The Dreamer Read online

  Evander bobbed his head and smiled. “Aye, Mama. We’ll be good. I swear it.” He bounded back, gave her a fierce hug, then took off at a dead run, Rory and Finn charging after him.

  As Mam Hattie and the cart came up even with them, the old woman pulled a small cloth parcel from a fold in her plaid and held it out. “Almost missed this. Found it tucked away in a back corner of the cupboard. Be it yers?”

  Gretna snatched it away and pressed it to her heart. Eyes closed, she shook with a silent sob she couldn’t hold at bay.

  Damn them. Damn them, every last one.

  Chapter Three

  Ian hurried the guard with the cart onward, wishing the old woman would go along with him. Gretna had handled the day’s events well until the crone had pulled whatever that was out of her plaid. “Who are ye, and who gave ye permission to do this?”

  The matron shot him a haughty glare that brought visions of witchery and ill-wishes to mind. “I be Hattie Neal, most call me Mam Hattie. I have been helping Mistress Gretna with her bairns ever since she found herself widowed for the second time.” She hitched a step closer, squinting as she looked him over from head to toe. “Ye be Ian Cameron, aye?”

  He’d not stand here and yammer niceties with the town gossip while Gretna was more upset than he’d ever seen her. He pointed at the cart, already disappearing into the keep. “Be gone wi’ ye, aye? Since ye claim to be her helper, go unpack her things whilst I attempt to undo this damage ye’ve done.”

  Her eyes flared wide. “Ye are a rude man, Ian Cameron.” She shook a crooked finger in his face. “And ye best learn right now, I dinna take orders from the likes of ye. I’ll not be leaving until Mistress Gretna tells me to go, ye ken?” She stomped a foot and sidled closer to Gretna.

  “Go on ahead,” Gretna said in a hushed voice. She kept her gaze locked on the small, cloth parcel clutched to her chest. “Please, just go and do as he asks, aye?”

  The old woman’s wrinkled scowl tightened to a darker look as she backed up a step. “If ye’re certain?”

  “I am certain.”

  With a disgruntled hmpf, the crone gave Ian a growling sneer, then jerked aside and wobbled her way up the lane.

  He didn’t have a clue why the parcel had Gretna so shaken. He was also at a loss for how to proceed. Nothing was more fearsome than a woman upset about something only known to herself. He shifted his weight from side to side, all the while watching her, hoping she’d recover and return to the earnest, self-assured woman he’d always known. She didn’t move. Just stood on the side of the road, staring down at the wee bundle.

  “Shall I do away with it for ye?” he finally asked, figuring if he disposed of the thing, it would trouble her no more.

  She lifted her head, looking as though she’d just awakened from a dream. “Do away with it?”

  “Aye.” He nodded toward the package. “Whatever it is, I’ll rid ye of it so it canna upset ye anymore.”

  She gave him a sad smile. “Nay,” she whispered. “This is a verra dear thing to me. More than a little precious.”

  Fingers trembling, she gently pulled free the ties and opened the folds of linen like the petals of a flower. Within the cloth lay a small, dark gemstone, smoky and multi-faceted, surrounded by intricate silver ivy leaves worked into the shape of a petite heart. Gretna’s head tilted as she lifted the necklace and held it for Ian to see. “My dearest Coire gave this to me on our wedding day. I never took it off.” Her jaw hardened, and her look turned cold. “At least—I never took it off until the day Colin yanked it from around my throat.” She lowered the bit of jewelry back into the linen and secured the cloth around it. “With the chain broken, I put it away to keep it safe.”

  “I am sorry.” Useless words, but he had to say something. He knew her pain. Nothing lessened the ache of losing someone you loved. All you could do was learn to carry it through life. He stared off toward the village, struggling for anything to say. A solution better than empty words came to him. “Ye need a chest for it. A wee box.” He nodded toward the wadded bundle as she tucked it away in a pocket hidden in the folds of her skirts. “Ye dinna wish it thrown out by mistake for a useless rag.”

  She patted her pocket and lifted her chin, seeming to shake herself into control. “Maybe someday.” She turned back toward the keep with a strained sound meant as a laugh. “I’ve more important items requiring my precious coins at the moment.” With a gentle nod and a wave back at him, she shooed him away. “I best see to getting my things settled. Ye dinna have to help. I suppose ye’ll be at the evening meal?”

  “Aye.”

  She gave an exaggerated curtsy. Her usual spirited nature had settled back in place, flashing in her smile. “I shall see ye then, Master Cameron, as I’m sure our matchmakers will expect us to dine at the same table.”

  “Most certainly.” He accepted her curtsy with an equally mocking bow. As he watched her hurry away, he shook his head. What a rare woman. Bullheaded and fierce but so vulnerable when she allowed a scarce peek inside. Maybe she did need a husband to help her. Not him, of course, but a good man. One she could love, and he’d love her back. Aye, that’s what she needed. As he strode toward the village, Ian settled it in his mind. Since he was trapped here for the winter, maybe he’d try his hand at matchmaking. After all, he could attack it from the male perspective.

  He headed for the street where he’d come across the boys harassing the peddler. Places for trade had lined that street. He couldn’t remember what sorts of shops, but there was but one way to find out. The miller took up the far end of the way nearest the stream running through town. The smallest stone building looked to be an apothecary. A two-story structure connected to the apothecary bore a sign that showed promise: MacElroy’s Sundries.

  Ian pushed through the door and came to a halt before the bell announcing his arrival stopped jangling. The place was crammed full from floor to ceiling. He’d never seen such clutter. While the building appeared two stories tall from outside, inside, it was but a single floor with high ceilings. A wide gallery above went around the circumference of the room, and that area looked to be packed tighter than a drum, too. Items dangled down from the banisters and even from the rafters. Ribbons, belts, and all sorts of what-nots hung from shelf corners. How the hell did anyone find anything?

  “Can I be a helpin’ ye, sir?” came a voice from somewhere beyond a daringly stacked mountain of pots, pans, and kettles.

  “I need a box,” Ian said to whoever might be listening. He turned sideways and slipped by the mound of cookware, and an equally impressive array of crocks balanced atop one another. More obstacles blocked his way. Books, bolts of cloth, bottles, and some items he wouldn’t even attempt to identify.

  “A box?” the voice repeated. “What sort, sir? I’ve many boxes here.”

  Of that, Ian had no doubt. “Where the hell are ye?” He didn’t much care for talking to air.

  “Behind ye, sir,” the quiet voice answered.

  He turned to find a man who barely reached the height of his hip. While he was a bit taken aback by the man’s diminutive size, he had to admit the gentleman’s stealth was impressive. “Ye’d make quite the assassin, sir. Ye’re so light of foot, I didna hear ye behind me until ye spoke.”

  The shopkeeper chuckled as he adjusted his wire-rimmed spectacles higher on his nose. “I have been called many a thing over the years, but I do believe ye’re the first to call me an assassin.” He gave a gracious nod. “I am Hugh MacElroy, proprietor, at yer service, sir.” He smoothed his palms down his immaculate waistcoat and smiled. “Now, what sort of box might I help ye find?”

  “Ian Cameron, sir.” Ian hurried to get the nicety out of the way, then formed a square with his hands and showed the man. “’Tis for a verra special necklace. To protect it. A small trinket box, ye might say.”

  Hugh tapped his fingers together, eyes narrowing as he turned in a slow circle, then headed down a path winding through his wares. “A small jewelry box. For a
lady. Yer wife, perhaps?”

  “Aye.” Ian shook his head. “I mean, aye, ’tis for a lady—I nay have a wife.” He followed the shopkeeper as the man traversed the store with the grace and ease of a stream winding through the woods. “How the hell do ye find anything in this place?”

  “While God cursed me in size, he blessed me with the ability to remember everything. Although, in some ways, that be a curse as well.” Hugh maneuvered higher on a set of steps Ian hadn’t even noticed.

  After another adjustment of his spectacles, the shopkeeper pawed through several items jammed on a shelf. “Ah, here it is. The verra one I had in mind.” He plucked the item up and descended. With a smile, he proffered a small box. “What do ye think?”

  Made from mahogany and hexagonal in shape, its surface was rubbed and polished until the reddish-brown grain shimmered with a rich luster. An intricate carving of knot-work in the shape of a heart covered the lid. Bronze hinges and a latch. Padding of blood-red velvet lined the insides. Aye, this would be perfect. Ian nodded. “How much?”

  The shrewd proprietor eyed him as though bracing himself for a fight. “A pound. Sterling, not Scot.”

  Seemed a mite dear, but Ian didn’t care. It was for Gretna. He handed over the coin. “Thank ye for yer troubles, sir.”

  The man smiled and slipped the coin into his pocket. As he disappeared behind stacks of crates filled with books, he called out, “When ye decide to marry her, come back. I’ve the perfect ring.”

  Ian left the shop without commenting. If the proprietor saved the ring for that wedding, he’d never sell it. With the box safely tucked in his sporran, he hurried back to the keep. Praise the saints, Alexander’s meeting to hear grievances appeared to be over. The main room had emptied of everyone but a few.

  Sutherland hailed him from the archway that led to the kitchens. “Alexander sent me to find ye. Thought ye might be plotting yer escape.”

  “Not yet,” Ian said, scrambling to think of a way to lose Sutherland. He headed toward the winding staircase at the back of the hall. “Ye might as well be on yer way. I’m sure there’s a lassie somewhere waiting for ye, aye?” He damn sure didn’t want his cousin following him. The man gossiped worse than a gaggle of old women. If he got wind of Gretna’s gift, the entire clan, clean down to the worms in the gardens, would know about it before nightfall.

  “I did spy a new lovely helping with the feast preparations when I walked through the kitchens. Quite fetching, she was. I’ll be talking to her later,” Sutherland said.

  Ian halted at the stairwell and faced the man, unease prickling like needles across his nape. His cousin was a damn sight too happy. Even his grin was more infuriating than usual. “Feast preparations?”

  “Aye.” Sutherland plucked up an apple from the nearest table and chomped into it.

  Ian looked around the hall, noticing the details for the first time. Extra tables and benches had been brought in and arranged in long rows running the length of the massive room. Enough to seat the entire clan and then some.

  Sutherland clapped a hand to his shoulder and gave him a playful shake. “The harvest feast. Mabon. Alexander delayed the celebration until we arrived. Tomorrow eve, the festivities begin!”

  “Since when does Clan MacCoinnich celebrate a pagan festival?” Ian toyed with the idea of taking Sutherland by the throat and shaking him ’til his teeth rattled. There was more afoot here than the man was saying.

  “Since we missed Lammas, Catriona and Alexander felt there was no harm in celebrating Mabon.” Sutherland gave him a look that came off as more devilish than pious. “Father William even agreed. The clan has had a good year. A harvest unusually bountiful for the glen. ’Tis only fitting to be thankful.” His hand dropped from Ian’s shoulder. “Ye should feel honored they wished us to be a part of it.” He failed at a devout nod. “I am.”

  “We just arrived today. How can they have such a celebration ready by tomorrow?” Ian scrubbed a hand down his face, a sudden weariness gnawing at him. He’d always been a patient man, but today had nearly worn it to the very last shred. He would not guarantee courteous handling of this latest game.

  “Magnus sent word by Merlin when we left Edinburgh.”

  Merlin was Magnus’s falcon. He and the bird had become inseparable unless Magnus needed a message sent to Tor Ruadh. In that case, Merlin happily complied.

  Ian tightened his jaw. Damn them. He should’ve noticed the winged hunter hadn’t been with them during their journey from Edinburgh to Ben Nevis. The small but effective bird rode on Magnus’s shoulder when he wasn’t in the air. “So, the feast is tomorrow?”

  “Aye.” Sutherland motioned toward the stairs. “And I had them put yer things up there.” He grinned. “In the quarters ye’ll share with the boys.” He leaned closer and lowered his teasing tone. “And maybe sometime soon…with the lovely Gretna.”

  He’d had enough. Ian slammed both hands on Sutherland’s chest and shoved him back against the wall with enough force to send the man’s half-eaten apple flying. His cousin was nearly his equal in brawn and height, but Sutherland was no match when Ian’s temper fueled his strength. “I have had my fill of ye,” Ian warned through clenched teeth. “I understand ye find my situation amusing as hell, but I’ll not spend the winter with yer jabbin’ at me, ye ken?” He bounced Sutherland against the wall a second time. “Yer time will come, ye irritatin’ bastard. Mark my words. Yer time will come when the MacCoinnichs tire of toying with me and shift their sights to ye.”

  Sutherland gave him a genuinely apologetic look. “Forgive me, cousin.” He leaned back against the wall and didn’t struggle to escape Ian’s hold. In a quiet voice filled with no guile, he continued, “I meant no harm. Truly. It appears once again, I’ve carried my mocking too far.” He dipped his head in a contrite nod. “’Tis one of my many failings, but I assure ye, I’ll nettle ye no more about Gretna and her sons.”

  Ian shoved him aside and stepped away. “See that ye don’t.” He pulled in a deep breath and blew it out. “Now, if ye dinna mind, I’ll be heading upstairs to see how they’ve padded this cage they intend to keep me in.” Before Sutherland could speak, Ian thumped him on the chest. “And ye’re not welcome to accompany me, ye ken?”

  His cousin retrieved his apple from the floor, wiped it on his jacket, then saluted with it as he turned and headed back toward the kitchens. “I understand completely.” He paused and tossed back a wink. “Besides, I believe it’s time for a visit with that new wee lovely whilst she chops carrots.”

  Without responding, Ian headed up the stairs. He rolled his shoulders, noticing he didn’t feel quite as tense as before. Maybe he should’ve shut Sutherland’s maw a long time ago. His stomping lightened to a regular step.

  As he entered the second floor, an acrid stench caught in his throat and set him to coughing. Catriona had said the maids had given the wing a good scrubbing, and she hadn’t exaggerated. The odor of lye water almost singed away his nose hairs. He left the door to the stairwell open, praying extra air might help dilute the potent smell of cleanliness.

  He eased into the area, confused as he looked around. The second floor of the north wing wasn’t like the others. It didn’t have a hall and a series of doors. Instead, it consisted of an overlarge sitting area fitted out as comfortably as a chief’s solar. Ian supposed that made sense. After all, this wing had once belonged to Catriona’s father, Chieftain Neal. A series of tapestries depicting hunting scenes decorated the walls. A woven rug, opulent with a rich red and gold pattern, covered most of the floor. Couches, benches, and chairs overflowing with pillows sat around the space. Shelves of books. A desk, and praise God, what looked to be a long buffet with an ample supply of full decanters. A cheery fire burned in the hearth between a pair of open doors. From what Ian could see, each of those led to the private bedchambers of the living quarters.

  Voices came from the room on the left. Ian stepped closer and listened. It never hurt to be prepared.

  “
Once ye’re good and settled, we’ll see to making them more,” Catriona said, “My seamstress will help. And ye know Mercy will, too. They’re growing boys. We canna have them running around bare-arsed in the dead of winter.”

  “Quick as I get new trews stitched for them, they’ve already outgrown them,” Gretna complained. “Faster than weeds, they’re shooting up, and rough as can be. I canna keep the rips and tears mended. They look like poor orphans half the time. Makes me ashamed.”

  “What are ye standing there spying on them for?” Mam Hattie emerged from the room on the right. “I said it before, and I’ll say it again, ye’re a rude man, Ian Cameron.”

  Damned if he didn’t feel like a bairn caught stealing bannocks. “I just got here,” he lied.

  “Ye did not,” the old woman argued. “I been standing here a watching ye.”

  “Then ye’re just as rude as I am, aye?” Ian strode over to the line of decanters and poured himself a whisky. A large one. Lord knew he’d earned it. “Dinna be calling me a spy when ye did the verra same.”

  “What is going on out here?” Catriona hurried into the sitting area, Gretna following close behind.

  Hattie pointed at Ian. “He has been standing there listening to every word ye said without ye knowing it.” She shook her head with a haughty snort. “Sneaky as an egg-sucking stoat, he is.”

  “I just got here,” Ian repeated, downed his drink, and poured himself another. “I was merely waiting a wee spell before I entered the room.” He returned the crone’s damning glare. “’Tis rude to interrupt.”

  Catriona waved the matron forward. “Now, Hattie. Come to the laundry with me, aye? Ye can help me set the maids aright about the extra linens needed for the rooms.” She looked back and gave them both an unsettling smile. “Gretna can show Master Cameron the layout of the chambers to see if they meet with his approval.”