“He was lonely,” she said, softly.
“So lonely. I couldna bear to see him so. He was wretched for so long, ye ken, mourning for you.”
“I thought he was dead,” I said quietly, answering the unspoken accusation.
“He might as well have been,” she said, sharply, then raised her head and sighed, pushing back a lock of dark hair.
“Aye, maybe ye truly didna ken he’d lived; there were a great many who didn’t, after Culloden—and it’s sure he thought you were dead and gone then. But he was sair wounded, and not only his leg. And when he came home from England—” She shook her head, and reached for another onion. “He was whole enough to look at, but not—”