Page 7 of A Laird and a Gentleman

Too stunned to do anything but stare at the women, Mariam asked, “Won’t Laird Sinclair find out?”

The older woman thumped her broom on the floor, sending a spray of dust into the air. “Not if we hurry.”

Still wondering what this kindness would eventually cost her, Mariam followed Mistress MacInnes’s lead as she set about clearing the cobwebs from the ceiling and then the walls.

The four women worked silently for several hours until the wood of the ceiling gleamed a reddish brown and the walls and floor were a sparkling gray. “All that remains is to wipe down the altar, but the girls and I had best return to our own chores before m’laird returns and notices our absence,” Mistress MacInnes said, signaling for Petunia and Estella to gather the soiled rags and brooms then depart.

“I am grateful for the assistance.” Mariam paused in wiping down the last of the stone behind the altar. A sudden nervousness stole over her. “What would you want from me in return?”

“What do I want?” The woman’s green eyes reflected pain before they shadowed.

Mariam swallowed roughly, forcing back the onslaught of emotions the injured gaze roused.

“What I want is your trust. We did this for you with the expectation of nothing in return. That’s what members of the same household do for each other.”

Remorse stabbed through Mariam. She knew no one helped her because she never helped anyone else. “I’m not accustomed to kindness from others.”

Mistress MacInnes’s lips thinned. “You were a wounded soul when you arrived and defended yourself in the only way you knew how. But it’s been a year, Mariam. It’s time for change if you are to remain among us.” Disappointment colored her voice.

Mariam winced. She wanted to change . . . or at least stop her further descent down the irreversible path toward villainy like her father. “I’ve disappointed you.”

“You have,” the older woman said sadly as she turned toward the door.

Mariam set her rag down and scrambled around the altar, trying to stop Mistress MacInnes before she left. This was her one chance to make things right. “I’m sorry—” The words caught in her throat as she tripped on the stone leg of the altar, sending her flying forward. She put her hands out to block herself, but they hit the floor’s slick surface that hadn’t fully dried and did nothing to break her fall. Her chin hit the flagstone, pain reverberating through her jaw. Even as the insult rippled through her head, it didn’t block out the sound or the feel of her shell necklace shattering beneath her.

“Are you all right?” Mistress MacInnes asked with distress in her voice.

Mariam could hear the rustle of the older woman’s skirts as she returned to her side. Ignoring the pounding in her head, Mariam pushed herself upright and stared down at the shattered remains of her precious shell necklace. She clenched her fists and closed her eyes, forcing back the tears that threatened. That was all I had left of my mother.

Mariam’s heart pounded in her ears, the pain of her loss sent a chill through her, and she trembled. It seemed as though everything around her was shaking. When Mariam realized the floor beneath her was truly shifting left then right, back and forth, her eyes flew open and she drew a tight breath.

Then as suddenly as it started, everything stopped moving.

Mariam’s heart squeezed, then fell into her stomach. Her gaze shot to Mistress MacInnes. “Are you all right, my dear?”

Momentarily, the fear of discovery overshadowed Mariam’s loss. When would she learn to control her emotions? Did the older woman suspect that something odd had just occurred?

“Mariam, answer me.” There was no curiosity or judgment in the woman’s eyes.

Relief ran through Mariam’s blood so potently she felt weightless for a heartbeat until she dropped her gaze back to the floor. “I am unharmed, but my mother’s necklace is destroyed.”

“’Tis a shame,” Mistress MacInnes said, her voice soft.

Loneliness swept over Mariam as she pressed her hand to her chest to cover the place where her necklace used to reside. She closed her eyes, fighting despair. Now she was utterly alone in this world, without the last remnant of her mother to see her through the worst of days.

Then she felt a light touch of a warm hand against her own. “Mariam, open your eyes.”

Her eyes flicked open and she stared into the partially deformed face before her. “Even without your necklace, you still have your memories.” The woman reached up and stroked the hair away from Mariam’s face. “No one can take those from you.”

“But I remember so little. I was so young. I blame myself for her leaving that fateful night . . . the night she died.”

The old woman startled for an instant before she took both of Mariam’s hands between her own.

“Not everything is as it seems. As you grow older, you may see things you might not have as a child.”

“Such as?”

The older woman released Mariam’s hands and reached for the crushed shell that had settled between two of the stones. “From the outside, this was like any other shell. But inside . . .” She placed what remained of the spire into Mariam’s hand. Protruding from the white shell was a tiny, rolled piece of parchment.