To Marry A Scottish Laird Read Online Free Page A

would always remember that and forgive her.
    Jo thought about that now, wondering, as she had at the time, what was in the scroll she carried. She also wondered who the MacKays were and what her mother could possibly think she needed forgiveness for.
    “Was yer mother a Scot?” Cam asked suddenly.
    Joan blinked her thoughts away and shook her head. “English.”
    “Are ye sure?” he asked. “Mayhap her mother was a Scot and—”
    “Nay,” Joan interrupted. “She spoke often of my grandparents. They were both English. He was a blacksmith who died when she was a child, and her mother was a healer and midwife like she was. She trained my mother in healing until she died of a lung complaint. Just as my mother trained me until illness claimed her.”
    “Ah,” Cam murmured and when Joan glanced at him in question, said, “I was wonderin’ where ye’d got yer healing knowledge.”
    Joan nodded. “I was her apprentice. She taught me everything she knew.”
    “Ye were close then,” Cam murmured.
    “Aye,” Joan whispered and peered into the fire as memory overwhelmed her. Maggie Chartres had been a good woman, smart, skilled and loving. She’d been the best mother Joan could have asked for . . . and she missed her horribly. Losing her had felt like the end of her world. Her grandparents had been gone by the time Joan was born, and her mother was all the family she’d had. Now she was alone with no family, no home, and no purpose other than to complete this one last task for her mother.
    “Could yer father ha’e been a MacKay?” Cam asked.
    Joan smiled faintly, but shook her head. “I don’t think so. At least she never said he was. He died ere I was born,” she explained and added, “As far as I know he was a simple English stable boy.”
    Cam nodded. They were both silent for a moment and then he asked, “What are your plans after ye deliver yer mother’s message?”
    Joan smiled wryly, wondering if Cam didn’t have a touch of sight about him. His thoughts seemed to be running along the same lines as hers. Sighing, she shrugged helplessly, and admitted: “I’ve no plans.”
    “Will you return to your village?” Cam asked.
    “Nay,” she said huskily. “The home I was raised in actually belongs to the Augustinian Friary. Mother was allowed to live in it in return for her skills as a healer. She served the monastery, the abbey and the village. Now that she’s dead . . .” She shook her head wearily and he finished for her.
    “They took back yer home.”
    She nodded. “I’d hoped to continue Mother’s work in the village, and at the abbey and monastery.” Joan hadn’t just hoped, she’d pleaded with Friar Wendell to allow her to take over the position.
    “But they said nay?” Cam suggested quietly.
    “According to them I’m too young and need further training,” Joan said bitterly. “I told them she’d taught me everything she knew, but he just shook his head and said that God had other plans for me and he had already arranged a replacement for Mother. That he would need the hut for the new healer. Besides, did I not have a task to carry out for my mother?”
    “He kenned about your mother’s message?” Cam asked with surprise.
    “Aye. He visited daily when my mother grew sick. She found comfort in his company.” Joan smiled faintly at the memory. She’d often returned to the hut to find them deep in a solemn conversation that ended the moment she entered. It had seemed almost furtive to her. Once, she’d returned earlier than expected from a task and found the man writing on parchment. He’d quickly rolled it up and slid it up his sleeve before leaving, but Joan suspected it was the very parchment that now rested against her belly inside her shirt. One hand unconsciously rising to touch the scroll through the cloth of her shirt, she admitted: “I think he wrote her message for her. Mother was too weak to write at the end.”
    “Your mother knew how to write?” Cam