Page 18 of Fire in his Highland Heart

“I’m a poor widow who lives alone in the forest, which sometimes is enough to get ye called a witch.”

Arguen nodded in agreement. “I ken a bit how ye feel.”

“Och, but no one’s really a witch. We simply ken our way about the wood and the plants, eh?” the woman smiled, and Arguen found herself at ease.

“Aye, I thought so ‘til ye told me this was hemlock. I’m a healer meself. Even thought I was braw until now. Been called a witch me whole life.”

“Ye poor dear. What with yer hair an’ all, ‘tis easy tae see how narrow-minded folk might think that way.”

Arguen tried to respond, but an enormous yawn overtook her instead.

The old woman chuckled. “Ye look tired to the bone. Now, I ken ye’re not townsfolk. I dinnae ken all yer business, and I dinnae care tae. But what I can offer ye is a warm meal and a roof to sleep under taenight.”

Every fiber in her being should have been on alert—one did not accept such generous invitations from strange women in the woods—but Arguen felt more relieved than anything. This woman had saved her from possibly poisoning herself or others, and she seemed to understand the struggles of a lonely woman. And the promise of a roof, maybe even a bed, sounded lovely, after being accustomed to sleeping on the stone floor of the cell.

“Aye, I can accept that. And let me help ye with cooking and gathering what ye need.”

The old woman smiled sweetly and patted Arguen’s cheek. “There’s a good lass. Now follow me. ‘Tis time for ye to rest a bit.”

Perhaps talking bears weren’t real, but Arguen suddenly had a good feeling about this woman. Maybe her mother was guiding her to safety even from beyond the grave. As they walked to the woman’s cottage, Arguen looked up at the sky. Last night, the stars had been hidden by the foliage. Today, little slivers and dots of sunlight peeked through the green leaves. This forest was dark and deep, but Arguen did not feel unsafe. For the first time in a very long time, she felt at peace.

Soon, they arrived at her cottage. It was a small, whitewashed, thatched-roof dwelling with a chimney, and a well nearby. A carefully planted herb garden of considerable size lay next to it, and chickens ran around the front, clucking happily. It was absolutely idyllic in Arguen’s mind.

When they entered her little cottage, the woman set down her basket on the small wooden table, and Arguen looked around. It seemed to be one room with a little loft for sleeping. At one end, there was a large hearth with a pot hanging over the fire, and what smelled like bread baking in the clay oven. Dried herbs hung from the beams, and little glass jars littered the mantle. It was well furnished for being an old widow’s cottage in the forest—a large wooden settee sat parallel to the fireplace. A long wood workbench or narrow table of some sort sat propped up against the window, also littered with jars and cooking utensils. In addition to the small wood table, which Arguen guessed served as both a workstation and an eating place, there were two rickety chairs. At the opposite end, there was a fine armoire flush against the wall. Clearly, from the craftsmanship of the piece, this woman was used to finer things before she became a widow.

For the next couple hours, the two of them worked in a comfortable silence, making supper and cleaning the house. Finally, they sat down to eat the fruits of their labor.

The woman prayed over their meal before they ate. Arguen had to stifle a moan—it was excellent to have fresh bread and warm stew for dinner. (The woman had assured her it wasn’t toad stew.)

“So tell me, lass,” the woman asked, dipping a chunk of bread into her stew, “what’re ye runnin’ from?”

Arguen’s heart sank like a stone. So it was too good to be true. She’d been found out. No doubt this woman would turn her in, and she began to panic.

“Fate,” she answered dumbly.

The woman smiled good-naturedly. “Oh, my wee lass. Ye cannae outrun fate.”

Arguen’s heart thudded in her chest, so loud she was sure the woman could hear it.

Oh, but she was determined to do so. .

Chapter Seven

Blake sat in his study, staring at the embers of the dying fire. His mind would not allow him to rest, not after the excitement of the ball. And he always mulled over James’s words, though he’d never admit it. Any compliments would just further inflate his friend’s already astronomical ego.

He’d often thought that giving his only daughter—his most precious treasure and apple of his eye—a proper, balanced life with a wife was a wonderful idea, but that was all it was--an idea. He could be like any other laird and have any lass of his choosing, but Mirellain barely knew her birth mother. It was important to him that there was a connection between Mirellain and whomever he married next. And he knew he should let her have some space as she grew older, but he always felt as though she were safer when in his line of sight.

He felt as though he were failing, as a father, as a laird. The feeling made him sick to his stomach. He sighed and buried his face in his hands, resting his elbows on his knees. He hated feeling so unsure.

“Papa?” he heard Mirellain’s soft voice from the doorway. He looked up and gave a weak smile.

“Papa alright? Papa look sad,” she said, her bottom lip quivering.

Right then, her nurse arrived, flustered and in a state of undress. “Mirellain, yer father is busy. Let him alone and come back tae sleep.”

He laughed bitterly. “‘Tis all well, Patsy. She can stay. I’ll put her tae bed later.”

The nurse balked. “Sir, ‘tis highly improper--” she began, but he cut her off.