Page 57 of A Hellion for the Highland Hawk
“She… wanders,” Jane said hesitantly. Then she lowered her voice to add, “She’s a witch. Someone who understands the ways back and forth through time better than anyone else. But it’s not safe for her to settle anywhere, so she goes wherever she feels she might be needed, and doesn’t come by Castle Culloch very often.”
“So, it could take weeks?” Nancy squeaked, her eyes so wide she worried they might bulge out of her head, the images in that tapestry playing over and over in her head like a movie. A gory one, at that. A tragedy.
Jane shook her head. “Not weeks. Maybeaweek. Beitris has gotten better at finding her or… summoning her. I don’t know how to explain it, but there’s witchiness in both of them.” She searched Nancy’s face as the flames in the fireplace crackled and spat ominously. “Please, tell me why you’re so frantic. What is this thing that you know? Are you married to Laird Lochlann in the future, and you don’t want to be? Did he force you into this betrothal?”
“No!” was all Nancy could say, her breathing ragged. Which question she was answering, she wasn’t sure.
To make matters worse, Jane nodded in kind understanding, her smile sympathetic. “You’re totally right; it’s none of my business. I’m being rude, prying where I shouldn’t. It’s the archaeologist in me again, always wanting to dig deeper.” She gave a stiffchuckle. “I’m sorry, Nancy. I shouldn’t have asked, but I just want you to know that, if you need to talk or vent or figure something out, I’m here.”
“I just need to go home,” Nancy murmured, suddenly very tired, her heart weighing a ton.
Jane nodded. “And we will get you home, don’t you worry.” She slowly released Nancy’s hand and rose from her chair. “In the meantime, eat that stew, get some good rest, and try to enjoy the cèilidh tomorrow night. There’s nothing like a cèilidh to lift your spirits, even when you’re craving a hot shower and some trash TV, or just putting on some music that doesn’t require a five-piece orchestra to play.”
The faintest laugh bubbled up Nancy’s throat as she pictured Jane and Adeline attempting to teach some eighteenth-century musicians how to play twenty-first-century favorites. And while she hadn’t had the time to miss modern music, shewouldhave relished a true crime podcast to help her drift off to sleep, to help her forget that she was in the midst of her own murder mystery, with an unknown killer waiting until June.
CHAPTER 23
Hunter leanedagainst the window frame in the cavernous Great Hall of Castle Culloch, his gaze fixed on the sinking sun as it disappeared further and further into the sparkling expanse of the sea.
It would be a clear night, not a cloud to be seen. The perfect night for a swim.
Instead, he was stuck in the noise and heat of the cèilidh, expected to exchange pleasantries with strangers, simply because the council had appointed him as Laird instead of his younger cousin. He was already weary of the gathering, and he had only been there for half an hour.
“I ken the feeling,” a gruff voice said. “But me wife relishes a gatherin’, and I cannae argue when it’s in honor of me daughter, who isnae even here.”
Hunter flashed a wry smirk at Dougal Murdoch, the Laird of Clan Culloch. “How come?”
“She doesnae like the noise,” Dougal replied, handing him a cup. “She was here for five minutes, screamed her head off, so me sister took her up to her chambers to put her to bed.”
Hunter sniffed the contents of the cup and, satisfied it was just whiskey and not an ally stabbing him in the back with a poisoned chalice, took a decent sip.
“It’s good whiskey,” he said as it warmed his belly and took the edge off his general dislike of gatherings.
Dougal nodded. “Aye, it’s from the island.”
“Island?”
Dougal gestured through the window to a tiny smudge on the horizon. “Logan’s island. Adeline makes medicine, Logan distills whiskey.”
“Sounds like paradise,” Hunter replied with a stilted laugh.
Even with the lairds he liked, he hated having to make idle talk. The trouble was, it seemed he, Logan, and Dougal were cut from the same cloth, all three uninterested in speaking unless there was a good reason. It had made his time in Logan’s study yesterday a rather silent affair.
Therehadbeen a few discussions about the MacLeach issue and Dougal’s recent troubles with some arrogant pirates, but other than that, there had been nothing but the crackle of the fire and each of the men sipping their whiskey. Not unpleasant by any means, but it hadgiven Hunter far too much time to think about Nancy.
As if summoned by his thoughts, a new arrival stepped through the double doors of the Great Hall. A vision in dark red, the color of spiced wine and ripe blackberry juice, her chestnut hair flowing down in loose waves, her hands clasped in front of her, radiating nerves.
Hunter’s appetite surged as he noted the low neckline, far more daring than anything Nancy had worn before, his hands itching to hold that narrow waist of hers, to slide over her hips, to grasp and tear at those flowing skirts until he reached her heat, to make up for the tormented hours he’d spent in her absence.
He wasn’t the only one admiring her.
All around the Great Hall, eyes widened and conversations stopped. It was fortunate Hunter hadn’t brought his broadsword to the gathering, or he’d have had to draw it to deliver swift punishment to all of the men who openly gawped at her.
He’d have asked if they had any shame, but hecouldn’t look away either.
Just then, her eyes found him, and something like relief eased the tension in her beautiful, rosy-cheeked face.
“I’ll speak to ye later,” he told Dougal, who took one look at Nancy and cracked a smile.
