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

lesser evil. Daily necessities of tending animals, fetching fresh water and firewood, or emptying the chamber pot from behind the blanket partitioning off part of the room provided too brief a respite from their forced close company.

The days had been tense, but the nights were worse. Long stretches of listening to each other breathe as minutes crept into hours. Rarely did the wary lass succumb to anything more than light dozing, startling awake at the slightest noise. Magnus hoped she didn’t become unwell because of the unease he had caused her. He’d tried to make it better with teasing, but that had only made it worse. Only Evander and Keigan slept soundly each night, sprawled out like a couple of pups across their pallets.

“I love Granny Wick’s raspberry jam,” Keigan said around the huge bite bulging his cheeks. “It’s the verra bestest in all the land.”

“I imagine that’s why she sent it to ye,” Brenna observed as she ladled a serving of parritch into a bowl and pushed it toward him. “Oats, too, my fine young man. Ye willna grow strong on jam and bread alone. Remember?”

“Do ye never eat parritch?” Keigan asked Magnus, as though seeking an ally for another slab of jam-smothered bread rather than the bowl of boiled oats he fought against every morning.

“Yer auntie’s right. Parritch will grow ye into a braw warrior.” Magnus dodged the question. He hated the stuff. Only ate it if starving and had avoided it so far.

“Then ye shall have a share of it, too, this morning,” Brenna said as she globbed a double spoonful into a dish and handed it to him. “Father and son eating the same breakfast, at last. A prosperous start to the day if there ever was one.”

The woman’s sly look gave her away. She had picked up on his aversion to the mash and took wicked pleasure in torturing him with it.

“Aye, a grand start,” he said, accepting the stuff as though it were poison. Within the confines of the hut, there would be no dumping it without getting caught. Never one to cower from a challenge, he scooped up a bite with his bread and ate the foul mixture as though he relished it.

When he glanced up and spotted her gleeful look, it made the pasty clump of grains sticking halfway down his gullet almost worth it. It still amazed him how she bore no resemblance to her tiny, fae-like sister. Unlike her sibling, Brenna was a powerful beauty. Like a fierce warrior woman of the Norse. Tall for a lass and broad-shouldered, he had no doubt she would do well with a sword and shield if trained how to use them.

Covertly, he allowed his gaze to appreciate the fullness of her breasts and the generous curves of her hips. With hair golden as grain ripe for the harvest and eyes striking as vivid bluebells, he would’ve remembered meeting this fine lass and maybe even tried to charm her. His attention slid to his son. And if that had happened, this child would not exist. Stabbing at the oats, he wondered which meddling god had cast lots for this game. Everything might happen for a reason, whether good or ill, but the gods loved toying with defenseless mortals.

He forced the last bite of parritch down, chasing it with the last of his drink. Bowl and cup in one hand, he rose and patted his stomach. “Thank ye for another hearty breakfast.”

“Ye are most welcome.” Brenna accepted his wares with a smug tilt of her head. After a glance out the window, she turned to Keigan. “The rain appears to have let up at last. If ye wish to show Master de Gray yer skills with our stones, ye may do so, as long as ye stay in front of the window where I can see ye as I wash the dishes.”

“Please, call me Magnus.” He had lost count of the times he had asked her to use his given name. While he understood her dislike of him, he hoped that somehow, they could make peace for the child’s sake. And perhaps not only for Keigan but for each other as well. He liked Brenna, and the more time he spent with her, the more he realized he needed her to like him, too.

“What do ye think I should call ye?” Keigan asked as he pushed away from the table. He glanced over at his aunt, frowning when she didn’t comment. He turned back to Magnus. “Well?”

“Whatever ye feel most comfortable calling me.” Although, after saying that, he wondered what Brenna had always called him in front of the lad. He noticed that although she remained silent, her cockiness from earlier had disappeared. She twisted a wet rag between her hands as though wishing it was his neck she wrung instead.

“I shall call ye Magnus for now,” Keigan said with amazing wisdom and clarity for one so young. “After a while longer, once I decide for certain about being yer son, I’ll know better then what to call ye, aye?”

“I think that verra wise. Sound judgment, indeed.” Magnus opened the door, then turned back to Evander, who was still eating every crumb he could find. He pointed at the lad. “Ye’ve eaten enough, boy. Our mounts are just as hungry and needing their horse bread and water, aye? I dinna wish them to feel the urge to over-forage here. There’re several trees and plants that’ll bloat them fiercely if they get into them.”

Evander shoved the last piece of bread into his mouth, bowed a thank you to Brenna, then rushed outside. Keigan scampered out after him. “I’ll help with the horses first, then we’ll throw stones,” he shouted back over his shoulder.

“Is that why ye brought Evander?” Brenna asked as she soused a bowl in the wash bucket, then wiped it out with the rag. “As bait?”

“Bait?” Magnus knew what she meant but wished to get this poison between them out in the open and