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“Think of the company.”
“Aye, and the expense of keeping them in bedsheets.”
Mairi folded her arms and surveyed the hall with evident satisfaction. “If Turnip Robertson comes poking about here after dark, he’ll wish he’d stayed home.”
“That’s the idea,” Olivia said.
Jamie watched her standing beneath the gallery, pleased with herself and surrounded by women who’d accepted her into their little conspiracy without a moment’s hesitation. The scrape on her knuckles from the harbor was still visible along with the bruise on her cheek, and she’d slept scarcely more than an hour since returning, yet here she was organizing half the glen into a company of theatrical ghosts.
He wondered, with an ache he hadn’t expected, whether she’d still be here when winter came.
The thought stayed with him as the villagers shared bread beside the hearth and argued about whether the false knocks should sound once or twice.
Olivia sat on the bench with a little girl asleep against her skirt, absently smoothing the child’s hair while Sorcha described the costume she could sew to hide the person working the rope. Jamie took the empty plates to the kitchen, then returned to find Olivia looking toward the fire with a wistfulness that made him think of the grandmother waiting for her across the sea.
He sat beside her, close enough that their shoulders touched.
“Ye’ve made a respectable haunting out of my poor efforts.”
“Your poor efforts kept people away for years. I’m only improving the timing.”
“Will ye stay until we try it against a real audience?”
Her hand paused on the sleeping child’s shoulder. “You mean the officers?”
“I’d prefer not to invite them, but I doubt they’ll ask permission.”
“Then I’ll be here.”
He didn’t press her for more. She’d promised to work until she’d earned her passage, and he had promised to help her find a ship. The money she’d won at the harbor made the arrangement more difficult to understand, but he wasn’t about to turn her generosity into a reason for asking questions she didn’t wish to answer.
As dusk settled, Ewan returned from the road with news that two officers had visited the cottages below the kirk. They were asking who occupied Dunarraidh and whether anyone had seen wagons traveling north after dark. A third man remained farther down the glen with their horses.
“Did they see anything?” Jamie asked.
“Only that folks had little to tell them.” Ewan lowered his voice. “They’ve been asking which path leads up to Dunarraidh. They mean to come, though I couldna say when.”
Jamie glanced toward the tower where the white linen still hung behind the window. The ropes were concealed, the lantern could be carried away in moments, and the villagers had already begun taking their baskets and spare clothing home. They could make Dunarraidh look like an empty ruin again whenever the officers arrived.
“Tell everyone to keep the courtyard clear until we know their intentions,” he said. “No ponies, no carts, no casks. And take Finlay’s family a message that he’s being cared for.”
Ewan nodded and left to spread the word.
Olivia came to stand beside Jamie as he gathered the last of the ropes. She looked up at the tower and then back at him.
“Jamie, there’s something I need to tell you.”
He waited. The hall was almost empty now, and the only sounds came from the fire and the wind. For an instant he thought she might speak of the harbor, or of the coin she’d won, or perhaps the husband she seldom mentioned unless someone else raised his name. He took her hand, careful of the scraped knuckles, and waited.
She glanced toward the passage where the last of the villagers were leaving. “Not with everyone still here.”
“Then we’ll talk when they’ve gone.”
She nodded, though she didn’t look relieved. Jamie went to shut the outer door against the rising wind, hoping that whatever Olivia had to say could wait until morning, and knowing from her face that it probably couldn’t.
Chapter 22
Olivia
