Free The Prince and I by Karen Hawkins Page B

Ian Beagin? She’s no’ e’en thinkin’ on it this evenin’.” Widow Reeves held her hands toward the fire. “But e’en if she were thinkin’ on it, and e’en if she went, she’d be safe. Loudan couldna touch her, no’ in front of a castle filled wit’ local lairds and ladies.”
    “Loudan is evil but he isn’t stupid,” Murian added. Which was sad, indeed.
    “We willna be takin’ tha’ chance to find oot, will we?” Ian grumbled.
    Widow Reeves exchanged a glance with Murian and then said, “No’ to change the topic, but the other widows and I thought we might visit one of the villages tha’ the earl’s men burned and offer our help. ’Tis a tragedy, and we feel partially responsible.”
    “That’s an excellent idea,” Murian said. “I’ll join you.”
    “Damn the earl’s black soul fer harmin’ the locals fer tradin’ wi’ us,” Ian said. “We’d ha’ starved if they paid him as much heed as he wished.”
    “We’re in a difficult position,” Murian admitted. “But look at the talent and skills that thus far have saved us. You and Will keep our woodstoves filled, and often bring deer and rabbits for roasts and stews.”
    Ian snorted. “A lad of twelve could do tha’.”
    “No lad of twelve tha’ I know.” Widow Reeves eyed him up and down. “Ye’ve brought us more fresh game than any other mon could.”
    Ian’s face turned red. “I’m a fair shot, bu’ no more.”
    “You can also make metal do your bidding,” Murian said. “You smith like one born to it, while Will has a way with greens that, before the drought, has kept us in carrots, turnips, and cabbage.”
    “ ’Tis true,” Widow Reeves said. “And Widow MacDonald sews better than the dressmaker in the village.”
    “And yer cookin’ is no’ to be ignored, either,” Ian added. “ ’Tis magic wha’ ye can do wi’ the most paltry of items.”
    “I do wha’ I can. Thank the heavens fer Widow Atchison’s cheeses. Those ha’ helped mightily.”
    “The inns clamor for more,” Murian said, “and will pay, too. A shop in Inverness has asked Widows MacThune and MacCrae for more of the lace they’ve been making, if they’ll come after dark so Loudan’s men dinna get wind of it.”
    “Lady MacLure asked my sister to fetch more of the baskets Widow Grier makes, too,” Widow Reeves said, looking pleased.
    “I’m lucky you all threw your fortunes in with mine.” Murian was proud of her merry band of widows and two braw men. Had Loudan left them alone, they would have done quite well. But he’d vowed to bring them to ruin. He wanted to run her off, away from Rowallen. And the only reason he could possibly have for keeping me away from the castle is because he knows there might be proof of his perfidy. If he’d already found Robert’s journal, then the earl wouldn’ t care if I’m nearby, for he’d have already destroyed it. It was the only hope she had.
    The wind rustled mightily, puffing wind down the chimney and sending a poof of black soot into the room. Widow Reeves shivered. “Och, I must be goin’. Master Beagin, why dinna ye come, too? The lass looks tired, and we could use yer help gettin’ Widow Brodie’s wild lads to bed.”
    “Aye. I’ll walk wi’ ye.”
    “Thank ye.” She stood. “Lud, five lads. ’Tis too much fer any mither.” She tugged her mittens back in place and walked to the door.
    Ian followed, taking his cloak from a peg. As he tied it about his neck, he told Murian, “Lass, get to bed and forget aboot visitin’ the castle whilst Loudan’s still on alert. The time will come to make another move, bu’ we’d be fools to rush things.”
    Widow Reeves blew out her breath in exasperation. “Lor’ love ye, Ian, leave the lass be. She looks whipped nigh to death. Ye can berate her in the mornin’, when she’s no’ so tired.”
    Ian looked chagrined as he pulled up his hood. “I’m sorry, lass. I’ll wish ye guid night.”
    “You too, Ian. Sleep well, both of