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Jamie stopped beside her. “What is it?”

“The malt.” Olivia breathed in again, letting the scents separate. “The smoke is different from what I expected.”

“How?”

“Softer. More integrated.”

The profile from the quaich came back to her in one connected sweep. The honey, toasted grain, orchard fruit, restrained smoke, and mineral water.

Ahead of them, Morag turned and planted her hands on her hips. “Are ye planning to smell the whole glen?”

Jamie pointed toward Olivia. “She started it.”

Morag shook her head and continued downhill. “Come along. Folk will want a look at ye before they begin making up stories.”

“What kind of stories?”

Jamie opened his mouth.

Morag pointed at him without turning. “No’ one word.”

Olivia laughed and caught up.

Chapter 10

Olivia

By the time Olivia stepped into Morag’s kitchen, she’d become reasonably competent at walking in heavy skirts, could find the hidden pocket at her hip without searching for it, and had learned that the safest response to Jamie laughing at her was usually to ignore him.

None of those skills prepared her for the three women looking her over.

The cottage was warm after the chilly air, its low rafters darkened by years of peat smoke and the long wooden table was crowded with bowls, knives, onions, crocks, and folded linens. Wet wool steamed from hooks near the hearth, and something toasted with butter on the iron girdle smelled so good that her stomach growled.

She knew this sort of room, even if the century was wrong. Every new face entering Grandma Bennett’s pub had been assessed before the door finished swinging shut behind them. Regulars might continue drinking, arguing, eating, or pretending not to pay attention, but someone always noticed who’d come in, who they were with, what they wanted, and whether trouble had followed them through the door.

Morag’s kitchen operated on much the same principle.

“This is Olivia,” Jamie said, standing beside her.

Morag turned a bannock on the girdle. “The widow from Boston.”

Olivia hated that she had to pretend to have a dead husband and that she had to remember, but she knew enough of history to know that a single woman wasn’t safe. “That’s me.”

At the table, a broad woman Jamie had introduced as Sorcha paused over the butter she was working between two wooden paddles and inspected Olivia.

“She’s too thin.”

“Aye,” said Iseabail from beside the window, where she had a child’s stocking stretched over one hand and a needle in the other. “We’ll set ye right, lass. Grief can do that to a woman.”

She sat and a hot bannock appeared in her hands almost immediately, split through the middle and spread with fresh butter that melted into the rough surface. She took one bite and decided the women could interrogate her about Boston, her fake dead husband, or the quality of her character as long as the interrogation came with food.

“This is very good.”

“There’s butter in it.”

“That does improve most food.”

Sorcha laughed, and something in the room loosened.