Free Highland Hero by Hannah Howell Page B

time, but she was not sure she would ever understand why their fear made them cruel.
    Gently setting the tarts in her basket, she prayed the laird was one of those rare people who felt nothing when eating her food. Or, that he accepted the soothing or lifting of his spirits as simply the result of eating something delicious. Rose had enough trouble in her life without having the new laird cocking a suspicious, fearful eye her way.
    “Weel, lads, wish me luck,” she said as she donned her cloak.
    Rose shook her head when only two of the four cats sprawled around the kitchen deigned to glance at her. It was very sad, she decided as she picked up her basket and headed out the door, when a woman of only one and twenty was reduced to talking to her cats. Even sadder was the fact that, since her mother’s death, she rarely had anyone else to talk to.
    “Pssst! Rose!”
    Then again, she mused, there were times when talking to cats was preferable to talking to some people. She hastily scolded herself for being unkind and smiled at the young girl who stumbled out from amid the tangled shrubbery she had been hidng behind. Meg was at that awkward age of not quite a child, but not quite a woman. Even harder, Meg had a lively mind that was not being kept fed. Unfortunately, that lively mind had become fixed upon Rose, her family, and her garden.
    “I fear I cannae visit now, Meg,” Rose said, almost smiling at the way the young girl had to brush her thick dark hair off her face. “I must hie to the castle.”
    “I ken it,” Meg said as she fell into step beside Rose.
    “The laird wants to see ye and test your food for himself.”
    Rose frowned slightly. “How did ye hear about that?”
    “ ’Tis being whispered all about the village.”
    “Oh, dear.”
    “Aye. Seems the old laird kept a journal. ’Tis said he thought it might help his son settle in as laird if he kept clear records of all that was said and done at the castle, in the village, and all about the lands of Duncairn.”
    “And the old laird wrote about Rose Cottage, the Keith women, and the garden.”
    “He did. He praised your apple tarts, ’tis said.”
    “Weel, that is kind, but I rather wish he hadnae done so.”
    “Why? The young laird lived here nearly a score of his years. I suspicion he heard all about it.”
    “True.” Rose sighed. “He may have forgotten it, though.”
    “Wheesht, even if he had, he would soon have been told about it all.” Meg shook her head, then had to brush the hair off her thin face again. “S’truth, Mistress Kerr has nay doubt complained, as is her wont.”
    “She has already been to see the new laird?”
    “Fast as she could. He has been home a fortnight, ye ken. She was dragging poor Anne up there ’ere the dust had settled behind his horse. The laird has no wife, has he?”
    Worse and worse, Rose mused, eyeing the stout walls of Duncairn warily as they appeared before her. Joan Kerr hated her, had hated her mother, and was the most vicious and consistent voice speaking out against the Keith women. She had married a Kerr but returned home once widowed. Rose’s mother had often jested that the Kerrs had probably had a grand celebration when the woman had left. Joan was a distant cousin of the old laird and made far more of that connection than it was worth, considering how many of the clan could claim the same. For some reason Joan had always disliked the Keith women. Rose had a feeling her mother had known the reason for that animosity, but she had never shared that information.
    “It would be a good match,” she murmured, wondering why the thought of the new laird with Anne should irritate her. “Despite her mother, Anne is a sweet woman.”
    “Too sweet. I think the laird terrified her. That seemed to be what Mistress Kerr was scolding her about as they walked home. Timid, wee mousie, her mother called her. Anne stayed to the shadows and the few times she spoke to the laird, ’twas in a tiny, shaky