The Ghost Greyson, Maeve (reading an ebook .txt) 📖

the table. When she didn’t respond, he straightened a bit and frowned at her. “Brenna? Are ye unwell? Did something in the wind strike ye as ye covered the window?”

She shook her head. She hadn’t been injured. Just rendered shocked at a man being helpful. Without a word, she retrieved a chunky length of bark she had fashioned into a trencher. “Here. This’ll do.” She held it to the table’s edge while Magnus wiped the wet grittiness into it.

With one last swipe of the rag, he had the table cleaned and dried. As he straightened from the task, he held out a hand. “I’ll toss that out the door, then move the table back.” He motioned to the plates and bowls piled in a precarious stack on the stool. “I cleaned most.”

“I’ll finish them.” She handed him the plank, snatched a dry rag from the rack beside the fire, and bent to the task. Eyes locked on the bowl in her hands, she wiped it dry within an inch of its life. Was this man truly this good? Or merely talented at acting the part? She watched him with covert glances as he dumped the dirt and returned the table to its place. When he turned back, she hurried to focus on the plates, holding up a bowl. “Ye did well. Thank ye.”

He dipped his chin and gave her a faint smile that increased her edginess. Devil take him. How could he be so kind? So seemingly thoughtful? So…friendly?

“Rain’s coming down harder again,” he said. “The lads will be soaked to the bone for sure.” He easily scooped up the stack of cleaned dishes in his large hands and returned them to the table.

“I’ll set them some broth to heating. Even though it be summer, they still could catch a chill.” Head bent and gaze locked on the pot in her grasp, she turned and ran into his chest so hard, she bounced and stumbled toward the fire.

Grabbing her up in his arms, he swung her to safety, then steadied her on her feet. With a nervous clearing of his throat, he stepped an arm’s length away. “Forgive me, lass. I didna wish ye to fall.”

“It was my fault.” She waved away his words and busied herself with stirring the coals and setting the dented pot among them. Her face burned, and it had nothing to do with the fire. “I should watch where I’m headed. This space is barely big enough for one, much less two.” Fool, she thought. She and Keigan were two. “Two grown people, I mean.” The devil take her and her senseless blethering. This rain needed to end before she lost her wits completely, and he carried Keigan away on the grounds that she didn’t have mind enough to care for him. “Shout for them again, aye? They’ve been out there long enough, I think.”

“I’ll do one better,” he said as he went to the door. “I’ll fetch them.” Then he was out and had it closed behind him before she could respond.

“Thank God above,” she whispered. “And give me the strength and patience to get through this,” she added with a glance heavenward.

*

Brenna couldn’t believe her eyes. What in Heaven’s name had she done to deserve such? Too late, she remembered a priest once telling her that she should never pray for patience. Because if she did, the good Lord would bless her with even more trials to pound the trait into her. She pointed at a spot on the floor. “Were ye not standing right there when I told him to stay away from the stream because the banks might give way?”

Positioned just outside the door, Magnus didn’t answer, just blinked through the mud and rain streaking down his face. The man was so coated in muck, he could pass for a bodach, the mythical creature rumored to rise from bogs and steal away naughty bairns. Keigan stood to his left, coated in sludge to the point of having clumps of moss and grass sticking out of his hair and clothes. Evander, the only one not clothed in Scotland’s soil, stood at his right, soaked to the bone and balancing a load of wood in each arm.

Two of the three needed their arses tanned for them, and it was all she could do to keep from sending Keigan to fetch her a switch to handle the task. She pointed at Evander. “Inside and by the fire with ye. Dinna stack that wet wood on the dry, ye ken?”

“Aye, mistress.” Evander bobbed his head and hurried past her.

She jabbed her finger first at Keigan, then at Magnus. “The two of ye strip off yer muddy clothes and spread them out there on the bushes. If luck’s with ye, the storm will wash them clean. If the rain stops, ye’ll both be down at the stream washing them yerselves.” Still blocking the door, she gave them each a stern up and down once over. “And rinse yerselves off the best ye can whilst yer about it. Ye’ll nay be bringing all that mud in here.”

“But the floor’s dirt anyway,” Keigan whined. “And—”

“Keigan! Hush, lad!” Magnus gave the boy’s shoulder a gentle nudge. “If ye value yer arse, I think it best we do as she says.”

Perhaps the man had a wee bit of sense after all. She arched a brow at Keigan. “Our floor may be dirt, but our blankets and pallets are not, now are they?”

The child stared down at his feet that were three times their normal size because of the wet earth clinging to them. “Nay, Auntie,” he replied meekly. “They are not.”

“Once ye rid yerselves of the muck, ye will have the fire, a dry blanket, and a cup of broth.” She left the door open to make sure Keigan did as he had been told. She would not have a layer of mud covering everything in their shelter. After tossing several sticks of wood on the fire and handing Evander