Lady of Light (4 page)

Coward, Claire thought sourly, noting Ian’s hesitation. He doesn’t wish to endure my wrath. Then she turned her attention back to her dark-haired companion. “Thank you for your assistance.” She forced a smile of gratitude. “I don’t know what I would’ve done without you. Both Malcolm and Ian are fast growing into such great beasties, I doubt I could easily have stopped them.”

Without breaking stride, Evan doffed his hat to her. “My pleasure, ma’am.”

“He isn’t always like that, you know?” For some reason, Claire felt compelled to explain her brother’s actions. “Ian just has a hard time fitting in well with his schoolmates. To make matters worse, he has a temper the equal of mine.”

“Surely you’re joshing, ma’am. I’ve never met a more sweet, gentle lady than yourself.”

Not certain if he was serious or just teasing her, Claire sent Evan a quick, searching glance. One corner of his mouth twitched—a mouth, she noted with a sudden and most disconcerting ripple of feminine awareness—that was full, firm, and most delectably masculine.

Inexplicably, irritation filled her. “Well, Mr. MacKay,” she gritted out the words, “keep needling me, and you may well discover how truly sweet and gentle I can be. After all, this is a serious matter, my brother fighting and being accused of thievery.”

As if assessing whether Ian might overhear their conversation, Evan glanced behind him. “You mentioned he gets into a lot of fights,” he then continued, apparently satisfied that Ian had dropped even farther behind and wouldn’t be a party to what was being said. “Does he often get accused of stealing too?”

She was tempted to tell him the truth, then caught herself. Truly, she must be a bit addled in the head, Claire decided, to confide in a total stranger—and foreigner—no less!

Fiercely, she shook her head. “Nay. Hardly ever.”

At the deception, guilt surged through her. Though she hadn’t really lied, she had bent the truth a bit. Ian didn’t get accused frequently of stealing, leastwise not as often as he seemed to get into fights. Indeed, this was only the second time since they had come to Culdee that Ian had ever been named a thief.

Compared to all the thieving he had done prior to that just so they could survive, Ian hardly stole at all anymore.
If
he truly had stolen, Claire corrected herself. She had no proof, save the guilt she thought she had seen just a short while ago in her brother’s eyes.

“Well, that’s good to hear,” Evan’s deep voice drew her back from her troubled musings. “Maybe there’s a chance then that Jamie’s money will turn up.”

“You think he stole Jamie’s money, don’t you?” Claire’s pent-up fears exploded in a white-hot burst of anger. “Why not just come out and say it?”

Evan stopped dead in his tracks. “Don’t you?”

His simple, direct query blindsided her. “N-nay,” she stammered, all at once at a loss for words. “I just told you—”

“Miss Sutherland, I’m sorry,” he said, his gaze full of understanding. “I admire your loyalty to your brother, and I didn’t mean to put you on the spot. Besides, it’s really none of my concern.”

“Aye, you’re right. It isn’t your concern.” His smoky blue eyes bore into hers. She found her mouth going dry and her palms damp. “Still,” she finally forced herself to say, “I’m beholden to you for paying Jamie. After that, Malcolm hadn’t a thing further to say or prove.”

“It seemed the best way to settle things, at least temporarily.”

“If Jamie’s money doesn’t turn up after a time, I’ll repay you.”

“That won’t be necessary. If you help me for the next couple of days, as Father MacLaren suggested, it’ll be money well spent.” Evan chuckled. “In addition to your kindness in setting me up with a roof over my head, of course.”

Och, aye, Claire thought in belated remembrance. Angus MacKay’s extra croft house. In all the excitement, she had nearly forgotten her primary mission.

She glanced around. In the interim of their journey and the breaking up of the fight, twilight had settled over the land. Already, the light of candles and fish oil lamps gleamed from windows—bright beacons in the rapidly dimming gloaming. It was past time to reach home, Claire decided, if they were to see to Mr. Mac—Kay’s basic necessities before dark.

“Well,” she muttered, quickening her pace, “we’ll just have to see about that. Meantime, we’ve still a good half-league walk before we reach my landlord’s holdings. It would be best if you stepped out a bit.”

Evan laughed then, a deep, rich, full-bodied sound. “Yes, ma’am,” he said, lengthening his stride. “I reckon it would.”

Angus MacKay and his wife, Flora, had apparently just sat down to supper, when Claire drew up with Evan and Ian at his door. A few brisk raps on the wooden portal drew a grumbling, burly Scotsman who jerked open the door to glare down at them.

“Well, what is it, lass?” he immediately demanded. “Ye know ’tis past rude to interrupt a man at his supper.”

“I beg pardon, Angus.” She stepped aside and indicated Evan, standing just behind her. “I brought you a tenant for your other croft house. Since he hasn’t anywhere to reside, I thought—”

“He’s welcome to it, but he canna stay in that house this eve,” Angus snapped. “’Tis filthy from disuse. ’Twill most likely take a day o’ cleaning to make it fit for humans. He’ll have to stay elsewhere ’til the morrow.”

“But I told you, Angus,” Claire protested. “He has nowhere else to go.”

“Then let him stay wi’ ye and Ian fer the night, or send him back to Culdee. I’m certain Father MacLaren would put him up.”

“But Angus—”

The tawny-haired man’s face reddened, and he held up a warning hand. “’Tis the best I can do fer him on short notice.” He finally looked to Evan. “See me on the morrow and we’ll talk.” With that, Angus MacKay slammed the door in their faces.

“He didn’t even give you a chance to tell him Evan was kin,” Ian muttered in disgust. “By mountain and sea, but Angus hasn’t a kindly bone in his body!”

“Och, he’s a good man in his own way,” Claire said in their landlord’s defense. “He just gets a wee bit grumpy when his meals are disturbed.” Then, knowing she had little other choice, she turned to Evan. “If you don’t mind a pallet on the floor, you can stay with us this eve. It hardly makes sense to send you back to Culdee in the dark. Odds are you’d lose your way and fall into a burn and drown, or be set upon by one of our Highland beasties.”

“Your concern for my welfare is most flattering, ma’am.” A wry humor gleamed in his eyes. “I wouldn’t want to put you out, though, or impose further on your hospitality.”

Claire made an impatient sound. “And isn’t that an expectation when requesting hospitality? That you’ll be imposing on someone?” She tugged on his jacket sleeve. “Well, dinna fash yourself. It can’t be helped, and it’s only for one night. On the morrow, I’ll help you set your house aright. Then you’ll have your peace and privacy for as long as you wish to remain in Culdee.”

“Well, if you’re certain you don’t mind …”

“I don’t mind. Now, come along. Our own supper’s ready, and I’m famished.”

Even as she denied them, though, second thoughts did assail Claire. At every turn, circumstances seemingly contrived to thrust Evan MacKay into her path. It was bad enough Father MacLaren had suggested Angus’s croft house for Evan, a house not fifty feet from hers. But then to be forced to nursemaid him in his quest to discover his true kinfolk, and now even to put him up for a night in her own house …

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair at all!

Claire and Ian’s little croft house, though small, appeared quite clean and cozy. The simple rectangular building was constructed of mortar and stone, the roof thatched with sod divots stuffed with barley straw. It possessed but a single entrance, and two small, glasspaned windows situated on either side of the door. At both ends of the cottage, a chimney protruded.

Inside, the house opened onto two rooms joined between by a long vestibule off the front door. Claire led Evan into the larger chamber on the right, which was most evidently the living area and kitchen. As she hurried to light the oil in several cast-iron contraptions she called cruisies, Evan glanced leisurely around.

The walls were lime-washed, the two windows decorated by lace curtains and pots of bright red geraniums. The floors were hard-packed clay, covered in places by mats of plaited straw and bent grass interspersed with several colorful rag rugs. On the far wall was the fireplace. Simmering over a now smoldering peat fire was a cast-iron pot hanging from a chain. Nearby, stacked on both sides of the hearth, were a variety of pots and pans plus several ladles, and what looked to be some sort of griddle.

Against the adjoining wall sat a tall, enclosed wooden box with doors that contained a bed. In the center of the room stood a rough-hewn table set with stools. Two low chests, a wickerwork cabinet, and a tall cupboard laden with an assortment of pottery and wooden dinnerware completed the room’s décor.

“That’s Ian’s bed.” Claire indicated the boxbed. “You can sleep near the fire, if you wish.”

“Sounds good, ma’am. Sure beats the cold, hard ground out of doors.”

As if she felt her hospitality still lacking, she nodded curtly, took down a bowl from the cupboard, then paused. “Are you thirsty, Mr. MacKay? We’ve a jug of ale. Or I can make you a pot of tea.”

“The ale sounds right fine, ma’am.”

“Ian, why don’t you show Mr. MacKay where to wash up,” Claire said, glancing pointedly at her brother, “then fetch him a cup of ale? Meanwhile, I’ll make us some bannocks to go with the colcannon. There isn’t enough time now to bake bread.”

Ian looked to Evan, then motioned toward a corner near the cupboard. On a small table sat a red and white-striped pottery pitcher and basin. Evan put his traveling case on a stool and removed his jacket. After unbuttoning his shirt cuffs and rolling up the sleeves to his elbows, he headed toward the wash basin. For good measure, before he even washed his hands, he splashed some water on his face and scrubbed it.

It felt good to be inside the snug little cottage. Evan had to admit, though, that he was surprised at how the day had turned out. Never, in his wildest flights of imagination, had he ever dreamed he’d end up in the house of a beautiful, if outspoken and hot-tempered, Scottish girl. Still, what surprised him more than anything was that, despite the foreignness of his situation, he felt strangely at home.

Perhaps it was his Scot’s blood rising to the surface. Perhaps it was the fact that, despite their superficial differences, people were all essentially the same at heart. Or perhaps, just perhaps, he had always been called here. Called here to find the answers his often lonely, frequently confused, and always searching heart sought.

Immediately Evan shook off that last consideration. His weariness, combined with the wild, romantic Highland setting, must be putting some strange ideas into his head. Besides, what mattered most right now was getting a hot meal under his belt and a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow was time enough to deal with tomorrow.

He dried his hands on a small piece of cloth hanging beside the wash basin, then ambled over to where Claire stood mixing a dough of some sort. “Need any help?” he asked.

She glanced up in surprise. “Nay,” she replied slowly. “I don’t think you’d know how to make bannocks at any rate.”

He shrugged. “I’ve served a turn or two as trail cook. No one ever complained about my cooking, or took sick from it.”

“Well, then, watch me carefully.” She dumped the dough out onto a floured cloth she had set on the table. “You pat this into a circle until it’s about the thickness of the width of your fingernail. Then neaten the edges by pressing inwards with the flat of a knife.” Claire paused in the task to point toward the fireplace. “Could you bring me the girdle propped up beside the hearth?”

“Girdle?” Evan walked to the fireplace and picked up the open, iron-worked griddle by its arched handle. “Do you mean this?”

“Aye. The girdle. It’s what we use to bake our bannocks—and scones, for that matter—on. You grease the girdle, put it over the fire, and then brown both sides. It usually takes ten minutes on the first side, and about five on the other. Much faster then baking bread in a cast iron pot. Next you slice the bannock into wedges. It’s verra tasty with butter, or even cheese.”