Page 42 of Ghost of the Ton

“None of yer business.”

Hamish carved a slice of the pie and dropped it onto his sister’s plate.

“I dinnae want that,” Iona said.

Hamish shrugged his shoulders. “Eat it, or dinnae eat it. I care not. Ye won’t be my problem forever.”

“What do ye mean?”

“When ye marry, ye’ll be yer husband’s responsibility.”

“And if I dinnae marry?”

“I’ll make sure that ye do,” he growled. “I’ll find a man to keep ye on a tight rein.”

Her eyes flared with fear, then she sneered. “Am I to be thrown out and treated like shit in a chamber pot, like yer wife?”

Hamish gritted his teeth. Since when had she grown so crude? But there was little point in rising to her bait. Instead, he regarded her coolly while she stared back in defiance.

“I thought ye didnae like my wife,” he said quietly.

Iona pulled a face and began eating. But, after swallowing a mouthful, she drew in a sharp breath, covered her mouth, then rose.

“I haven’t excused ye from the—” Hamish began, but, ignoring him, she rushed out of the room, not bothering to close the door behind her, and he heard retching outside.

Devil’s ballocks—women were more trouble then they were worth. Judgmental mothers, wayward sisters, and…

…unwanted wives.

“Leave her be,” Ma said, as Hamish rose. “Ye’ll not do any good. I’ll see to her. She’s suffering from something. Perhaps yer wife would be kind enough to see her. She might know what ails her.”

“Iona’s just overexcited,” Hamish said. “Monarch here used to expel his meals when he got excited—especially when Rory’s bitch was in heat.” He gestured to the deerhound in front of the fire. As if he understood his master, Monarch opened a solitary amber eye, then closed it again.

“Yer sister’s not an animal.”

“No, Ma,” he replied, cutting another slice of venison. “At least animals are easy to tame.”

“Och, ye dinnae know how to tame her, that’s all, son. Ye might think she needs a bit and bridle, but if ye threaten her, she’ll never learn to accept it.”

“Did ye accept the bit and bridle when ye married Da?”

Hamish regretted the words the moment he’d uttered them as a flicker of pain crossed his mother’s expression.

“We must all take the bit and bridle when we grow into adulthood,” she said. “It’s called accepting our duty. Mine as a wife and mother, ye as laird…” She gestured toward the empty space. “Perhaps the only soul who’s truly free is that lass ye married.”

She resumed eating and silence filled the room, save the crackling of the fire, the snoring coming from the shaggy animal at the hearth, and the scraping of cutlery. As he ate, Hamish’s gaze kept drifting to the place opposite, where he tried to imagine his future bride—saying grace at the start of each meal, sharing pleasantries with his mother, listening with firm kindness to Iona, and casting him a look of longing across the table as if she eagerly anticipated a bedding.

But the only face he could see was a delicately featured face with a rosebud mouth, wide hazel eyes, and fair skin dotted with pockmarks, her expression showing no eagerness, fear, or judgment—just acceptance of her lot. And it was that acceptance that clawed at his conscience. She considered herself unworthy, not only due to her sex, but due to the illness she’d endured and conquered. Such strength of will ought to be revered, but instead, all she would elicit would be the disgust of the unenlightened.

And there’s none more unenlightened than I.

He finished eating and pushed his plate to one side. The dog let out a low whine, and Hamish tore a piece of meat from the venison joint and tossed it toward the fireplace. The dog snapped the morsel in its jaws, then sat up, ears erect in anticipation of the next. When it was not forthcoming, Monarch settled back down and closed his eyes.

“Why dinnae ye go and see her?” Hamish’s mother asked.

He shook his head. “No, Ma, ye’re right. Iona won’t welcome my—”

“I meant yer wife. She’s all alone in that cottage.”