Page 24 of Fire in his Highland Heart

“Blessed?” Arguen repeated in disbelief. “I’ve been shunned and mocked me whole life. Ye cannae be serious.”

“Mayhap, if ye didnae wear it like it ‘twas somethin’ tae be ashamed of, people wouldnae treat ye different,” Mrs. Kinney said gently. There was no accusatory edge to her tone, and Arguen detected no malicious intent. All she saw were the kind eyes of a woman who simply wanted to help her.

And perhaps there was a sliver of truth to her words. She mumbled a soft “aye” in agreement.

“I also have more news,” Mrs. Kinney said.

“Oh, aye?”

“Aye. Laird Blake wanted tae be sure ye were recovered ‘afore ye moved. There’s a small cottage not far from the castle that hasnae been lived in for quite some time. ‘Twill be lovely tae have yer own space, nay?”

Arguen was honestly stunned that this was even an offer. She’d expected to stay sequestered away in the small room in the castle. To have her own space in which to practice her craft, to simply have a place that was all her own... It was something she could not fathom, having shared chambers and workspaces with others since she was a child.

Then, remembering a response was probably required, she nodded vigorously. “Aye, braw indeed. I ought tae thank his lairdship, nay?”

“There’ll be plenty o’ time at the ball. For now, we ought tae find ye somethin’ tae wear and get yer things tae the cottage.”

* * *

Arguen didn’t have to bring much with her. All she had was her rucksack. Mrs. Kinney seemed to have a different idea, however, and brought with her some food and supplies to start her off. She’d also had a manservant from the castle bring a trunk full of clothes and bed linens with them in the cart, so that Arguen had more than one skirt and jacket, and fresh linens.

Part of her wanted to refuse all this. It was incredibly generous of them to give her a home, food, clothes, and other things when she was a stranger. But part of her also wanted these things desperately. All her life, she’d lived at Bruckstone Castle. Her family had their own set of chambers and a workstation, but it was never their own home. When her mother died, she took a shared room with one of the maids. Douglas had done the same with another guard. The chamber in which her mother worked her craft as a healer remained so until Marianne had seen fit to make it another drawing room.

Arguen wasn’t sure if this arrangement would be permanent, but she knew she should enjoy every moment she had. When would she be able to have a space entirely her own again? Unless she fully embraced a reputation as a witch and lived in a cottage in the forest like Connie, it was unlikely she’d ever find the opportunity again.

Her doubts began to gradually melt away when the horse and cart stopped its short journey in front of a modest cottage. Arguen’s breath caught in her throat. It was nothing special, with its dark stone exterior and thatched roof, but the knowledge that it was all her own, at least for the time being, was incredible to her. It was far enough from the castle that it would be a decent walk, but not so far as to make her feel alienated from the rest of the town. There was an herb garden to the side that looked as though it needed work, but Arguen knew she could restore it.

She and Mrs. Kinney dismounted the cart while the manservant brought the trunk inside. It was no fine palace, but it would make for a comfortable home, for however long she was there. There were two rooms and a loft. One looked to be a kitchen area, furnished with a small wooden table, a couple chairs, and a settee and chair by the large open hearth. The second room Arguen couldn’t make out. It held an armchair, another small wooden table, a narrow bed at the end of one wall, and an armoire on the opposite wall of the bed. Perhaps she would use it as a work room, for she figured she would sleep in the loft, which was accessible through the kitchen with a ladder.

After a good look around, Arguen sat herself at the small wooden table in the kitchen. Even though it wasn’t technically her own, she was forever grateful to have something that at least mimicked the feeling.

“D’ye like it?” Mrs. Kinney asked, looking fondly at her from the main doorway.

“Aye. I do. I’ve never had anythin’ o’ me own ‘afore. And... I ken ‘tis not mine tae own, but ‘tis nice tae feel like it is.”

Mrs. Kinney let out a pleasant sigh and sat down across from her. The manservant had put the trunk in the opposite room and left them alone while he went into the town, grumbling about “womanly things.”

“It does need a good cleanin’,” Mrs. Kinney said, wiping a finger across the surface of the table and holding it up so Arguen could see the dust. “’Tis been a while since someone lived here.”

“Who did live here?” Arguen asked curiously. Who in their right mind would leave such a nice cottage and garden behind?

Mrs. Kinney took a deep breath, as if steeling herself. “My daughter. She was a midwife. But she caught the pox nearly seven years ago now and passed, God rest her soul.”

Arguen’s heart swelled with sympathy, and she covered Mrs. Kinney’s hand with her own reassuringly. “I am deeply sorry for ye, Mrs. Kinney. I can leave, if ye want. This place must be sacred tae ye,” she offered gently, and meant it with every fiber of her being. How was she to profit off another’s death like this?

Mrs. Kinney sniffled and dabbed her eyes with the corner of her apron. “Nay, lass. ‘Tis needed love for too long. The cottage fell tae me after her death, but I couldnae bare tae live here on me own—not when I could see her in everything.”

Arguen’s heart thudded. It was uncanny, knowing exactly how someone felt in that way. When her own mother had passed, she saw remnants of her everywhere. Sometimes she swore she saw the swish of her skirts around the corner, or she would mistake another fair-haired woman for her out of the corner of her eye.

“I ken how ye feel,” Arguen said tenderly.

Mrs. Kinney sniffled again and tried to smile in order to stop crying. “’Tis the past, ‘tisn’t it?”

“Och, Mrs. Kinney. Grief doesnae care how long it’s been.”

The older woman ceased her sniffles suddenly, and regarded the young healer with a curious gaze. “Ye sound much older and wiser than ye look,” she commented.

Arguen smiled wryly. “’Tis the silver hair. When ye have it at a young age, yer prone tae great wisdom.”