The Ghost by Greyson, Maeve (best motivational books to read .txt) 📕

tone. “Something entertaining, aye? Later, we’ll tell more stories. Like the ones from Sutherland’s songs.”

“Who is Sutherland?” Keigan asked as he took his empty cup to the bucket and washed it.

“Sutherland MacCoinnich,” Magnus explained. “Youngest of the MacCoinnich brothers.”

“Ye speak of them as though they’re family,” Brenna said before she could bite back the words. But in for a penny, in for a pound. “Ye are a de Gray. How came ye to claim Clan MacCoinnich as yer own?”

“The four brothers and I survived many battles together.” He took his cup and Evander’s to the bucket, washed, then dried them. “Perhaps not brothers by blood, but brothers by battle and blade.” Once back at the stool, he rested his forearms on his knees, watching the boys as he spoke. “I have no other kin. They are the only family I have ever known—other than my mother.” The rickety stool creaked as his weight shifted. “When I call ye ‘m’lady,’ I mean no disrespect or teasing.” With a kind sincerity she found very disturbing, he made a gallant tilt of his head. “I hold ye in the highest esteem, Mistress Brenna. I swear it. Ye have done more than well by Keigan, and I owe ye greatly.”

She stabbed the needle into the cloth, wishing he would move his attention to the young ones. “I would still ask that ye bide by my wishes, aye?” Knotting the finished stitch, she cut the thread with her teeth. “I have my reasons.”

“If ye’ve another needle, I can help with the mending.” He motioned toward her basket, mounded with garments needing attention. “I’m sure my stitches are not as fine as yers, but they’ll hold.”

“Ye will not help with the mending.” How dare he say such a thing? “Is this another of yer poor attempts at mocking me?” Men didn’t mend. Men did nothing but create more work for women.

“Who do ye think mends my clothing when I’m off in the Highlands?” The storminess of his frown triggered a twinge of regret and irritation through her. “I’d be bare-arsed as the day I was born if I depended on someone else to tend to all my chores.”

“Here.” She plopped the basket between them, then pointed to a shelf above his head. “Needle and thread up there. In the chipped crock. Do as ye will.” She didn’t allow Keigan pouting, and she’d be damned if she tolerated it in another.

With a smug huff, he fetched the tools, pulled a tunic from the basket, and started sewing. Brenna watched him through her lowered lashes, keeping her head bent over her own mending. What a strange man, this Magnus de Gray. And try as she might, she couldn’t find any deceit or meanness in him. The man wanted to know his son, be a father, and atone for his past sins. Plain and simple. Brenna shook herself free of the judgment. Nay. She had to be wrong. Kindness in this unfriendly world was rarer than the finest gold—especially in men. But she had yet to catch him in a lie or the slightest show of malice.

He cut the thread with his teeth, squinted, and pulled at his handiwork, then folded the garment and set it aside. “One done,” he announced with a smugness that made her want to thump him. He pulled another item from the basket with a challenging look. “Ye’re falling behind, mistress. Pick up the pace, or ye’ll look the lazy layabout by letting a worthless man out do ye.”

Before she could stop herself, she stabbed her needle into his thigh.

“Ow!” He jerked away, rubbing the spot she had impaled. “There’s no call for that now. Can ye no’ take a bit of teasing?”

“Auntie!” Keigan called out from across the room. “What did ye do?”

“She showed me a new stitch,” Magnus lied. “Pay attention to the game Evander’s teaching ye, aye?”

“Aye. I will.” The lad watched them for a few moments, then returned his attention to the sticks and stones arranged on the floor.

“Forgive me,” she whispered, swallowing her pride. “I dinna ken how ye manage to nettle me so, but ye are the most irritating man I believe I have ever met.” Lord have mercy. She hated apologizing when she would much rather just stick him with the needle again. But nay, she was in the wrong. She should have held her temper and ignored the fool. That would have served him better.

Magnus’s smile broadened so much his dimple became a crease. “Thank ye, lass. I do believe those are the kindest words ye’ve given me since we arrived.”

She couldn’t help herself. She stabbed him in the leg again.

Chapter Four

Steady rainfall still pattered outside. The mouth-watering aroma of fried bread filled the room. A pot on the fire gurgled with a heavy glop against its cracked lid—a hearty parritch, Brenna’s standard morning fare. The subtle smokiness of a stirred fire added a homey feel to it all.

Magnus shifted in his seat, doing his best to watch Keigan without staring. The child intrigued him; the son he had feared he might never find, just as much as he had feared that he would—quite the double-edged sword.

He sipped at the steeped honey water Brenna had thrust into his hands without a word. The refreshing tartness of the lemon balm she added helped offset the cloying sweetness of the golden syrup. A smile came to him. He wondered if she realized lemon balm calmed and improved moods. In that case, the two of them needed the stuff by the buckets. He huffed out a silent laugh. Aye, she knew the herb’s properties. That’s why the lass kept a warmed pot of the stuff at the ready.

Even after several days spent in close quarters, a dangerous mix of pure dislike and leeriness still charged the air, threatening to blow the tiny dwelling to bits. An endless string of summer storms had trapped them inside until the idea of a good soaking appeared the