Page 2

One month later …

WEEPING CARRIED THROUGH the dank, chill air. The folk of Dun Ugadale huddled together in the kirkyard, their faces crumpled in grief.

It was hard to believe the priest was gone.

Standing with his brothers, head bowed, Kerr Mackay felt the weight of their sorrow—a sorrow he shared.

“Father Ross of the Mackays” —a man’s reed-thin voice pierced the hush— “we have committed yer body to the ground, earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust—in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection to eternal life.”

Raising his chin, Kerr’s gaze settled upon Father Macum, the priest from the nearby port town of Ceann Locha. Father Macum was getting on in years, at least two decades older than the man he was burying, yet his dark eyes were still bright, his body still spry.

Kerr’s attention shifted then to the mound of fresh earth, scattered with what flowers the local women could find this time of year.

It didn’t seem right. Father Ross was the picture of health the last time Kerr had seen him. However, Kerr’s sister-by-marriage Davina had found the priest dead on the kirk floor the morning before.

One of the village women started sobbing in earnest then.

Maisie MacDonald covered her face with her hands in an effort to stifle the noise, yet her weeping carried high above the mourners.

Gazes swiveled to her. Everyone knew the widow had been fond of Father Ross.

There had even been whisperings that she’d taken to visiting him some evenings.

Murmuring something to the older woman, Rose stepped close and placed an arm around her shoulders. Her voice was low and soothing, yet such was Maisie’s grief, she barely seemed to notice.

Kerr did though.

Curse him, he couldn’t take his eyes off Rose.

He hadn’t seen her since that fateful night, a month earlier, when she’d spurned his attentions and made it clear he’d never have a chance with her.

Kerr had kept his distance from the lass ever since; however, the funeral had brought them together once more.

Over the past weeks, Kerr had given himself a strict talking-to. Rose didn’t want him. He had to stop pining like a lovesick halfwit. Over the past few days, he’d even started telling himself he no longer cared what Rose MacAlister thought of him.

But seeing her now was a punch to the gut.

The truth was, he did care—just as much as he ever had. This cursed affliction still had him within its grasp.

“Receive the Lord’s blessing,” Father Macum concluded, his thin voice cracking as he strained to be heard over Maisie’s noisy weeping. “The Lord bless ye and watch over ye. In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”

“Amen.” A chorus of soft voices followed the priest’s words.

Silence lay heavily in the moments afterward, interrupted by the harsh caws of a crow sitting upon a nearby yew tree. The beady-eyed bird watched the mourners as, one by one, they drifted away.

However, the laird of Dun Ugadale, Iver Mackay, remained. As did his kin and Father Macum.

And so did Maisie, for she was still sobbing helplessly, cradled against Rose’s chest.

Forcing himself not to stare at the woman he couldn’t seem to forget, Kerr glanced over at the eldest of his three brothers.

Iver’s face was unusually austere this afternoon, while next to him, his wife, Bonnie’s face was wet with tears.

Likewise, Davina was silently weeping as she stood with Lennox.

As usual, the youngest of the four brothers, Brodie, waited a little apart from the rest of his kin.

Shrouded in a black cloak, his face shuttered, Brodie’s gaze remained fixed on Father Ross’s grave.

All the Mackay brothers had grown up under the priest’s gentle guidance. He was their second cousin—a good, caring man who’d done much for the people here.

Kerr’s throat constricted. Lord, he’d miss him.

Father Macum cleared his throat then, approaching the laird. “This is a great loss to Dun Ugadale, indeed,” he muttered. “Without a man of God to lead them, folk can lose their way.”

Iver nodded, his mouth tightening sightly. “Father Ross was kin ,” he reminded the priest. “His loss is also a personal one.”

“Of course,” Father Macum replied hurriedly, wringing his hands. “However, despite the gulf his passing has left … his role must be filled. Shall I see to it?”

“Aye,” Iver replied with a brusque nod. “If ye must.”

Bowing his head, the priest gathered his robes about him and hurried off. His garron was tied to the fence encircling the kirkyard, and now the burial was done, Father Macum was eager to be on his way.

Iver let him go without another word.

Meanwhile, nearby, Maisie lifted her tear-streaked face and rubbed at her eyes, clearly trying to pull herself together. She then glanced up at Rose, stiffening when she realized who’d been comforting her.

Jaw clenched, she twisted out of Rose’s hold.

The woman’s reaction didn’t surprise Kerr. Many of the MacAlisters and the MacDonalds who lived on the lands around the broch didn’t get on. It was a pity though that Maisie couldn’t put it aside on a day like this.

Rose too seemed to think the same, for hurt flickered across her features, her green eyes clouding in confusion.

Drawing herself up as she stepped away from one of the hated MacAlisters, Maisie glanced at the laird. “This is the devil’s work, Mackay,” she croaked. “It can’t be a natural death … to be struck down so, in the prime of life.”

“The healer said it was his heart, Maisie,” Iver replied, his tone softening a little. “As tragic as his loss is to us all, none of us know when our time will come.”

Maisie’s eyes filled with tears once more, and she nodded. Her shoulders sagged then as sorrow barreled into her.

“I can walk ye home, if ye like, Maisie?” Rose offered gently.

The older woman cut her a sharp look before shaking her head.

“I can manage.” She paused then, her gaze narrowing.

“If the likes of yer criminal father and yer heathen aunt followed Christ’s teachings, evil would never have crept into this village.

Neither of them was here to pay Father Ross respect, I note. ”

Rose flinched at these harsh words, her lips parting as a soft gasp escaped.

“That’s enough, Maisie,” Kerr cut in, speaking without thinking. “We all grieve Father Ross … but that’s no excuse to lose yer manners.”

Maisie stiffened at the reprimand—while Rose looked his way, focusing on Kerr for the first time since they’d all gathered at the graveside.

Their gazes held for a heartbeat before she dropped her attention to the ground, high spots of color appearing on her cheeks. Then, without acknowledging anyone, Rose turned and walked away, threading a path through the gravestones toward the gate.

Kerr watched her go, an ache rising in his chest.

By the time Rose reached her family’s cottage, the heat in her face had finally ebbed. At the graveside, her cheeks had burned like hot embers. It had been humiliating to be insulted like that in front of the laird and his family—but worse still was when Kerr had come to her defense.

He was the last person she wanted to speak up for her.

Heat washed over Rose once more as she recalled the concerned looks on Bonnie and Davina’s faces.

Rose liked the two women. The wives of Iver and Lennox Mackay had been good to her over the past months, dropping off loaves of bread and even a few wedges of cheese after they’d learned she and her kin were weathering tough times.

Approaching the cottage up a narrow path, between fallow fields, Rose’s gaze went to the stacked-stone chimney upon the turf roof.

She then frowned. Usually, dark peat smoke drifted into the air at this hour.

Her father or brothers should have been at home by now to tend the fire; she hoped they hadn’t let it go out.

Rose’s jaw tensed. She’d wanted to slap Maisie MacDonald for insulting her kin so, yet the woman’s words had cut deep all the same, for they held a grain of truth.

Despite that they’d often visited the kirk on a Sunday, and had enjoyed Father Ross’s sermons, the rest of her family hadn’t attended his burial—and Lord knew where any of them were at present.

However, Rose hadn’t expected her aunt to come to the burial. Kenna had never been pious and barely knew Father Ross.

Completing the final few steps to the front door, Rose let herself into the cottage. She then removed her cloak and crossed the hard-packed dirt floor to the stone hearth.

As she’d suspected, it was cold.

Cursing under her breath, Rose grabbed a flint and tinder.

An odd cooing sound interrupted her, and she turned to it, her gaze alighting upon a pair of dark-golden eyes peering up at her from inside a basket nestled in the corner next to the hearth.

“Sorry, Hazel,” she muttered. “I’m not in the best of moods this afternoon … don’t mind me.”

In response, the eagle owl, its mottled buff-brown feathers blending in with the straw and wood shavings in the basket, cocked its head. Its ear tufts gave it a quizzical look, and Rose found herself smiling.

Putting aside her flint and tinder, she approached the basket and crouched down before it. “How’s that wing faring today?”

Hazel merely gazed up at her, amber eyes unblinking.

Rose extended her hand, stroking the owl’s soft feathers. She’d rescued the female owl a fortnight earlier, having found it hopping around the field outside with a broken wing. Her father and brothers had thought her foolish to bother with the bird, yet she’d ignored their jeers.

The owl was injured, and she’d not let it die.

Instead, she’d brought the owl inside, splinted the broken wing, and done her best to care for it. After a day or two, she named the bird Hazel. She regularly went out and checked traps she’d set, bringing it dead rats and mice.

Hazel was surprisingly tame these days, and Rose wasn’t nervous about putting her hand anywhere near that wickedly sharp, hooked beak.

Stroking the owl now, a little of the tension knotting her belly eased. Her smile lingered. Hazel brought her solace this afternoon.

“Ye’ll be getting hungry,” she announced with a sigh, rising to her feet and moving back to the hearth. “But if ye wait just a wee bit, I’ll get ye something tasty.” Kneeling, she picked up the flint and tinder once more. “First though, I need to get this fire relit.”

It wasn’t an easy task, as there wasn’t a breath of wind this afternoon to create a much-needed draft. By the time Rose had coaxed a tender flame to life, her knees hurt from kneeling on the floor and her back ached from being hunched over the lump of peat she’d been trying to light.

Once the fire was burning, Rose also lit a lantern. She’d have preferred to have at least three alight, for the interior of the cottage was dark and gloomy with just one. However, they were getting low on candles, and she had to conserve them.

Rubbing her back, she glanced over at the bench, where the turnip and onions she planned to cook up for supper waited. She’d start on that soon, right after she fed Hazel.

Ducking outdoors, she noted the wind had picked up.

It snagged at her clothing and blew icy needles of rain in her face.

Autumn was sliding into winter, and the air held winter’s bite.

The light was fading now, for the gloaming was upon them.

As they began the last few weeks up to Yuletide, the days grew increasingly short.

Rose bent her head against the wind and hurried to the edge of the garden that surrounded the cottage. To her relief, she found a dead rat in her trap. It was a big one too—Hazel would be pleased.

Grabbing the rodent by the tail, she carried it back indoors and deposited it into Hazel’s basket.

The owl attacked the rat with zeal while Rose made her way over to the bench and began deftly chopping vegetables for pottage.

She was running very late today. Unsurprisingly, the funeral had thrown her routine into chaos.

Rose’s days were always busy. In the mornings, after she finished her chores at home, she often walked into the village and helped her friend Eara brew ale for a few hours.

Ever since she’d been widowed, the alewife needed assistance—and Rose was happy to give it.

Eara appreciated Rose’s help, while her father and brothers took everything she did for them as their right.

However, they were pleased about her job—for Eara paid Rose in ale.

After a full morning, Rose would return home to prepare the noon meal. Her afternoons were then passed tending the garden where she grew most of their vegetables.

However, Rose found it difficult to focus on her chores this evening. In truth, Maisie MacDonald’s harsh words had both angered and unsettled her.

The gall of the woman.

Rose’s jaw tightened as she tossed chopped turnips into a large iron pot.

Her father liked supper on the table at a certain hour—but he’d be having it late today. She’d just begun to fry the vegetables off, in a tiny portion of pork fat, when the door to the cottage flew open. Graham MacAlister stumbled in, followed by his sons, Knox and Clyde.

Tall and broad with ruddy faces, chestnut-brown hair, and green eyes, all three men appeared cast from the same mold.

Rose turned from where she was stirring the vegetables in the pot before the fire. “There ye are,” she greeted them, trying to keep the irritation out of her voice. “Where have ye all been?”

“None of yer business, lass,” her father slurred. Rose’s heart sank. God’s bones, not again . He’d been drinking. Where had he gotten the coin? “Why isn’t supper on the table yet?”