He couldn’t help but believe her—Mared was an impertinent, irreverent, and exasperating woman, but she was not, in so far as he knew, a criminal. He sighed, ran a hand through his hair, and stared at the rock as Cailean trotted over to Mared and stuck his head beneath her hand. She instantly stooped down, smiling and cooing to the dog as she stroked him, oblivious to the tongues and tails of her dogs lapping around her.
Frustrated, Payton watched her. She was such a beauty with her long black hair, wandering the hills above the lochs as she so often did, wearing a gown the color of heather cinched tightly below her bosom and embroidered at the neck and hem. And at her breast, she wore a tarnished luckenbooth—a brooch. It was a testament to the wealth the Lockharts had once possessed, its tarnish an indication of how much they’d lost.
“Bonny hat,” he said wryly.
With a laugh, Mared rose to her feet. “It was Father’s.” She squinted at the rock once more, then eyed him curiously. “Are ye harmed, then?”
He shook his head.
“’Tis the curse, ye know,” she said matter-of-factly. “Ye may think these are mere accidents.” She smiled. “But they are a warning to ye, lad—donna go through with this silly betrothal.”
He smiled. “There is no curse, Mared.” He eyed her basket. “What have ye there?” he asked, tapping his riding crop against his palm as he moved closer to have a look. “It wouldna be the berries from my bramble bushes again, would it?”
Mared put one in her mouth and nodded unabashedly.
“Ye shouldna pick berries on my land without asking, lass,” he said, and helped himself to several.
“I shan’t do so again, for they’re no’ as sweet as they’ve been in years past. Have ye done something to make them sour?” she asked, peering up at him from beneath the brim of her hat. “Cast yer smile upon them, perhaps?”
“If ye donna care for the berries ye pilfer on this side of the mountain, then perhaps ye might pick them on Sorley’s land,” he suggested genially, referring to Old Man Sorley, who ruled his glen with an iron fist and would not brook the theft of his berries, no matter how wild they grew or how beautiful the thief who picked them.
“Aye, but everyone knows Sorley’s berries are no’ as big as yers, laird,” she said, and popped another couple of berries into her mouth.
Payton cocked a brow at her boldness, but Mared calmly chewed the berries, her steady gaze challenging him. Impetuously, he lifted his crop, flipped a thick strand of long black hair over her shoulder. “And what has ye about on such a fine day? The unlawful chasing of Douglas sheep? A wee bit of general mayhem?”
“Sheep! And what would I have to do with yer few puny sheep?” she demanded as a winsome smile curved the corners of her mouth and dimpled her cheeks. “If ye must know, I’ve come from Donalda.”
“Donalda!” Payton groaned. Donalda was an old crone who lived deep in the glen. Some claimed she had magical powers. Others said she was the best medicine woman in the Highlands. Still others, Payton among them, held the belief that she was nothing but an old hag. “Why? Have ye an illness that a trained physician canna cure?”
“I do.” She laughed as she handed him another handful of bramble berries. “’Tis called a troth.”
He couldn’t help but smile. “And how will Donalda dispel this terrible disease? Curse me, will she?”
“She gave me a phial,” Mared said, holding up the tiny bottle that was hanging around her neck and wriggling it at him. “I am to use it to open yer eyes to the truth when the time is right.”
“My eyes? Ah, but, lass, I see the truth and I always have. Never doubt it.”
With a small shrug, she dropped the phial and picked another berry. “If ye do indeed see the truth, then ye willna hold me to this ridiculous betrothal.”
“Ye agreed to the terms of the loan, Mared,” he calmly reminded her. “Three thousand pounds is quite a lot of money.”
“What choice did I have?” she asked, raising her gaze to his. “I’d no’ have agreed to such a thing, but my family needed it so badly.”
“So ye’ve said on more than one occasion. Nevertheless, ye did agree to it. And really, is what I offer so bad?”
She surprised him with a lovely smile. And she put down her basket and folded her arms across her belly, eyeing him closely. “’Tis no’ what ye offer, Payton, for it is more than I could ever hope to know,” she said, surprising him with the rare but pleasing sound of his given name on her lips. “But can ye change yer name? Or our mutual history?”
“What history?” he scoffed. “Are ye referring to the time ye beat me with yer fists when I was only ten years of age, and ye six? Or the time ye bit me when I tried to kiss ye? Or perhaps ye mean to recount the ceilidh when ye openly cut me before all the Highlands and then had the gall to laugh?”
“I mean to recount the many offenses yer family has committed against mine. Douglas has fought against Lockhart since the beginning of time, have ye forgotten?”
“Because yer bloody Lockharts have always been on the side of foolish pride.”