would it be for the Lochiel if she owned his heart? Hurting her would be the easiest way to hurt him.
Contemplating leaving Tor was becoming easier with each day Constantine wasn’t there. There were so many reasons she should continue on her path to the safety of a convent. She wasn’t made to be a wife. What if he was abusive toward her after time passed? What if he stopped loving her, or even grew to hate her? What if he ordered her about and forbade her look askew at any man but him or he would take a knife to her tresses?
She shook her head. Could she avoid what she feared so many times in her life? Aye, but it was only guaranteed if she left.
But Constantine Cameron laid all her doubts to ruin. He would not physically hurt her. He was soft and thoughtful.
“I’m not hurt,” she said looking up at the other women there, including Bethia. “She is in worse pain than I. Imagine losing yer child and yer grandchild hours apart?”
“Ismay, ye’re a better person than I am,” Hilary told her with a slight blush across her cheeks. “I wouldna fergive her fer striking me.”
Ismay wondered painfully if Hilary would forgive her when she discovered she’d murdered a MacDonald chief.
“It looks to be a beautiful day,” she remarked looking toward the window and needing some fresh air. “Let us go out.”
“All right!” Hilary exclaimed and clapped her hands. “We can read!” She leaned in closer to Ismay’s ear. “I’m in possession of banned books in support of the monarchy under King Charles ll.”
Ismay was in support of the monarchy, so she agreed happily and looped her arm through Hilary’s to leave.
They invited Joan to join them under the great oak tree but before long, reading became giggles about the Lochiel, Lachlan, and Hilary’s betrothed, John.
The afternoon passed without incident with Lady MacMillan.
Ismay thought she might like to spend the rest of her days with Constantine resting under this tree.
A voice calling her name shattered her pleasant thoughts. She looked toward a lass she recognized as one of the servers at the Doomsday Inn and Tavern. Coleen! Ismay smiled and waved at her as she hurried closer.
“Coleen, is everything well with ye?” she asked after seeing the gel’s anxious gaze.
