Mrs. O'Halloran was talking about the bread, the flour stores, and whether the grain delivery from the south would arrive before the end of the week. Margaret made the appropriatesounds. She was aware of doing this, of the performance of listening while her mind was entirely elsewhere, which was not a habit she was proud of but couldn't stop at the moment.
His arms held me.
She stared at the window.
He kissed me in the rain, in the dark, with his hands in me hair without carin' that the storm was screamin' around us.
It was neither tentative nor questioning, nor anything she might have expected from a man who had spent a week showing indifference. It was confident. It was instantaneous. It was the kind of kiss that left no room for misunderstanding.
And then the sheep had cried, and he walked away.
"Lady MacKenzie?" Maisie set a cup of warm milk in front of her.
"Thank ye," Margaret said. She wrapped both hands around it.
Mrs. O'Halloran was now discussing the butter churn, which had been causing trouble since Tuesday, and what she planned to say to the man responsible for repairing it. Margaret nodded at what felt like appropriate intervals. The milk was warm and sweet, and she could not taste it at all.
The worst of itis nae that he had walked away.
She had expected that, on some level, because Fergus MacKenzie walking away was as reliable as the tide. The worst of it was the moment before. The way he had looked at her just before he reached for her, that single suspended second where every wall he had built had simply gone, and she had seen him. Not the Laird. Not the soldier. Him.
And I have nay idea what to do with that.
"The eastern grain shed will need clearin' before the autumn stores come in," Mrs. O'Halloran announced. "I'll be needin' extra hands for it, me Lady, if ye'd put the word to the Laird."
"I will," Margaret said.
Then she heard him. His voice came from the corridor, quiet and probing, calling out to someone near the door. One word. She thought it was her name, or something close enough that her body reacted instinctively before her mind did. She was already on her feet and moved two steps to the left, behind the large stone pillar that divided the cooking hearth from the prep table, before she realized what she was doing or consciously decided to move.
She stood there with her back against the cool stone and her warm milk still in her hands.
What are ye doin', ye dumb lass? What on earth are ye doin'?
She truly did not know. She was a grown woman, a married woman, hiding behind a kitchen pillar from her own husband because he had kissed her. Yes, and also because she had not fully recovered from it yet and could not look at him without betraying her feelings.
"She was just here," Maisie's voice carried easily from the other end of the kitchen, cheerful and entirely unsuspicious. "Nae long ago. Came down early, she did. Perhaps she's gone up to the bairn."
"Aye," Mrs. O'Halloran confirmed, without a flicker of hesitation. "She warmed milk nae long ago. She'll be in the nursery, me Laird."
A pause.
Then the sound of his footsteps moved away down the corridor.
Margaret let out a breath she had not known she was holding. She stepped out from behind the pillar. Maisie looked at her from the far end of the kitchen with an expression of perfect, beautiful neutrality.
"More milk?" Maisie offered.
"Please," Margaret said.
Neither of them mentioned it. Margaret sat back down on the bench, wrapped her hands around the fresh cup, looked at thegray morning outside the window, and thought, with a clarity that was almost painful, that she couldn't keep doing this. She couldn't keep hiding behind pillars, closed doors, and carefully maintained composure. She had come here with terms. She had set them herself. She had stood in Isobel's courtyard and told this man exactly what she expected of him.
And then had hidden in a kitchen.
She took a slow sip of milk.
Right. Enough.
Margaret set her cup down and pushed to her feet.
