Page 10 of Ghost of the Ton

“Will you make me a promise?” Mia asked.

“Gladly, lass.” Her heart ached at the warmth and kindness in his voice.

“Do not mourn me…Hamish.” Her throat tightened as she uttered his name. “Be happy. Find another wife. Be happy with her.”

She heard a sharp intake of breath, then he sighed. “Aye, lass, if it be yer wish, then I will. But know this: Every soul at Glenblath will pray for ye and remember ye—Euphramia.”

“M-Mia,” she whispered, but her voice was almost inaudible and he rose from the bed. “M-my name is…” She broke off as a spasm of coughs racked her body.

Gertie took her hand. “I think Miss Lucas…I mean, Lady MacLennan needs her rest, now.”

Lady MacLennan.

A title that was, like Mia, destined to be short-lived.

The groom bowed, then he exited the chamber.

“My wife and I will pray for you, Lady MacLennan,” Lord Staines said. “When the time comes, I will of course preside over—”

He broke off, and Mia allowed herself a smile. So many grown men who considered themselves the stronger and braver sex, yet they were unable to complete a sentence that referred to her impending death and the funeral that would follow.

After he left, Gertie removed the veil and settled Mia back into a prone position in the bed.

Dr. McIver approached with the familiar phial, then he uncorked it and shook a few drops out onto a spoon before holding it to her lips. She parted them in eagerness, relishing the anticipated release from pain.

“Is there anything else you wish for?” Gertie asked.

Mia shook her head. The nurse placed another cool cloth on her forehead, then stroked her cheek.

“Sweet girl.”

Mia let Gertie’s soft voice caress her senses—the soothing words of love, hitching occasionally as the nurse caught her breath—and waited for the inevitable to claim her.

Chapter Four

Hamish held his breath at the familiar silhouette of Glenblath Castle. The building dominated everything around it save for the peak of Beinn Blath, which stretched to the sky and disappeared behind the thick white clouds that clung to the summit.

His heart swelled with love. Was there ever a greater sight for a man to behold than his beloved home? Twelve days he’d been on the road—two of which he’d wasted at some cursed inn waiting for the next carriage. No amount of counting the hours and days away made time run faster.

Then he checked himself as his conscience stabbed at him.

Time was a commodity he’d spent the past fortnight wishing away. But in London, another would have clung to the few precious hours that she had left.

He lifted his gaze to the clouds, behind which the sun struggled—and failed—to penetrate, and uttered a small prayer of thanks.

“Euphramia Mary Lucas…”

The carriage drew to a halt and Hamish climbed out, stretching his body that had grown cramped in the carriage.

“Hamish, my son!” a voice cried out, filled with love.

His mother stood at the castle entrance, leaning on a stick. By her side stood Hamish’s sister Iona, together with his friends Murdoch and Robbie. Robbie’s wife Shona was by his side, her gaze fixed on Iona, but of Murdoch’s wife there was no sign. Behind, the servants lined up in a row, from Ailsa, Murdoch’s eldest, who’d joined the kitchens last year, to Brodie the groom, who stared at Iona with slavish devotion, and finally Mr. and Mrs. Bron standing at the end.

Ma shuffled forward and Hamish embraced her. His heart ached at how frail she was, completely engulfed by his embrace.

“I’ve missed ye, Ma,” he said, releasing her and stepping back. “Ye’re looking unwell. Has Iona not been looking after ye?”

His sister let out a huff and folded her arms. “Can ye never find anything kind to say of me, brother?”