by Siobhan Muir
“You are more than welcome, Belle.” Marie’s smile looked a little sad.
“Thanks to you, Marie.” Isabelle matched her smile, but she didn’t think she’d stay very long. She didn’t want to bring derision and suffering on her only friends.
“Now ten, you just warm yourself by the fire for a few minutes while we attend to the store, and then we will figure something out.” Marie rose to her feet and helped Hamish carry baked goods out to the front part of the bakery.
Isabelle watched them work together and envy of their obvious love hit her gut. Hamish even swatted Marie on her derriere, and the Frenchwoman squealed with mock outrage, but her hips swayed a little more as she disappeared through the door. Sorrow filled Isabelle with the MacClanahans’ absence, and her doubts crept into the space. What should she do now that she’d escaped her father’s grip? She was safe enough for the time being with Marie and Hamish, but how long would it last? Soon the story of her wanton ways would be all over the village, and she’d have to leave.
But where would she go, and who could she ask for help?
What about Jon Swift? He offered for you, and even if he did it out o’ duty, he treated you with kindness and he could at least get you out o’ the village safely.
Isabelle shook her head unconsciously and hugged herself with her arms.
’Tis wishful thinking, Isabelle. Jon Swift had only offered for her because he’d taken her virginity, and she couldn’t prey upon his kindness again. He did her the favor of saving her from the dragon, and now she had to make the best of her current situation on her own. The first step didn’t include sitting there wallowing in self-pity.
Nodding sharply, she rose to her feet and looked around. Counters and cutting boards filled all the walls without ovens. Cooling racks stood pushed up against the wall out of the way, but used bowls, spoons, and baking pans of all shapes and sizes, covered in dough and flour and sugar glaze, leaned in great stacks to the side of a large washbasin.
“Well, if you’re going to stay, at least make yourself useful.” She rolled up her sleeves and searched for a bucket to take to the well outside.
Isabelle found one by the door and wrapped her shawl tightly around herself before stepping back out into the wind. She had to go around the unused side of the building to get to the well, but she managed to do it without attracting any undue attention. It only took three trips to fill the large kettle for boiling and leave a little for cooling and rinsing. She set the more troublesome pots to soak while the kettle boiled.
Isabelle occupied her mind with the tasks of cleaning, and she could almost believe the altercation with her father hadn’t even happened. The sounds of the kettle simmering and the kitchen fire crackling soothed some of her worries, and the knot in her shoulders slowly unraveled. You can do this, Isabelle. It’s not as bad as you think. But then Hamish bustled back into the kitchen, grumbling to himself about orders to be filled and mouths to be fed, and Isabelle remembered she’d come there only as a guest.
Isabelle grimaced as she poured hot water into the basin and tempered it with cold. Hamish stopped, his face filling with confusion.
“What’re you doing, lass?”
“Washing your dishes so they don’t pile up when you need them.” She attacked a particularly large bowl with her scrub brush.
“You don’t have to do that!” Hamish reached to take the bowl from her, but she frowned fiercely at him and slid it away.
“I want to!” She bit her lip at her sharp tone. “I’m sorry, Hamish. I just can’t sit here and do nothing. I have worked all my life, and working keeps me from thinking too much. Please, let me help you with this. I’m good at it, and it distracts me.”
He looked at her a little uncertainly, as if fighting between the need to help her and the need to be a host.
“You ken you’re not required to earn your keep, aye?” He shifted his weight back a little to show he wouldn’t yank the bowl out of her hands.
“Aye, I ken it.” Isabelle shrugged uncomfortably. “But I’m not one to just sit on my hands and do nothing. I’m not a rich lass to be pampered all day.”
He laughed softly, and the corner of his mouth quirked up. “Nay, you’re not. All right, then, Isabelle. I won’t stop you if you want to do it.”
“Thank you, Hamish.” She sighed gratefully and rinsed the bowl.
“Och!” He scoffed with another fierce frown. “Don’t thank me, lass. I should be thanking you for saving me the trouble.” And he pointed at the dishes with a wink.
She laughed, and he turned back to start another loaf of bread. When he looked for a bowl to use, she handed him the clean one and raised an eyebrow at him. Hamish snorted and grimaced, but smug satisfaction slid through her at her ability to help.
So Isabelle cleaned and Hamish baked and Marie bustled back and forth between the front of the bakery and the kitchen, snatching the newly baked items to take up front. Isabelle kept pace with Hamish until the nooning, when he declared it was time to eat something other than bread and pastry. Isabelle’s hands showed wrinkled skin and ached with fatigue, but she’d forgotten her troubles in the effort to keep up with the feverish baking going on.
Perhaps I can stay there for a while, enjoying Marie’s and Hamish’s hospitality and company while keeping their kitchen clean.
The thoughts cheered her, and she inhaled a cleansing breath. The scents of flour, baking bread, and hot, wet rock filled the kitchen, and gentle contentment enveloped Isabelle. She could do worse than stay as the MacClanahans’ kitchen maid. She helped Hamish spread out luncheon, and her shoulders relaxed more.
Marie joined them for the midday meal and shared the latest gossip affecting the village. Isabelle waited tensely through the telling, but Marie never mentioned anything to do with Isabelle or Joseph Andersen. Marie said the Carmichaels had lost another ten head of sheep to the bloody dragon, and had petitioned the elders to hurry up with their selection. Everyone around the table had grimaced, and the conversation stalled.
“Back to work, then.” Hamish stood and hauled Marie up, pausing to kiss her dainty hand. Isabelle looked away, choking on her envy.
As the MacClanahans returned to their respective stations, Isabelle scrutinized the room, trying to catalog what needed to be done. She shook her head at the washbasin’s murky water and picked up the bucket to bail it out. The repetitive motion lulled her again, and she sank into the nonspace of a cleaning trance. The scents of cinnamon and sugar wrapped around her and stilled her restless thoughts.
At last, the basin stood empty, and Isabelle wrapped her shawl around her once more for a trip to the well. The cold, blustery day slapped her face, scouring away all the warmth and happy scents of the bakery. Isabelle kept her head down out of the wind and filled her buckets again, hoping she’d see no one.
Not many people braved the nooning weather, but those out and about ignored her in their hurry to get to wherever they needed to be. On her second trip back to the bakery, Isabelle overheard two women talking about her, and she paused in the shadow of the bakery to listen.
“Och! Aye, she always was an odd one,” the one in the red shawl said. “Fae, she was, and no mistake about it.” Then she spat on the ground and made a motion with her hand to ward off evil spirits.
“No surprise she was so wanton, then,” the other remarked nastily. “Imagine, throwing away her innocence for naught more than a whim! My son Charlie told me he once tried to ask for her hand, but she spurned him and put a sickness on him. Fae indeed. A witch, more like. Just like her mother.”
Isabelle clenched her jaw as cold dread settled into her gut. So the wee bastard has started his lies.
“I heard she run off this morn, flinging spells and curses at her father as if she were possessed with the devil.”
The other woman gasped, and both crossed themselves in pious prayer. Isabelle wanted to fling a few more curses, but she made herself retreat into the yard of the bakery and take her bucket of water into
the warm kitchen. She tried to fill the kettle, but her hands shook so badly with her rage, some slopped onto the flagstone floor. She had to dump the rest into the rinse basin and find rags to mop up the mess. Tears prickled her eyes, and her nose threatened to run as she cleaned, desolation washing over her again.
Witchcraft. They accused her of witchcraft because of her mother and her decision to survive against their better wisdom. And their own petty hatreds, the wee biddies. She’d be scorned in the village of Lochmore Cott no matter what she did. If she stayed, she’d bring the hatred and scorn to her friends. Their business and livelihood could suffer, and she wouldn’t repay their kindness with that.
Isabelle glanced over at the bag she’d packed, resting beside the table, and thought about what she needed to do.
’Tis time to leave, m’girl. Sorrow and hurt settled into her gut once more. You can’t bring hardship to your only friends, and you can’t impose on Master Swift to take you safely out o’ here. She had to find her own way, even if it meant leaving all she knew and starting a new life somewhere else.
She finished the floor and hauled the wet rags to the washroom near the back door. Then she returned to the table and dropped into a chair with a sigh.
It has to be done, Isabelle.
She grasped her bag and pulled it into her lap, letting the weight of her meager belongings rest on her thighs. She scrounged through the bag to find the pewter pendant in the lacy handkerchief, and pulled it out. She unfolded the lace, taking a few moments to run her fingers over the Celtic pattern etched into its silver sides. The pendant was the only thing she had to offer, the most precious thing she owned.
Forgive me, Mama.
Isabelle sighed, wrapped it in the lacy handkerchief, and left it on the table. She rested her hand on the small bundle and thought of the sweetness of the MacClanahans’ small gift of a warm place to rest. Sorrow mixed with the gratitude, and she closed her eyes, trying to ignore the prickle of tears at the corners of her eyes.
Crying will get you nowhere. ’Tis time you be going.
Isabelle stood, gathered her bag and her old cloak around her shawl, and left the warm, sweet-scented kitchen for the wind and whatever Destiny had in mind for her.
Chapter Eight
Jonarrion woke with a start and froze, searching for what had unsettled him. The Careless Wench sat silent in the wind and rain pattering against the roof. Considering how late the revelers had celebrated the night before, the silence should be expected, but the energy in the building seemed oppressive rather than recuperative. He sat up slowly and looked toward the window, the hairs on the back of his neck standing at attention. He’d slept late, and the sun was already high, but he’d had to court sleep for a long time after Isabelle left his room.
Her name awakened thoughts of her sweet sounds of passion, and Jonarrion reveled in memories of her beneath him. His cock hardened with gleeful abandon, and the scent of their combined release teased his awareness. Ah, Goddess, today I will claim her as mine and save her from the shame of being a ruined woman in this village. Satisfaction surged through him, but it didn’t dispel the wrongness he sensed.
Jonarrion sat up and closed his eyes, straining to hear anything that might explain his unease. Nothing reached his sensitive ears. You’re probably just jumping at shadows. But he’d learned to trust his instincts, and they were rarely wrong.
He rose and washed himself in the small basin of water, still listening for anything untoward. He took care to clean his face and his cock so the humans wouldn’t scent Isabelle on him, and his memory served up the image of her sweet curves and delicious flesh. Pausing with his eyes closed, he let his memories play out until he swore her scent filled his nose and her hands held his face.
Hellwinds, quit being daft! Jonarrion shook his mind loose from Isabelle’s grip and finished his ablutions. At least he wouldn’t smell as if he’d visited a whorehouse. He snorted a little with derision. Given the humans’ lack of bathing, he doubted any of them would notice if his scent had changed.
Today’s the day, boyo. Jonarrion’s thoughts turned to the demon as he pulled on his braies instead of his kilt. He’d kill the damn thing whether it saved Isabelle Andersen or not. He wouldn’t let the festering vermin continue to harm these people. Even if they are too stupid to realize feeding lassies to the beast won’t stop it. He shook his head. At least he’d save some other poor girl the ignominious death in the maw of a demon.
First, Jonarrion would make sure to claim Isabelle. Then he’d tackle the demon. He checked all his weapons and made sure they’d been packed away properly and ready for use when he left the inn. He’d remembered to stow extra clothes and armor in his pack after Isabelle had left, in preparation for his departure. With his intent to take her with him, he’d need extra supplies.
After the demon, though. With a last glance at his sheathed sword, he stepped out into the hall and descended the stairs into the common room of the tavern.
The silence deepened around Jonarrion, and unease swept through him once more. The chairs and benches had been dropped from the tables, and the shutters stood open to the rainy day, but no one moved about the room. He inhaled slowly, tasting the emotional scents in the air. Bitter, acrid fury mixed with rancid sorrow left burning spots on his tongue, but the taste seemed muted, as if the emotions had occurred in the recent past.
Jonarrion rolled his head on his shoulders to loosen the tension and continued his path to the bar, wondering where the tavern keeper might be. He accidentally brushed one of the chairs against a table, making it rattle, and Sarah Andersen appeared behind the bar. Her red eyes and blotchy cheeks suggested she’d been crying, and the rancid scent of grief returned to the room with a vengeance.
“Good morn to you, Master.” Her voice sounded thick. “What can I get for you?”
“Are you all right, Mistress Andersen?”
“Aye, quite fine, thank you.” She sniffled a little, but raised her chin with determination.
“You’re sure?”
“Aye, aye, quite sure. Now, what can I get for you?”
Warning bells sounded in his head, and his unease ramped up, but he grimaced and rubbed his forehead as if in pain. “Tea, I think. My head’s about to explode.”
Sarah relaxed a little, and she gave him a rueful half smile. “Had a bit too much last night, did you? Well, you’re not the only one. Most o’ the village won’t be getting up afore the nooning.”
He glanced over at the open windows. “Is it not close to the nooning now?”
Sarah snorted. “Aye, you have the right of it. Still want tea?”
“Aye, tea would be welcome.” He gingerly settled his weight on one of the barstools, keeping up the appearance of a headache. Something was wrong, and he suspected Sarah knew the origins of the problem. He’d just have to ferret it out of her.
Sarah returned quickly with a teapot and a mug. When Jonarrion raised his eyebrows at her speed, she said, “It’s always a’ brewing the mornin’ after a revelry. Sometimes it’s the only thing folks can stomach.”
He nodded sagely and cupped his hands around the mug, sniffing the steam rising from it.
He closed his eyes and relaxed his senses, trying to sift through the emotions she broadcasted. Sarah bustled around him, cleaning the bar of the pewter flagons left out from the night before. Her sorrow and despair floated behind her like a windswept cloak, depositing a fresh layer of the rancid scent each time she passed.
What is she so upset about? He kept his thoughts to himself as he sipped his tea, but hoped he could learn more before he confronted her father about Isabelle.
Ah, Isabelle. Just the thought of her tightened his body, but it also intensified the unease in the room, and he realized he hadn’t seen her once since he’d come down.
“I think I’m well enough to eat a little, Mistress Andersen.” Jonarrion opened his eyes and searched the room for any sign of Isabelle. “Do you have any bread?”
“Nay
, I’m sorry, master.” Sarah’s face turned pale, but her voice remained steady. “I have not had the chance to get to the bakery yet this day.” Sarah stopped suddenly, and her breath hitched, but she gathered herself quickly. “We do have some hearty oat mash if you’d like.”
Jonarrion didn’t give any indication he’d heard her pause. Instead, he smiled crookedly. “Slept late from the revelry like the rest of us, eh?”
Sarah gave him a tight smile. “Aye, something like that.” She turned away from him, her back as ramrod straight as the bar counter, and swiped savagely at something on the shelf. “Do you wish mash or not?”
Jonarrion backpedaled in surprise at her unusual rancor, and reassessed his approach. “No, thank you. Just the tea for now.”
“Very well. Call for me if you should need aught else.”
“There’s one thing you could help me with.”
Sarah turned and looked at him, simmering disdain suffusing her face. “Aye?”
“Can you tell me where I can find your father? I have need of a word with him.”
Instead of nodding, Sarah’s expression crumpled into frustrated despair, and tears slid down her cheeks.
“I’d sooner offer you me dirk in your gut than direct you to that whorin’ bastard!”
Jonarrion sat back, his own ire rising in the face of her anger, but he stuffed it away as she sobbed brokenly. As he searched for something to say, she dashed her arm against her eyes and tried to gather her self control. Again, the sense of wrongness intruded, and a new warning inside his head shrieked Isabelle’s name.
“Forgive me, Mistress Andersen. Have I offended you?”
“Nay, nay. Forgive me, master. I shouldn’t have done that.” She took a few gulping breaths to calm herself, and offered him a contrite look. “It has been a difficult morning, and I haven’t settled myself yet.”
He glanced around the empty common room then looked back at her with raised eyebrows. “Difficult morning? How so?”
