Page 79 of A Scot on the Rocks

“What sort of man was yer husband?”

Olivia’s fingers tightened around her new cup. “Quiet,” she said after a pause. “Hardworking. Fond of ships.”

There was more to a marriage than that, Jamie knew, but perhaps she’d given him what she could bear to give.

He tasted the whisky again. “The finish lasts longer in this one.”

Olivia’s shoulders eased almost imperceptibly. “It does. Though the first has more of the grain left underneath.”

They talked of oak and grain after that, and he didn’t ask more about her marriage. If she ever wanted to speak of the man she’d lost, she would know he was willing to listen. Until then, he would mind his own affairs, which Morag had often informed him was a skill he needed to cultivate.

They washed the bowls together, Olivia scrubbing and Jamie drying with a clean cloth. When she stood on tiptoe to reach the shelf, he glanced toward the stool.

“I’m not climbing on it,” she said at once.

“Good. It wobbles.”

“The only two things in this castle that don’t wobble are the chairs.”

“Quality workmanship deserves recognition.”

He reached across her to put away the last cup, his arm brushing her shoulder. She could have moved. So could he. For an instant neither did, and Jamie had the strange conviction that if he turned his head, he would find her looking at him in the same way she had by the hearth.

He placed the cup safely on the shelf and stepped back before he forgot himself with a newly widowed woman.

By evening the clouds had parted enough to leave a narrow silver strip above the village. Olivia took a cup of water to the open section of wall, where she could see the road winding between the cottages. Jamie joined her, leaning his shoulder against the stone and an appropriate amount of space between them.

“Do ye miss Boston?” he asked.

“Yes.”

She answered without hesitation.

“When the weather settles, there’ll be ships sailing from Greenock again,” he said. “We’ll find a way for ye to get there when ye’re ready.”

Olivia turned toward him. Her expression was difficult to read, and he wondered whether he’d spoken too soon, making her feel that she ought to leave before she wished to. He had meant the opposite. A woman who had lost her husband, money, and belongings deserved a way home, whatever she eventually decided to do.

“Getting home may be more complicated than you realize,” she said.

“Mayhap.” He looked toward the last carts coming down from the market. “Still, ye’ll not have to manage it alone.”

Below them the road grew quiet. He thought of the two strangers near the kirk and made a note to speak to his men about the southern route in the morning. Olivia had noticed what they were watching before either man had looked their way, and it would be foolish not to take her observations seriously.

Beside him, she rested her hands on the cold stone. He wished there were something he could say that would ease the distance in her face. He had a castle with holes in its walls, more enemies than coin, and a rather unreasonable collection of women who believed themselves entitled to direct his life. None of that offered much comfort to a woman who wanted her grandmother and her home back across the ocean.

But… he could give her the means to reach them. Jamie looked at the road toward Greenock, already considering whom he trusted to arrange safe passage. Olivia might argue with him over the money. Given the events of the morning, she almost certainly would. He would manage that when the time came.

For now, she was warm and dry, the stew had been good, and she had smiled at him over a cup of whisky. Jamie remained beside her until the last light faded, quietly planning how to help her get home.

Chapter 15

Olivia

The following evening, Jamie took her to the alehouse for supper. A wave of heat, noise, and smoke enveloped her when Jamie opened the door.

Olivia stopped just inside the low room, letting her eyes adjust. There was a peat fire glowing red in the hearth, candles burning in iron holders along two long tables, men sitting shoulder to shoulder with muddy boots, and women claiming the warmer places nearest the fire with baskets of mending and sleeping babies.

The air held the mingled smells of yeast, smoke, wet wool, spilled ale, frying onions, and the unmistakable scent of too many human beings drying themselves around the fire.