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“That sounds familiar from what ye’ve told me of Boston.”

She gave him a reluctant look. “I’ve made him real.”

Being a widow here in Scotland meant she was expected to observe a certain period of mourning. Not that Jamie had indicated he was interested in her…

His steps slowed. “Who?”

The words had escaped before she could stop them, so she gestured vaguely toward the village behind them.

“My husband. People ask questions, give me herbs because they think I’m grieving him. He becomes more real every time somebody is kind.”

Jamie’s expression softened again. “That’s how grief works. Are ye not grieving him?”

Olivia looked away before he could see her face. She’d wanted a story that would keep her safe, and now Jamie, along with half the village, was mourning a man who’d never lived.

“Of course I am, it’s just hard being reminded.” Once again she wondered if Jamie would believe her if she told him the truth.

Chapter 14

Jamie

The rain caught them shortly before they reached Dunarraidh, soaking through Jamie’s coat. By the time he wrestled the warped door shut, water pooled on the stone from the hem of Olivia’s cloak, the market basket was dripping, and one of the six onions she’d insisted upon buying went rolling across the floor.

Jamie stopped it with his boot before it reached the hearth. “We didna need these.”

“We needed to look like we were shopping.” Olivia struggled with the clasp at her throat. “And now we have onions. An excellent outcome for everyone except whichever poor soul is chopping them.”

“That would be me, apparently.”

He set the onion on the table, where it promptly rolled against another, and went to see what had become of the fire. The peat was damp, the room cold, and the roof above the far wall had developed a new leak. The fire required his attention, especially with Olivia standing there wet and shivering.

Behind him, she hung her cloak over a chair, near the fire, and unpacked the rest of the onions, a bit of salt, the bundle of thyme, and the wooden cup she’d admired. After that she leaned against the table, watching him.

“Have ye never lit a fire before?” he said.

She shrugged. “No, but I did watch a woman who lived across the alley from the pub throw all her husband’s clothes on the ground and light them on fire.”

“Why did she do that? Cloth is expensive.”

“Who knows?” She stepped closer, letting the warmth dry her gown. “Maybe he cheated on her or owed too much money to the bookies.”

He supposed bookies were like moneylenders, but instead of asking, he stood, brushing his hands off.

“The stew willna cook itself.”

He reached for the iron pot while she fetched the knife and cleared a space on the narrow table. Cooking with another person ought to have been a simple business, yet Jamie kept noticing things that had no bearing on the meal. Like the way she gathered her skirts out of the way before sitting, how readily she made herself useful, and the small line between her brows when she was thinking about something she didn’t care to share.

At the market, she’d spoken of her husband oddly, saying he was more real. Jamie thought the grief must have made her say it, because of course the man was real, she’d been his wife. The thought of sharing Olivia with another man sent a bolt of hot anger through him. He had no right to the Widow Bennett, nor any right to be jealous of her lawful dead husband, but still…

He thought he’d understood her grief. How it could arrive afresh when a stranger asked an innocent question. He’d seen enough loss in the glen to know better than to demand an account of someone’s sorrow. Still, the look on her face had troubled him, and he hoped a hot meal would do what his clumsy sympathy could not.

He sliced the salt pork and put a little of the fat into the pot while Olivia peeled carrots. When he warned her to mind the sharp edge of the knife, she lifted her eyes to him in a manner that suggested he’d made a grave error.

She frowned at him. “I’ve handled a knife before.”

“Aye. Half the glen has heard what ye did to the merchant at Morag’s.”

“That was a different knife.”