CHAPTER SIXTEEN
On her twenty-fourth day as a wife, Sabella realized why there could only be one Alexander MacPherson: If all husbands were as glorious as hers, the world would grind to a halt.
How was a woman meant to get anything done? All she could think about was tupping, and when they weren’t tupping, all she could think about was inventing excuses to be near him. Since he’d started growing his beard again, she could scarcely control herself. It didn’t help that his muscles were noticeably larger after spending the past few weeks pounding posts, hefting stone, hauling furniture up the staircase, and building her new range.
He’d turned over the construction of Campbell’s house to Adam MacDonnell, which freed up the hours he spent outside the distillery each day. But the moment he arrived home, he found her wherever she was—dusting, cooking, bathing—and made love to her as though it had been a year rather than hours since the last time.
It was a wonder he’d accomplished so much given how often she importuned him.
Sighing in blissful contentment, she carried a cup of cider outside to her braw Highlander, who was busy constructing her walled garden in the August heat. He’d nearly finished the east wall where the gate would be installed.
“I have an idea for decorating the outside, husband.” She handed him the cup and watched with a long, lustful clench as he drank it down.
He wiped his forehead with his sleeve and handed her the empty cup. “Aye, lass?”
“I want that red pest’s head on my wall.”
He laughed.
“I’m not jesting. Let it be a warning to all intruders: Those who enter here risk imminent demise and potential stewing.”
“Vicious woman.”
She grinned and returned to the kitchen, where Mrs. MacBean and Magdalene were stirring up salve, soaps, and liniment on Sabella’s new range. Tomorrow, the Glenscannadoo Games would draw visitors from all over the Highlands. The two women planned to sell their wares to spectators at the fair.
“How many batches did we make last time?” Mrs. MacBean scratched her shrubby head. “Seven?”
“Four,” said Magdalene. “I don’t think we’ve ever made seven.”
Sabella sat down to sort through the herbs—comfrey, calendula, lavender. They were teaching her a bit, but mostly, they were arguing over quantities. That left her more time to think about Alexander competing in the loch swim tomorrow. She didn’t want other ladies to ogle him, but she also didn’t want to miss seeing him emerge from the loch victorious and gloriously wet. A true dilemma.
“Och, why do I keep hearin’ seven? Seven batches. Seven days. Seven months. Seven …” Mrs. MacBean frowned in Sabella’s direction. Her milky eye twitched. “Seven roses. Or mayhap only two upon the soil. One for the bride, one for the bud.”
Sabella fingered her rose pendant. She’d found a lovely silk ribbon in the haberdashery to replace the damaged cord, and Alexander had sealed the wood with a light varnish. The finished piece was exquisite. Little wonder the old woman kept staring at it.
“Do you need more rose oil?” Sabella asked. “There’s a wee bit left.”
Mrs. MacBean rubbed her forehead and looked around as if wondering how she’d wandered into such a strange place. She gripped Magdalene’s arm with strange urgency. “Did ye harvest enough raspberry leaf?”
Magdalene glanced at the assortment of herbs laid out on the table. “Which formulation calls for raspberry leaf?”
A befuddled blink. “We must have more. Shepherd’s purse, too. Set it aside.”
Frowning, Magdalene patted the old woman’s hand. “Very well. Why don’t ye rest, Mary. Have some tea while I finish this batch.”
Mrs. MacBean shook her head then wandered outside, muttering about collecting more yarrow before spring.
Alexander entered a moment later. When he raked Sabella with a smoldering glance, she nearly melted into the chair. “Have ye any of that lamb left from yesterday, lass?”
She nodded toward the larder. “A bit. There’s bacon from this morning, as well.”
He kissed her temple then disappeared into the larder. When he returned, he dragged a chair next to her and sat down to eat with wolfish, eager bites.
Smiling at his hearty appetite, she poured him a cup of cider then resumed her task of sorting herbs. “Magdalene, have you decided whether you’ll attend the Glenscannadoo Ball?” The crowning event of the Glenscannadoo Gathering and Highland Games was the ball hosted by the laird. Having attended the previous year with Kenneth, Sabella remembered the event as a lovely evening filled with dancing, whisky, and Highland fare.
Of course, last year’s ball had ended with Annie provoking Kenneth into confessing his crimes against Broderick MacPherson. Kenneth had been dragged away to jail, and Sabella’s life had spiraled into a nightmare. But that was hardly the ball’s fault.
“Aye,” Magdalene answered. “Dr. Cameron says we must make an appearance, as a physician’s practice relies on the goodwill of his potential patients.” Magdalene’s cheeks were flushed from the heat of cooking, so Sabella couldn’t determine whether she was embarrassed.
Initially, Magdalene had declined Cameron’s invitation, concerned that she’d have nothing to wear and that others might mistake her attendance with the physician for courtship. Nora had addressed the first concern by modifying a tartan dress from another customer’s abandoned order to fit Magdalene’s thin frame. To alleviate the second concern, Sabella had suggested that she and Alexander attend alongside Magdalene and Dr. Cameron, removing any appearance of impropriety.
Alexander hadn’t been pleased at being volunteered for duty. He’d grumbled for hours about how much he loathed “dressin’ like a peacock and prancin’ about like a pure dafty.” Sabella had promised to reward him with extensive harlotry following the ball. After a hard, grinding kiss, he’d rasped, “Done.”
As soon as Alexander left the kitchen to return to wall building, Magdalene observed, “I can scarcely believe he’s the same man whose wounds I tended all those months. The robust appetite, the vigor. No whisky.” Her gray gaze shifted to Sabella. “He’s even competing in the loch swim. Remarkable.”
Sabella sighed as she stabbed a sprig of lavender into an empty bottle. “Aye, the loch swim.”
“You don’t sound pleased.”
“Oh, I am.” More lavender stabbing. “So very”—stab—“pleased.”
Magdalene’s lips pursed in amusement as she poured her salve into tins. “It’s a sign that his strength has finally returned.”
“Aye. And all the ladies coming from far and wide”—stab, stab—“will have a chance to ogle that strength to their hearts’ content.” Stab, stab. “What could be better?”
Amusement softened into empathy. With a gentle nod, Magdalene set her pan aside and wiped her hands on her apron. “Other ladies may look, but I doubt Alexander will notice. You’re the only woman he sees.”
“I’m being unreasonable, I know.” She started stuffing rose petals into the bottles. “But I can’t help it. He’s …”
Magdalene hummed agreement. “A MacPherson.”
“He offered to hire maids to help me manage the house, but even the ones he dismissed speak of him with lustful longing. I can’t abide having them live here. Of course, they also complained about his bellowing and impossible demands, and I haven’t found either to be true. The only time he raises his voice is when I’ve injured myself.”
“He hired those maids when he first left my care,” said Magdalene. “He was still in an extraordinary amount of pain. Even a patient man’s temper would wear thin.”
Sabella focused on the rose petals, wincing as they bruised from the pressure. “I hate to think of it,” she whispered. “I hate remembering what happened.”
Magdalene came around the table to place a gentle hand on her shoulder. “It’s in the past. He’s healed now.”
“He blamed me at first. I don’t know if he still does, and I can’t bring myself to ask.”
Magdalene sat next to her. “Did you tell him about your injuries?”
“A little. It … upset him.” Pummeling trees might qualify as more than a wee bit upset. “We haven’t really discussed it.”
A deep silence fell before Magdalene said quietly, “Do ye ken what he said when he first awakened after the surgeon stitched him up?”
Sabella shook her head.
“Before he asked about Kate or Broderick, before he requested laudanum or whisky for the pain, he wanted to ken if you were still alive. Yours was the first name on his lips.”
Her chest went tight. The light in the kitchen began to shimmer. She hadn’t been the only one to feel it, then. That connection, that inexplicable binding.
Magdalene seemed to want to say more, but instead, she patted Sabella’s hand and returned to the range to start her third batch of salve. “Hire the maids,” her friend advised. “Let other lasses look their fill. I assure ye, once Alexander MacPherson has what he wants in his sights, nothing will lure him away. He’s not Rannoch.”
Sabella’s heart twisted hard. She’d been so busy wrestling with her own jealousies that she hadn’t realized how petty and self-indulgent she must sound to Magdalene. “I shouldn’t be bending your ear with my nonsense,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
Magdalene waved away her apology, though Sabella noticed she wouldn’t look at her.
After pouring oil into the lavender-rose bottles, Sabella started on the rosemary hair rinse. “Has Rannoch said whether he’s coming to the ball?”
Narrow shoulders stiffened. “He’s been away for the past week in Edinburgh, so we haven’t spoken about it. But after he competes in the Games, I expect he’ll spend his evening carousing with every lass within flirting distance. His usual entertainment.”
Drat and blast, Sabella hadn’t meant to dig the knife deeper. She wished she could reassure Magdalene that Rannoch’s overprotectiveness showed how much he valued her, and that treating her differently from other women was a sign of respect, not indifference. But Magdalene didn’t pine for his respect, and Rannoch didn’t seem capable of giving her more.
Aching for her friend, Sabella put on her brightest face. “Well, I’m certain you’ll have a lovely time at the ball with Dr. Cameron.” The physician was a serious, studious fellow who rarely smiled. But Magdalene could do much worse. “Perhaps you can persuade him to dance.”
Magdalene cast a wry glance over her shoulder. “Or perhaps he’ll recite A Red, Red Rose in my honor and declare his love ‘till a’ the seas gang dry,’ hmm?”
Sabella laughed. “Not every man can be Robert Burns.”
“Nor can every lass inspire poetry.” She gave Sabella a sheepish smile as she poured steaming water from the kettle into the rosemary bottles. “I’m content as I am. Dr. Cameron has been quite generous to serve as my mentor. There’s nothing more to it.”
Mrs. MacBean returned to the kitchen with leaves in her hair and something white splattered on her shoulders. She carried an armful of yarrow. Her leather pouch overflowed with mushrooms. Looped beneath the pouch was a thorny, half-eaten stem with a limp clump of roots still attached. Huffing, the old woman piled her collection onto the table.
Sabella frowned at the pile. Was that … her rosebush? It was. Given the green in the stem, she thought it was still alive. Fingering the dirt-clumped roots, she asked, “Where did you find this?”
“Between the faery stones under the crow’s nest. Those crows werenae too pleased that I interrupted their conversation, let me tell ye.”
Sabella peered closer. The white splats were … oh, dear. “Aye, so it seems.” She handed the old woman a towel.
Mrs. MacBean swiped at her shoulders. “They’re plannin’ some mischief at the quarry. I didnae ask questions. Secretive beasties.” When she shook her wild hair, a small mushroom plopped out onto the table followed by a tuft of moss. She watched the mushroom roll with an unsynchronized blink. “I wondered where I put that.” She stuffed the mushroom and moss into her leather pouch. “Oh, they mentioned ye, lass. Said to tell ye they’ll look after yer roses if ye’ll feed ’em meat scraps from time to time.”
Unwinding the pouch’s leather cord from around the rosebush stem, Sabella only half-listened to the old woman’s nonsense. “Meat scraps. Very well.”
“They also said whenever ye see ’em outside yer window, the answer is ‘not today.’”
Sabella’s hands fumbled on the stem, and a thorn sank into her thumb. She hissed in a breath then quickly refocused on Mrs. MacBean. The woman now turned in circles while trying to pluck another tuft of moss from her hair.
“Wh-who said that?” Sabella murmured tightly.
Another uneven blink. “The crows.”
Chills chased up and down her spine. “They’re birds.”
“Some are, mayhap. In this glen, ye cannae be sure. Regardless, they’re gossips, all. Best ye dinnae ken the things they see when we think nobody’s watchin’.” She blew out a wide-eyed breath. “They admire yer talent for keepin’ yer gown clean whilst on yer knees, lass.”
Sabella’s face heated like the beeswax in Magdalene’s pot. This was all a lot of nonsense. Mrs. MacBean was guessing. She had to be.
The old woman frowned down at her bulging pouch full of mushrooms and moss. “Magdalene, did Rannoch purchase the book ye wanted?”
“The one about midwifery? I asked him to, aye. He should be bringing it home with him from Edinburgh.”
“Good, good. Read it twice before spring. Tell yer suitor to read it, too. He needs a wee bit more education about women.” She waved a finger in a general circle around Magdalene’s hips. “Lad kens about the parts but naught about how to put ’em to proper use.”
Turning away from the range, Magdalene frowned. “I don’t have a suitor, Mary.”
“Nae the most memorable fellow, is he?” Mrs. MacBean clicked her tongue and shook her head. “Before I met Mr. Brodie, I kenned a man with a similar disposition. Cannae recall his name. Or his face. I might have wed him once.” She scratched her head. “Or twice. To be fair, I mistook him for his cousin. What the devil was his name?”
Magdalene’s expression lay somewhere between dismay and wry amusement. She and Sabella shared a glance before Sabella asked the obvious question: “Was it MacBean?”
“Aye! That’s it, lassie! How did ye ken?”
Sabella chuckled. “Just a guess.”
“A humorless fellow was Mr. MacBean. But he did ken what all the pertinent parts were for, which explains the third marriage. Cannae say the same for Magdalene’s suitor, sadly.”
Sighing, Magdalene wiped the sweat from her brow and poured the new batch of salve into the tins. “I don’t have a suitor,” she repeated, her patience now edged with irritation.
“No, ye have two. One hasnae declared his suit yet. The other never will.”
Sabella intervened to spare her friend any further poking on this particular sore spot. “Mrs. MacBean, it’s a warm day. Perhaps you should have something to drink.”
“Och, that’s how I wound up marryin’ Mr. MacBean the fourth time.” The old woman patted Sabella’s shoulder. “Take my advice, lass. Dinnae drink a mushroom broth ye havenae brewed yerself. Also, dinnae eavesdrop on crows. Dinnae prank a man who can target ye for assassination. And never, ever mistake a goat for a horse.”
Sabella stifled a grin. “Anything else?”
“Aye.” She gave her a final pat. “Never tell a MacPherson what he cannae do. Soon enough, he’ll prove ye wrong.”