Page 83 of A Scot on the Rocks

The woman with the baby was looking at her kindly. “Did your husband like the songs?”

Olivia’s hand stopped on the purse. Of all the details she might have been asked to invent about her fictional husband, she’d never considered his taste in music. She looked toward the fiddler, buying herself another moment, and felt Jamie shift closer beside her.

“He wasn’t much of a singer,” she answered at last.

“Ah, well,” the woman said, satisfied. “There’s no shame in that.”

Jamie asked Mairi whether the fiddler knew the tune about the sailor who’d misplaced his breeches. The room dissolved into an argument about the proper verses, and Mrs. Bennett’s husband was forgotten. Olivia was grateful for the rescue, which made her feel considerably worse about needing it.

By the time they left, the two dogs were asleep beneath the table, Finlay had told the story of Olivia’s plate at least four times, and Mairi had extracted a promise from Jamie to mend her damaged bench. The mist had settled over the road, and Olivia lifted the hem of her gown as they started uphill. Jamie carried a heel of bread Mairi had insisted they take because she still regarded Olivia as half-starved.

“They liked ye,” he said.

“They interrogated me, threatened to put you to work, and fed my supper to the dogs.”

“Ye fed the dogs.”

“Under extreme provocation.”

“Finlay says he’s never seen a man so soundly defeated by mashed turnips.”

“Don’t forget the mutton.”

Jamie laughed, then offered his hand where the road had worn into a muddy rut. She took it for the crossing, but he released her once she reached firm ground, and she found herself wishing he hadn’t been quite so courteous.

“Mairi made your romantic history sound rather extensive,” she said.

He turned his head. “Jealous?”

“Curious whether you really mean the things you say.”

“I try to.” His smile lost its wicked edge. “If I give my word, lass, I mean to keep it.”

Olivia kept her eyes on the road. He’d been kind to a woman whose entire account of how she came to be in his care was a lie. Every day made it harder to imagine telling him, and harder still to imagine walking away without doing so.

The following morning Morag put two wooden buckets into their hands and informed Jamie that if he meant to spend the day wandering the hills he might at least bring back some water. The upper spring had run clear through the recent rains, and Olivia had been curious to see it though Jamie protested that they could fetch water nearer the castle. Morag observed that water had evidently become the only subject capable of luring the two of them out for a walk and sent them on their way before he could answer.

The climb was steep enough to make her question the wisdom of her curiosity. The rain had stopped, but patches of wet heather lay across the path, and cold clung to the grass wherever the sun had yet to reach. Far below, Dunarraidh sat on its rise of broken stone, looking remarkably picturesque from a distance that concealed most of the repairs it needed.

Jamie stayed on the outside of the narrow track until she stepped past him onto safer ground.

Morag had taken up the hem of Olivia’s blue gown, and for once she didn’t have to gather handfuls of wool to see her own boots. She was grateful for those boots every morning and so glad she had fallen through time wearing stiletto heels.

At the spring, water emerged from a seam in the stone and gathered in a shallow pool bordered by moss. A rowan leaned over it, its branches holding little faded strips of wool and linen. Jamie set down his bucket while Olivia knelt beside the water and held her fingers just beneath the surface.

“Good grief, that’s cold.”

“Were ye expecting the hill to heat it for ye?”

“Endless hot water, wouldn’t that be nice.”

“Next ye’ll want hot water to wash the dishes without having to heat it on the fire.” He snorted and filled his bucket. Olivia looked up at the strips of cloth moving among the leaves.

“What’s all that?”

“Offerings. Someone’s ill, or somebody wants a favor, and they leave a bit of cloth with their prayer.”

“Does Morag believe in it?”