Page 128 of Ghost of the Ton

It was empty.

Then he heard the distant sound of a woman crying—quiet, brokenhearted sobs.

His heart tightened, tugging at his soul, as if an invisible thread linked him to the owner of the voice.

It was Mia.

Where was she?

He followed the passageway, passing Freydis carrying a bundle of bedsheets. The young maid bobbed a curtsy, her face streaked with tears.

“What’s the matter?” Hamish said. Freydis merely burst into tears and scuttled off.

His stomach churning with unease, Hamish followed the sound until he came to a thick oak door. He knocked and the sobbing stopped. When he opened it, he saw Mia rising from a chair next to an unlit fireplace. Her companion rose also, his back to Hamish. Then he turned and Hamish exhaled in a sigh of relief.

“Murdoch,” he said. “When I saw yer empty bed, I feared the worst. But ye’re recovered, thank the Almighty!”

Murdoch shook his head. His dominant stance—the arrogance that shimmered about his bulky frame—was absent. Then he spoke, his voice a hoarse whisper.

“I cannae thank the Almighty,” he said. “Not when He’s forsaken me as punishment for my sins. I—”

He broke off, coughing, and covered his mouth with his hands.

“M-Murdoch, you should get some rest,” Mia said, her voice hoarse and strained. “Why don’t—”

“I deserve no rest,” Murdoch said quietly.

“What the devil’s happened?” Hamish said.

Murdoch shook his head, and Monarch let out a whine and approached the burly Highlander, leaning against his leg. Murdoch, who rarely showed affection for any living soul, lowered his hand and caressed the dog’s head.

“Mia?” Hamish said, stepping toward her.

“I-it’s Evie,” she said, her eyes glistening. “Sh-she…” She glanced at Murdoch, who cringed, his shoulders hunching, as if burdened by a great weight. “She succumbed an hour ago. I-I thought she was getting better—she took a little of Mrs. McBride’s broth and said she was looking forward to seeing Billy again. Then she…”

She shook her head. “The next time I saw her, she’d gone. I wasn’t even there—she had nobody with her when she—” She broke off, her chest rising and falling. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “So, so sorry.”

Hamish extended his hand toward her. She stared at it, trembling with the effort to keep the tears at bay.

Then she took his hand and met his gaze. He didn’t know what was more heartbreaking—the glimmer of despair deep in her eyes, or the stoicism with which she tried so valiantly to conquer her despair to give comfort to Murdoch, a man who had never deserved such a sweet wife.

“Hush, my love,” he whispered, drawing her close. “Ye’ve nothing to be sorry for. Ye were a good friend to Evie, and she knew it. She’s at peace now, with the angels, and feels no more pain.”

He placed a kiss on her head and she softened in his arms, as if he’d unlocked her sorrow. Clinging to him, she parted her lips and sobbed, her tears soaking into his shirt.

She began to shiver. How long had she been sitting in this freezing chamber? Hamish moved to summon someone to light the fire, but his wife only tightened her grip.

“Hamish, please…”

She closed her eyes and buried her head in his chest.

Perhaps he ought to have been glad that, at that moment, she needed him. But to see her despair was more than he could bear. And to acknowledge that he’d willingly throw himself into the pits of hell to ease her pain was to understand that he loved her—more than life itself.

“Please don’t go,” she whispered. “Hold me for a while longer.”

“But…”

“Do as she says, Hamish,” Murdoch said, his voice a low growl. “Ye should give that woman of yers everything and anything she wants. Had I listened to her, my bairns might not be marked with the pox—and my Evie…” He curled his hands into fists. “My sweet wee woman might still be here with me—to tend to my bairns, to warm my bed, and to fill my heart. I—”