Page 114 of Ghost of the Ton

“Yes,” Mia said quietly. “It’s what I want.”

The fact that she had lied thickened in the air. But rather than wrench a confession from her, Maisie lifted Mia’s hand to her lips. Then she drew her close and held her in the comforting embrace of a friend—a friend who recognized that her heart was broken.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

“Tell me, Hamish Alastair Jamie MacLennan, why have ye not been to see yer wife?”

I’m in trouble.

Hamish glanced up from his ledgers to see his mother embroidering a cushion, the needle flying in and out with a smooth, unstrained motion. But rather than tight-lipped anger, the expression on her face displayed calmness, and serenity, as if she were merely commenting on the weather.

But, as he had learned over the years, serenity of expression in his ma was likely to hide a turmoil of fury. It was how she’d survived a lifetime with his da, after all.

She cut the dark-green thread she’d been working with then picked up a skein of pale-purple silk, threaded her needle, and resumed her work.

“What are ye doing?” he asked.

“Embroidering a cushion.”

“I can see that.”

“Then why ask if ye knew the answer?”

“Perhaps I was making conversation.”

“Och, ye’re many things, son, but a conversationalist isn’t one of them. Besides, if ye wished to make a conversation, why didnae ye answer my question? Were ye waiting for me to answer it for ye?”

“Of course not.”

“Then perhaps ye already know the answer, and are afraid to admit it to yer ma. Ye’re even afraid to admit it to yerself.”

She paused and met his gaze.

Devil’s cock! The stare of a formidable matriarch was usually enough to crack open a mussel at twenty paces, but the look in Ma’s eyes now was enough to cleave Beinn Blath in two.

“I dinnae ken what ye’re on about.”

She continued to stare at him, as she had done when she caught him as a boy after he let the chickens loose and his da’s dog had killed almost the entire flock. Da thrashed him so hard he’d had a sore arse for a week. But it was Ma’s silent disapproval that had cut him more deeply. Da had cared only for Hamish’s failure to conform to parental rules. Ma had cared for the consequences of his recklessness—the lives needlessly lost through a thoughtless act of a boy who cared little for others.

And that thoughtless boy had grown into a thoughtless man.

But how could he tell his mother that he’d shunned Mia since her return from Glasgow for her sake, because she had asked him to and because he could no longer trust himself? He had ruined her body, violated her like a rutting animal.

“Och, son, have I not raised ye to be a better man than yer da?”

“She disnae want to see me, Ma.”

“Did she say that?”

“She said she had no wish to set eyes on me again.” Hamish winced at the note of petulance in his voice. But his attempt at gaining sympathy from his mother failed.

She arched an eyebrow. “What did ye do to make the poor lass say that?” He paused, and her expression darkened. “Perhaps it’s best if ye dinnae tell me, for I fear I shan’t like the answer. Ye’re my son and I love ye—I have no wish to have that love put to the test.”

She continued her work, then spoke again after a pause.

“I hear the vaccination scheme is progressing well.”

“Has she treated ye?”