Page 2 of Married to the Scarred Highlander (Unwanted Highland Wives #4)

2

U gh! What is that awful smell?

The normally crisp morning air was tinged with a smell Laura couldn’t quite put her finger on.

She stepped out of the cottage, the woven basket hooked over her arm. Mrs. Morrigan had given her a list of things to gather, but as she entered the village market, a sense of unease settled in her chest.

Too many stalls are closed. What is goin’ on?

Laura’s first stop was Mack Drummond’s butchery to get meat to start on dinner, but when she turned the corner, she stopped in her tracks. The man who never missed a morning of the market had yet to open his shop.

“What? Where’s Mack?” she muttered to herself, looking around the stall toward his house.

Empty.

She frowned, scanning the near-empty market. A few equally confused expressions faded in and out of view through the thick morning fog—or was it smoke?

Something’s happened… or did I miss something?

The thought itched at the back of her mind. She looked around to where a few of the other stalls should have been, but they were also empty. She mentally crossed out several items, exhaling sharply through her nose. She would not be able to buy half of the items on her list. Frustration gnawed at her.

She tapped her tongue against her teeth in disappointment and moved further into the market to another stall that she hoped was open.

Duran’s vegetables had been fully stocked, leafy greens and root plants balancing on top of one another in a beautiful amalgamation of color, though in the middle sat a sign directing patrons to leave payment at the till.

Where is Duran? she silently wondered as she placed a bundle of leeks and a small sack of barley in her basket.

“Hi’ya, missus!” a small voice said from just behind the countertop.

Laura leaned over to find young Kerry, Duran’s son, hiding behind a thin curtain. His little feet had been sticking out from beneath the curtain, and her smile grew.

“Hi’ya?” she returned, feigning wonder, and the boy giggled. “Is anyone here to help me?”

Stifled laughter was the boy’s only reply.

“I guess if nay one is here, then that means everything is free of charge,” she mused loudly to herself as she stepped around the counter to watch the boy step out in panic.

“Nay! Wait! Please?—”

Laura smiled and shook the coins in her skirts. She took them out and placed four small coins on the table.

The boy laughed with relief. “Thank ye, Ms. Laura!”

“Where is yer da this mornin’, laddie?”

“I dinnae ken! He was up really really really early. Ma told me I can run the stand ‘til he returns!”

“Ye’re doin’ a fine job at it too, to be sure.”

“Thank ye, missus! What are ye makin’?”

“Somethin’ special. Can ye tell what it is based on the vegetables I’ve collected just now?”

The boy rose on tiptoe, assessing the basket of goods. Without meat or spices, it would be difficult to determine.

“Nay, I dinnae ken. Is it yer favorite?”

“It’s me favorite thing to cook, to be sure.”

The boy looked up at her thoughtfully. “What else is on the list?”

“Well, a lot of stalls arenae open yet, but I need to get some thyme and a few other ingredients for the tonics I’m mixin’ together.”

“Are many getting sick?”

“There seems to be more and more these days. Best to make sure that me stock is ready. Just in case.”

“Aye!” Kerry said, dropping back down onto his heels. “I hate tonics.”

“Me too, lad,” Laura said, shifting the basket to her other arm. “But ye need to let me ken if ye start feelin’ poorly. Why?”

“Because the tonic helps me feel better… That’s what me ma always says anyway,” he said, dipping his head bashfully.

“So, where is yer ma, then?”

“I dinnae ken. She went that way after me da a while ago.”

“Well, ye tell her I put ye in charge of comin’ to see me. It’s yer responsibility now to take care of yer family this season, ye hear?”

“Aye, I ken well, Ms. Laura.”

“All good. I’ll see ye, lad,” Laura said, turning back toward the marketplace.

Still nae a lot of stalls. I really need Mack to open the butchery for this stew to work.

With determination, she turned toward the one place she knew would be open—Ana Kilmartin’s spice and herb stall. No matter the trouble, Ana never closed, always tending to her plants like they were her bairns.

The stall, for all intents and purposes, was a small piece of wood balanced on top of a hollow barrel that shook at even the slightest breeze. The inventory itself was a full garden behind the stall, where all of the shopping happened.

Ana Kilmartin would never cut the life of a growing plant unless it was needed, so the freshest flowers and herbs in all of MacAitken lands grew right here in Kilbray, behind her stall, and everyone knew it.

Laura brushed past a few bobs and wares in the marketplace before skirting around the fountain to the side alleyway. The garden was outside of the market, due to space, but everyone came, nonetheless. The side alley was a shortcut that Laura always took because the fewer eyes on her, the better.

As the darkness of the alley started to give way, Ana’s stall came into view. It was vibrant with color, but something was amiss.

“Ana?” Laura called out as she approached. “Are ye in there?”

“Aye? Whyever would I nae be?” Ana said, her fiery curls bouncing with wild abandon as she aggressively fought to tie up a bundle of dried lavender. The bouquet was larger than she was, but she looked up long enough in the haze of her battle to see Laura’s concern. “What is it?”

“Where did Dale go?”

Ana used her teeth to pull the string tighter around the stems, forcing them to stay together with two and then three quickly bound wraps. The back of her free hand swiped at the solitary bead of sweat on her temple.

“Christ Al-fekkin-mighty! Get. In. There!” she gritted out before finally twisting around the final wrap successfully.

The show had been a welcome distraction from Laura’s earlier confusion, but Ana hadn’t forgotten.

“Dale is helpin’ over at the Kerr cottage,” she revealed.

Worth the wait, for sure.

“Helpin’? Why?”

“There was a fire this morning, just at daybreak.”

“A fire!”

Tucking an errand strand of hair behind her scarred ear, she listened intently to the quick report Ana gave.

“Aye. Young Fergus tried to light a fire in the hearth because he was cold, and then the curtains caught fire, setting the entire cottage ablaze. They’re still there, though I think the fire is out. I didnae go—look at me?—”

Ana waved her hand at her slight frame, which was ready to pop out a new baby. The gesture was a natural comedic insertion that made Laura smile.

“How’s Jenny?” she asked quickly.

“I dinnae ken—Dale hasnae returned yet. But it was obvious when the Laird arrived. All of the shoutin’ ceased.”

Laura chewed on her lip. A fire that was large and dangerous enough that the Laird had come to help them, and she had heard none of it.

“The Laird?”

“Aye. He came rather quickly.”

“Laird MacAitken?”

“The very same. What are ye lost about?”

Only several hundred questions.

She wanted to ask more, but Ana’s hands struggled against another bushel of lavender, and Laura thought that it was best to let her friend be.

Christ, the draught Mrs. Morrigan gave me was far too much if I’ve missed this!

Laura turned to the wooden set of drawers lining the front entrance of the stall, pulling one open and inhaling deeply. The scent of dried rosemary greeted her, grounding her. This was precisely why she loved this stall.

It was the act of sorting through the herbs, matching scents to remedies—it was methodical, peaceful, cathartic, and one of the only solitary, untimed moments in her day that she didn’t have to worry about anyone else but herself.

Laura’s fingers brushed over the carved wood. She hoped that one day, this village would grow to accept her for who she was, without a backstory. She was surprised that they’d lasted this long without asking her about it, but while under the supervision of Mrs. Morrigan, she was safe.

Safety was all that mattered.

The next drawer contained another extremely rare spice. The delicate bundles of knobby, gold-brown roots were unmistakable—galangal. She ran her fingertips over the dry root. It was fresh, its thin outer layer still papery, the promise of its sharp, citrusy heat lingering in the air around her.

“Is this… Is this galangal?” Laura asked, holding it up over her shoulder in awe. “How much?”

Ana looked between her and the drawer full of galangal, a thoughtful expression on her face. “I’ve never met anyone who prizes this as much as I do. If it was goin’ to be anyone, it’d be ye. I kenned that. Take a piece—whatever ye think ye need. Call it a gift.”

Laura’s lips parted slightly. “Ana, I cannae?—”

“Ye can,” Ana interrupted, reaching over and taking a piece from the drawer, before depositing it into her bag. “Ye should, Laura. Take what ye need.”

Laura brought the root in her hand up to her chest as she watched Ana disappear into her house. Seconds later, the woman walked through another door and into a separate part of the garden, further back, where she placed the bushels of lavender with others and hauled up another massive pile that had yet to be tied together.

That’s when Laura noticed it.

The marketplace had gone deathly quiet.

The chatter faded into hushed murmurs, and when she glanced back up, she saw the stall owners turning away and other villagers stepping back into their homes quickly, whispering behind their hands.

This sort of thing wasn’t anything that Laura wasn’t used to, but it had been a year and a half already, and she thought that she was past all of the scrutiny. Now, her stomach twisted.

Nae again.

The strange, unwelcome guest, haunting their children’s dreams. To the young lads and lassies, Laura had become the Baithreach, the Banshee of Kilbray. It had taken months for the men and women to warm up to her, but there were still times when some of the youngest children ran from her, making healing them all the more of a challenge.

Never had she heard the whispers from adults, only the children, but she knew it was learned behavior.

Laura turned, embarrassment and anger warming her face.

I cannae believe this is still happening!

Shoving the herb drawers back into the cabinet violently, she gathered her skirts and whirled around to hide her face in the thick bouquet of flowers Ana had set out.

If they cannae see me, maybe they’ll stop.

Though the heavy silence in the marketplace weighed heavily on her, the innate desire to be accepted by the villagers drove her to chance a look at the market square. Most of them had come back out but were now looking in her direction. Their fear was plain.

But their eyes weren’t fixed on her—they were locked onto something just behind her.

Slowly, she turned around.

A massive figure was steps away from her, his presence dwarfing the space around him as he walked down the deserted alleyway. Tall and broad-shouldered, the man looked like he had been carved from stone. His long, dark hair framed a face marked by deep, brutal scars around his sharp jawline and across the bridge of his nose.

How is he nae in pain?

She brought a hand up to her scars.

His brutal scars forced a memory to the forefront of her mind. And suddenly, her throat constricted at the image. The man was menacing and had lethal strength, just like the man walking up to her. Dread shot through her body as she recalled the searing pain from the man’s blade.

His dark eyes held no warmth, only exhaustion and impatience.

This man is just like James.

Laura’s breath clawed its way out and past her lips with immense effort, and her chest rose and fell wildly as she snapped herself back to the present.

Nae James. He’s nae James.

The man’s massive stallion walked slowly behind him. Its breath, heavy as the stagnant smoke lingering in the square, curled up from its nostrils, making him look like a shadow creature about to set fire to its path. These were beings that lived in nightmares.

The villagers flinched away, sneaking glances from their doorways.

The man barely seemed to notice her, his only intent to pass through without being interrupted. The light caught an angry, glistening wound. His skin looked as if it had been peeled off the other side of his face and down his neck and shoulder.

He’s—He’s wounded!

Before she could think twice, Laura stepped in front of him, forcing him to stop. His great beast snorted, tossing its head back furiously, but she stood her ground, meeting the man’s gaze.

“Ye are bleedin’.”

The man exhaled, clearly irritated. “Move, lass.”

She crossed her arms. “Nay. Ye need to be treated. Follow me. Now.”

A sound rumbled deep in the man’s chest—half amusement, half clear warning. “Is that an order?”

Laura swallowed hard. The weight of his stare was suffocating enough, but feeling the stares of all the villagers watching their interaction was like standing on a cliff’s edge.

“She’s nae from here, Me Laird. She doesnae ken who she is speakin’ to,” Ana’s voice came from the piles of lavender she had been standing in, breaking the tension. “Please—I take responsibility for her. Please spare her.”

Spare me?

Laura’s heart stopped as the first part of the plea registered.

Me Laird?

Memories flashed unbidden. Lairds who thought they could take whatever they pleased whenever they pleased. Lairds who whispered lies in the dark and left scars to remember them by.

Laura’s eyes went wide with untapped terror as her gaze landed on his once more.

The Laird’s voice sliced through her thoughts, menacing and rough as if the words were formed around gravel itself. “I didnae threaten her, Mrs. Kilmartin.” His tone was even, but there was iron beneath it. “I asked a simple question. Was that an order?”

Laura’s gaze followed his as his dark eyes raked over her body, accounting for the hem of her layered skirts under a healer’s apron tied at her waist, the basket hooked under her arm and balanced on one hip, her throat bobbing, and the scars on her face, before refocusing on her wide stare. An eyebrow rose impatiently, and she watched as a drop of blood formed at the apex.

“Well?”

Laura lifted her chin, ignoring the tremors in her limbs. “I’d rather give orders than take them.”

She held his stare, unwavering because she knew that powerful men only respond to power.

One side of his mouth lifted infinitesimally, but she continued, “And if ye ken what’s good for ye, ye will follow me. Me Laird. ” She executed an exaggerated bow.

Laird MacAitken’s famous black stallion pawed angrily at the ground at her insolence.

As she straightened, a muscle ticked in the Laird’s jaw as his eyes narrowed, before he silently gestured for her to lead the way.

As she turned away from him, she heard his voice, heated and lethal at her back. “Just so ye ken, ye’re the first person to give me orders and survive.”

The Banshee of Kilbray leadin’ the Beast and his demon—now this is the stuff of nightmares.