Free Lady of Light by Kathleen Morgan Page A

watching him.
    “Ye care for the lass, dinna ye?”
    Evan’s breath caught in his throat. Blast, he thought. The last thing he needed was that kind of information getting back to Claire. She’d bolt and run for sure.
    Still, there was no purpose served denying what Evan knew the old man had so easily ascertained. “Yes, I do,” he admitted reluctantly. “I’d be much obliged, though, if you didn’t say anything to her about it.”
    “And why all the hudge-mudge?” Donall rose and walked to the water bucket. “A lass was never won by keepin’ yer feelin’s for her a secret.”
    “It’s not as simple as it may seem.” Though he had only met the old Scotsman a few minutes ago, Evan felt as if he had known him for years. Funny, he mused, how neither time, distance, nor culture had blurred the sense of family he so quickly felt with this old couple.
    “Love’s always simple. ’Tis the people who make it complicated.” Donall struggled to balance himself with one hand on his cane, while he attempted to pour water into the old, porcelain teakettle sitting on the shelf.
    Evan strode over. He took the water bucket from his host, quickly filled the teakettle, then wheeled about and headed back to the fire. After removing the iron cook pot from its chain, he hung up the kettle.
    “I’m just visiting here,” he began again when Donall once more claimed his seat at the fire. “Sooner or later, I need to head back home to America.”
    “So, wed the lass and take her with ye. She’ll not be the first lass who followed her man to another land.”
    Evan gave a wry laugh. “Claire’s got a mind of her own. She’s hardly the kind to run after a man.”
    “Aye, few Scotswomen are, leastwise not unless they love the man. Ye’ll jist have to win her heart then, willna ye?”
    He stared down at the old man in stunned disbelief. “And what makes you think—”
    “Och, ye do.”
    Nonplussed that Donall had so easily read his mind, Evan switched tack. “Well, then what about Claire? What makes you think she—”
    “She has feelin’s for ye, and no mistake.”
    That statement drew Evan up short. Even the remotest consideration that Claire might feel something for him filled him with a fierce joy. “I-I don’t know what to say about that,” he muttered awkwardly.
    “Ye dinna need to say aught, lad. Ye must jist do somethin’ about it!”
    He considered Donall’s words for a moment, then nodded. “Yes, I suppose I should, shouldn’t I?”
    The sound of female voices drifting ever nearer put an abrupt end to their conversation. The topic, however, continued to linger in Evan’s mind the rest of the afternoon as they shared tea and talked, then combined the contents of their lunch basket with the old couple’s meager meal, then talked some more.
    By the time the sun began its languorous descent toward the mountains, Evan could see that Donall and Lainie were beginning to tire. He stood, brushed the crumbs from his black serge trousers, and looked to Claire.
    “Probably time we were heading back, don’t you think?”
    She climbed to her feet. “Och, aye. We’ll have to hurry as it is to reach Culdee before dusk.” Claire smiled down at their host and hostess. “It was a wonderful day, visiting with you. I’d heard of you before from Father MacLaren, and I must say I’m verra sorry never to have visited until today.”
    “Dinna fash yerself, lass.” Donall awkwardly pushed to his feet. “’Twas our pleasure to have ye and yer young man in our house. Especially a young man who is also kin.”
    Once again a becoming blush stole up Claire’s neck and face. “Er, Evan isn’t my—”
    Evan took her by the arm. “I’d like to visit again sometime soon, if that wouldn’t be an imposition. There’s still so much more I want to learn about my Scots family.”
    “Ehhhy?” Lainie queried, cupping her right ear. “What did ye say?”
    “He said, wife, that he’d like to visit us agin’.” her