Page 127 of Ghost of the Ton

When she did not respond, he nodded.

“I’m proud of both,” he said, watching his wife weave her way through the beds to tend to Shona. Robbie’s wife had been one of the first to insist that Mia be banished for the marks on her face, yet Mia had cared for Shona with compassion, soothing her when she cried at night after Robbie had abandoned her at their doorstep, saying he had no wish for a pockmarked wife—then, a few days later, consoling her when the Almighty had seen fit to claim Robbie for His own.

“She’ll make a fine mother,” Ma said. “Perhaps, one day, a fine wife also.”

“I thought ye’d be angry when ye discovered Iona was with child.”

“I’d suspected it for some time. My Iona was never afraid of how she looked, never cared for modesty or propriety. Then she started covering herself with shawls as if she had something to hide. Only a numbskull would fail to see what she was hiding.”

“I thank ye for putting yer numbskull son in his place.”

She smiled. “Ye’re a man, son. Men are the last to notice what really matters.”

“Ye’re not angry with her?”

“Not as angry as ye were, from what Iona told me.” She sighed, then gestured to the activity below. “Compared to all this, where lives are being lost, what right have I to be angry at her for bringing a life into the world? But I confess I was disappointed at first. I wanted my daughter to make a respectable match, perhaps as a laird’s wife, as befits her status. But I shouldn’t measure her happiness by what I believed would make me happy at her age. Iona’s my child and I love her no matter what. Besides—as Mia told me, when a woman is with child, there’s also a man involved. If I should direct my disappointment at anyone, it should be him, whomever he might be.”

Hamish resumed his attention on the makeshift hospital. Mia had risen from tending to her patient and was now issuing instructions to Mrs. Bron and Maisie.

“Perhaps she’ll make a fine mother one day also,” Ma said. “She’s already a fine wife. Mrs. Bron has nothing but good to speak of her.”

“Och, Ma…”

“Dinnae ’och, Ma’ me, lad,” she said. “If ye won’t listen to me, then listen to yer heart. I’ll tell ye if no one else will. Ye love her. And, if ye think love’s not enough, ye need her.”

“Aye,” he said, sighing. “But she disnae need me.”

The dog at his feet let out a whine, and Ma took Hamish’s hand, curling her thin fingers around his.

“Ye’re talking nonsense, lad,” she said. “Even Monarch knows it, dinnae ye, boy?”

The dog—treacherous beastie—thumped his tail on the floor, then let out another whine.

“Do ye wish to go for a walk, boy?” Hamish said.

The tail thumped again, this time with more enthusiasm.

“Should ye be going outside?” Ma said.

“Mia said that once I was recovered from the effects of the vaccine, it was safe for me to wander about—and the fresh air would do me good.”

“Perhaps she might join ye.”

“Dinnae disturb her, Ma.”

“Then ye should consult with yer conscience, son, seeing as he’ll be yer only companion, save Monarch.”

Hamish bowed. Leaving her standing at the balustrade, he made his way outside, Monarch trotting at his heels.

Night had long since fallen. The moon cast a soft blue glow on the horizon, illuminating the snow-capped peak of Beinn Blath. But even the mountain seemed to frown at him, the rock formations near the summit reminding him of an angry pagan god demanding that he listen to his conscience.

But Hamish had no need to hear his conscience. He already knew that he’d wronged her. Mia—the woman he’d fallen in love with. Not even a walk on the mountain slopes would clear away the doubts in his mind that had long since been shattered.

He loved her. He had always loved her, even though he’d fought against it and broken her heart while doing so. But she neither loved nor needed him. It was his mother, or Iona, or Maisie that she turned to, rather than him. By fulfilling his wish of keeping her, he would stifle her soul. The greatest act he could commit to prove his love would be to let her go.

By the time he returned, the activity in the great hall had abated. The candles extinguished, the only light was the glow from the fireplace, which Brodie had taken upon himself to feed faithfully in between running errands for Mia and following Iona about with his tongue hanging out like a lovesick puppy.

A steady hush had descended over the castle, punctuated by the clicking of Monarch’s claws against the stone floor, the crackling of the fire, and the occasional cough from the hall. Hamish entered, moving along the lines of makeshift beds, exchanging a word or two with the patients. Then his gut twisted with horror as he came to Murdoch’s bed.