The Ghost

by Greyson, Maeve

  Magnus had already pulled the table aside, cleared away the soiled dishes, and wiped all but a few of them clean. “Have ye a bit of bark or something I can scrape this mess into?” he asked without looking up from slaking the debris to one corner of the table. When she didn’t respond, he straightened a bit and frowned at her. “Brenna? Are ye unwell? Did something in the wind strike ye as ye covered the window?”

  She shook her head. She hadn’t been injured. Just rendered shocked at a man being helpful. Without a word, she retrieved a chunky length of bark she had fashioned into a trencher. “Here. This’ll do.” She held it to the table’s edge while Magnus wiped the wet grittiness into it.

  With one last swipe of the rag, he had the table cleaned and dried. As he straightened from the task, he held out a hand. “I’ll toss that out the door, then move the table back.” He motioned to the plates and bowls piled in a precarious stack on the stool. “I cleaned most.”

  “I’ll finish them.” She handed him the plank, snatched a dry rag from the rack beside the fire, and bent to the task. Eyes locked on the bowl in her hands, she wiped it dry within an inch of its life. Was this man truly this good? Or merely talented at acting the part? She watched him with covert glances as he dumped the dirt and returned the table to its place. When he turned back, she hurried to focus on the plates, holding up a bowl. “Ye did well. Thank ye.”

  He dipped his chin and gave her a faint smile that increased her edginess. Devil take him. How could he be so kind? So seemingly thoughtful? So…friendly?

  “Rain’s coming down harder again,” he said. “The lads will be soaked to the bone for sure.” He easily scooped up the stack of cleaned dishes in his large hands and returned them to the table.

  “I’ll set them some broth to heating. Even though it be summer, they still could catch a chill.” Head bent and gaze locked on the pot in her grasp, she turned and ran into his chest so hard, she bounced and stumbled toward the fire.

  Grabbing her up in his arms, he swung her to safety, then steadied her on her feet. With a nervous clearing of his throat, he stepped an arm’s length away. “Forgive me, lass. I didna wish ye to fall.”

  “It was my fault.” She waved away his words and busied herself with stirring the coals and setting the dented pot among them. Her face burned, and it had nothing to do with the fire. “I should watch where I’m headed. This space is barely big enough for one, much less two.” Fool, she thought. She and Keigan were two. “Two grown people, I mean.” The devil take her and her senseless blethering. This rain needed to end before she lost her wits completely, and he carried Keigan away on the grounds that she didn’t have mind enough to care for him. “Shout for them again, aye? They’ve been out there long enough, I think.”

  “I’ll do one better,” he said as he went to the door. “I’ll fetch them.” Then he was out and had it closed behind him before she could respond.

  “Thank God above,” she whispered. “And give me the strength and patience to get through this,” she added with a glance heavenward.

  *

  Brenna couldn’t believe her eyes. What in Heaven’s name had she done to deserve such? Too late, she remembered a priest once telling her that she should never pray for patience. Because if she did, the good Lord would bless her with even more trials to pound the trait into her. She pointed at a spot on the floor. “Were ye not standing right there when I told him to stay away from the stream because the banks might give way?”

  Positioned just outside the door, Magnus didn’t answer, just blinked through the mud and rain streaking down his face. The man was so coated in muck, he could pass for a bodach, the mythical creature rumored to rise from bogs and steal away naughty bairns. Keigan stood to his left, coated in sludge to the point of having clumps of moss and grass sticking out of his hair and clothes. Evander, the only one not clothed in Scotland’s soil, stood at his right, soaked to the bone and balancing a load of wood in each arm.

  Two of the three needed their arses tanned for them, and it was all she could do to keep from sending Keigan to fetch her a switch to handle the task. She pointed at Evander. “Inside and by the fire with ye. Dinna stack that wet wood on the dry, ye ken?”

  “Aye, mistress.” Evander bobbed his head and hurried past her.

  She jabbed her finger first at Keigan, then at Magnus. “The two of ye strip off yer muddy clothes and spread them out there on the bushes. If luck’s with ye, the storm will wash them clean. If the rain stops, ye’ll both be down at the stream washing them yerselves.” Still blocking the door, she gave them each a stern up and down once over. “And rinse yerselves off the best ye can whilst yer about it. Ye’ll nay be bringing all that mud in here.”

  “But the floor’s dirt anyway,” Keigan whined. “And—”

  “Keigan! Hush, lad!” Magnus gave the boy’s shoulder a gentle nudge. “If ye value yer arse, I think it best we do as she says.”

  Perhaps the man had a wee bit of sense after all. She arched a brow at Keigan. “Our floor may be dirt, but our blankets and pallets are not, now are they?”

  The child stared down at his feet that were three times their normal size because of the wet earth clinging to them. “Nay, Auntie,” he replied meekly. “They are not.”

  “Once ye rid yerselves of the muck, ye will have the fire, a dry blanket, and a cup of broth.” She left the door open to make sure Keigan did as he had been told. She would not have a layer of mud covering everything in their shelter. After tossing several sticks of wood on the fire and handing Evander a blanket, she went back to the door to check on the lad’s progress.

  Her mouth fell open. Both Magnus and Keigan stood in the rain, bare as the day they were born, their pale skin glistening in the half-light of the gloomy day. They were at the large wooden barrel she used to catch rainwater. Magnus stood behind it. Thankfully, the height of the cask hit at his waist, shielding her eyes from the parts of him a proper lady wouldn’t wish to see. Well, a proper lady wouldn’t wish to see such things. But she hadn’t been a proper lady in a long while.

  She shook herself free of her wicked curiosity with a silent scolding. This was not the time to be ogling Magnus’s man parts. The immediate problem was that her mud-covered child stood inside her barrel of precious rainwater that kept her or whoever else had to fetch water from having to walk all the way to the stream. The lad disappeared down into the keg, then reappeared free of his coating of filth.

  “And just what in Heaven’s name do the two of ye think ye are doing?”

  “Ye said ye didna wish mud inside,” Magnus reminded with a sly wink. He lifted Keigan out of the barrel and stood him on a patch of grass. “There’s nary a speck of filthiness on him now.” With a wave toward the door, he sent the boy running. “Stay to the grass so ye dinna get yer feet muddy again.”

  Skittering the short distance to the door, Keigan hopped inside and ran to the fire. Teeth chattering, he inched as close to it as he could. “The fire feels good.”

  Brenna grabbed a blanket and wrapped it around him. “Ye know ye’ll have to fetch water from the stream now that ye’ve muddied the water barrel?”

  “It was my idea,” Magnus said. “Dinna blame the lad.”

  Without thinking, she turned to berate him, then whirled back around and faced the fire, her face burning. “There is a blanket waiting for ye. There on the cot. Do me the courtesy of covering yerself, aye?”

  The man had filled the doorway, his body sculpted and glistening, wondrous and muscular as a mythical god of old. He had stood there unashamed. Nay, not unashamed, but proud of his fine naked form.

  She caught Evander grinning and threatened a step toward him. “I may not be yer mother, but I’ll still box yer ears for ye, ye ken?”

  “Aye, mistress.” His mouth clamped into a flat line, and he focused his attention on the fire.

  “Have ye covered yerself?” she asked as she wrapped her hand in her apron and lifted the bubbling pot of broth from the coals.

 
“Aye, lass. I promise ’tis safe for ye to turn now.”

  The mirth in his tone made her consider flinging the soup at him. But, nay, she wasn’t that foolish. He wasn’t worth it, and it would be a waste of a good broth. Instead, she shoved around him, not sparing him a glance. “Move to the fire. I’ll bring yer cup to ye.”

  “As ye wish, mistress.” Before moving deeper into the room, he pulled the door closed. “Wind’s picking up and changing again. Looks to be another stormy afternoon.”

  God help me. She poured a bit of broth into each of the cups, dividing the meager leavings from their midday meal between the three. It was a wonder there had been anything left at all. Two grown males impossible to fill, and Keigan doing his best to become a third. “Take this, and I’ll fetch each of ye a crust or two for sopping, aye?” She served Keigan and Evander first. Magnus would be last as punishment for his brazen behavior.

  “Thank ye, lass.” He grinned, accepting the cup and bread as though she had handed him a feast. “As penance for my teasing, I’ll wash our cups after we’ve finished and the dishes after supper, aye?”

  “I would rather ye clean out the rain barrel, so the water willna be fouled.”

  “Aye, it needs dumping. I kinda peed in it,” Keigan confessed, his words muffled by a mouthful of bread.

  “Son!” Magnus stared at the boy as though he couldn’t believe what he had just said.

  “I couldna help it.” The lad sipped his broth, smacked his lips, then dipped the last of his crust into the cup. “The water just made the pee come out afore I could stop it.”

  With a heavy sigh and shake of his head, Magnus rose, downed his broth, and went to the door. He arched a brow at Brenna. “Mistress? Yer back, please? I shall hang my blanket on the hook whilst I tend to the barrel.”

  She turned away from him, then stole a glance over her shoulder just in time to catch sight of his bare arse as he stepped out the doorway. He was indeed a finely made man. Once more facing the fire, she closed her eyes and rubbed her throbbing temples. But finely made or no’, she prayed Keigan would soon send his father on his way. Opening her eyes to the two lads with their heads together, smiling and whispering, she feared her prayers would go unanswered. How could she compete with the life Magnus offered the boy?

  “Yer rain barrel is clean and uprighted, m’lady,” Magnus announced a few moments later.

  “I have asked ye not to call me that,” she snapped. Without looking at him, she retreated to her pallet and took up her mending. “Do me the courtesy of remembering, aye?” A glance up from her stitching told her every male in the room watched her as though they feared she had gone mad. “Forgive me,” she said in a quieter tone. “This endless rain is wearing.”

  “Evander, once ye and Keigan finish yer broth, why dinna ye show him another game?” Magnus scooped up his stool and moved it to her side of the room.

  “Which game?” Evander drained his cup and shoved the last of his bread in his mouth.

  “I dinna care,” Magnus said in a warning tone. “Something entertaining, aye? Later, we’ll tell more stories. Like the ones from Sutherland’s songs.”

  “Who is Sutherland?” Keigan asked as he took his empty cup to the bucket and washed it.

  “Sutherland MacCoinnich,” Magnus explained. “Youngest of the MacCoinnich brothers.”

  “Ye speak of them as though they’re family,” Brenna said before she could bite back the words. But in for a penny, in for a pound. “Ye are a de Gray. How came ye to claim Clan MacCoinnich as yer own?”

  “The four brothers and I survived many battles together.” He took his cup and Evander’s to the bucket, washed, then dried them. “Perhaps not brothers by blood, but brothers by battle and blade.” Once back at the stool, he rested his forearms on his knees, watching the boys as he spoke. “I have no other kin. They are the only family I have ever known—other than my mother.” The rickety stool creaked as his weight shifted. “When I call ye ‘m’lady,’ I mean no disrespect or teasing.” With a kind sincerity she found very disturbing, he made a gallant tilt of his head. “I hold ye in the highest esteem, Mistress Brenna. I swear it. Ye have done more than well by Keigan, and I owe ye greatly.”

  She stabbed the needle into the cloth, wishing he would move his attention to the young ones. “I would still ask that ye bide by my wishes, aye?” Knotting the finished stitch, she cut the thread with her teeth. “I have my reasons.”

  “If ye’ve another needle, I can help with the mending.” He motioned toward her basket, mounded with garments needing attention. “I’m sure my stitches are not as fine as yers, but they’ll hold.”

  “Ye will not help with the mending.” How dare he say such a thing? “Is this another of yer poor attempts at mocking me?” Men didn’t mend. Men did nothing but create more work for women.

  “Who do ye think mends my clothing when I’m off in the Highlands?” The storminess of his frown triggered a twinge of regret and irritation through her. “I’d be bare-arsed as the day I was born if I depended on someone else to tend to all my chores.”

  “Here.” She plopped the basket between them, then pointed to a shelf above his head. “Needle and thread up there. In the chipped crock. Do as ye will.” She didn’t allow Keigan pouting, and she’d be damned if she tolerated it in another.

  With a smug huff, he fetched the tools, pulled a tunic from the basket, and started sewing. Brenna watched him through her lowered lashes, keeping her head bent over her own mending. What a strange man, this Magnus de Gray. And try as she might, she couldn’t find any deceit or meanness in him. The man wanted to know his son, be a father, and atone for his past sins. Plain and simple. Brenna shook herself free of the judgment. Nay. She had to be wrong. Kindness in this unfriendly world was rarer than the finest gold—especially in men. But she had yet to catch him in a lie or the slightest show of malice.

  He cut the thread with his teeth, squinted, and pulled at his handiwork, then folded the garment and set it aside. “One done,” he announced with a smugness that made her want to thump him. He pulled another item from the basket with a challenging look. “Ye’re falling behind, mistress. Pick up the pace, or ye’ll look the lazy layabout by letting a worthless man out do ye.”

  Before she could stop herself, she stabbed her needle into his thigh.

  “Ow!” He jerked away, rubbing the spot she had impaled. “There’s no call for that now. Can ye no’ take a bit of teasing?”

  “Auntie!” Keigan called out from across the room. “What did ye do?”

  “She showed me a new stitch,” Magnus lied. “Pay attention to the game Evander’s teaching ye, aye?”

  “Aye. I will.” The lad watched them for a few moments, then returned his attention to the sticks and stones arranged on the floor.

  “Forgive me,” she whispered, swallowing her pride. “I dinna ken how ye manage to nettle me so, but ye are the most irritating man I believe I have ever met.” Lord have mercy. She hated apologizing when she would much rather just stick him with the needle again. But nay, she was in the wrong. She should have held her temper and ignored the fool. That would have served him better.

  Magnus’s smile broadened so much his dimple became a crease. “Thank ye, lass. I do believe those are the kindest words ye’ve given me since we arrived.”

  She couldn’t help herself. She stabbed him in the leg again.

  Chapter Four

  Steady rainfall still pattered outside. The mouth-watering aroma of fried bread filled the room. A pot on the fire gurgled with a heavy glop against its cracked lid—a hearty parritch, Brenna’s standard morning fare. The subtle smokiness of a stirred fire added a homey feel to it all.

  Magnus shifted in his seat, doing his best to watch Keigan without staring. The child intrigued him; the son he had feared he might never find, just as much as he had feared that he would—quite the double-edged sword.

  He sipped at the steeped honey water Brenna had thrust into his hands without a word. The ref
reshing tartness of the lemon balm she added helped offset the cloying sweetness of the golden syrup. A smile came to him. He wondered if she realized lemon balm calmed and improved moods. In that case, the two of them needed the stuff by the buckets. He huffed out a silent laugh. Aye, she knew the herb’s properties. That’s why the lass kept a warmed pot of the stuff at the ready.

  Even after several days spent in close quarters, a dangerous mix of pure dislike and leeriness still charged the air, threatening to blow the tiny dwelling to bits. An endless string of summer storms had trapped them inside until the idea of a good soaking appeared the lesser evil. Daily necessities of tending animals, fetching fresh water and firewood, or emptying the chamber pot from behind the blanket partitioning off part of the room provided too brief a respite from their forced close company.

  The days had been tense, but the nights were worse. Long stretches of listening to each other breathe as minutes crept into hours. Rarely did the wary lass succumb to anything more than light dozing, startling awake at the slightest noise. Magnus hoped she didn’t become unwell because of the unease he had caused her. He’d tried to make it better with teasing, but that had only made it worse. Only Evander and Keigan slept soundly each night, sprawled out like a couple of pups across their pallets.

  “I love Granny Wick’s raspberry jam,” Keigan said around the huge bite bulging his cheeks. “It’s the verra bestest in all the land.”

  “I imagine that’s why she sent it to ye,” Brenna observed as she ladled a serving of parritch into a bowl and pushed it toward him. “Oats, too, my fine young man. Ye willna grow strong on jam and bread alone. Remember?”

  “Do ye never eat parritch?” Keigan asked Magnus, as though seeking an ally for another slab of jam-smothered bread rather than the bowl of boiled oats he fought against every morning.

  “Yer auntie’s right. Parritch will grow ye into a braw warrior.” Magnus dodged the question. He hated the stuff. Only ate it if starving and had avoided it so far.