John looked where the man was pointing. There was a rough stack of wooden barrels, and crates hauled up above the tideline. He wandered over to these and cast his eye over them. They were tightly sealed.
He walked back over to where the man stood, sadly observing Tara and Alice. Alice was comforting Tara with gentle words, and the smaller woman had taken strength and was now standing up. As John approached, she turned to him and wiped the tears from her eyes.
“Mr. Grant, thank you for bringing me down here. This man is my father, and these others…” she looked over the other passengers and named them, then she turned and gazed out over the sea, where the water churned over the deadly reef.
“Word must be sent to Edinburgh,” Tara said. “All of these people will have families and loved ones who must be informed. Will you have my father’s body carried up to the castle, Mr. Grant?” John nodded to her.
“We will, miss,” he said, “and these others, too. Shall we go back up there ourselves, now? Ye look weary.”
Tara swayed on her feet as she spoke, and Alice caught her around the waist, but Tara righted herself again.
“I shall be alright,” she said firmly. “Just… give me a moment.” John and Alice took a few steps back, and Tara knelt by her father’s side once more.
“Farewell, father,” she whispered to him. “I shall not disappoint you.”
* * *
By the time they got her back up to the castle, Tara was swaying in her saddle and nodding toward exhaustion. Alice helped her back to her room, and Tara was asleep as soon as her head touched the pillow. Alice left her there and walked slowly back to the small study where she had left Callan, John, and the others.
“Is she asleep?” asked Callan as Alice re-entered the room.
“Aye, and will be so for some time. Hopefully, she will not wake up and wander the halls tae frighten the serving staff again.”
Despite the grim turn that the afternoon had taken, they all laughed.
“Well, I’m for bed,” said Iain, and most of the others agreed that they would do the same. Flora went so far as to kiss Callan on the cheek, and John laughed aloud to see his father’s thunderous expression and Callan’s awkwardness. Callan looked less than happy as Flora skipped from the room. Alice, John, and Callan said they would sit up a little, and the older folk bade them goodnight.
When they had left, John took a bottle from the sideboard and poured them all a glass.
“A grim day,” he said, and they all agreed.
“Word will need tae be sent south tae Edinburgh,” continued John, “and north tae Balmore tae inform Laird Carlisle and Ranald that Tara is here. I have given orders that the cargo from the wreck be brought up tae the castle. There is a great deal o’ it, boxes, barrels, and crates, more than I’d expect on a wee brig like that, and whatever is in it, I dinnae want the folk o’ the village getting intae it. Good folk, they are, but they are scavenger folk, too, and will not have any scruples about taking and selling whatever is in those crates and boxes. If it’s insured, we don’t want any trouble from the brokers in Edinburgh about it. We’ll bring it back up tae the castle.”
“What o’ the poor drowned folk?” asked Callan. “Will ye bury them in the town?”
“Aye,” said John, “they hae a big cemetery by the kirk overlooking the sea. The priest from the town will see to it in the coming days.”
Outside, they heard the rain begin to fall again.
* * *
Tara woke up in a sweat, tangled in the blankets. The room was dark and very still. The sound of her own hoarse breathing in the stuffy little room was loud.
It took her a minute or two to get her bearings. At first, she thought she was still on the ship, but that impression faded quickly as she became aware of the deep silence around her. Suddenly she remembered the castle and the recent events of the day.
Tara kicked off the clinging blankets and gasped in a breath. She was parched. The room was dark, but a sliver of light caught the gap between the wooden shutters, and she rose, padding quietly across the run which covered the stone flags, over to the window. The heavy wooden shutters groaned as she hauled them open and the silvery moonlight poured into the room. She leaned on the window ledge and looked out, breathing deeply of the balmy night air.
From her high room in the castle, she could see far out over the darkened landscape. In the distance, the fat moon rode low over the sea, sparking bright lights off the water. The smell of the sea hung on the night air. The rain of earlier in the evening had passed, and the air smelled deliciously fresh and unseasonably warm for Scotland.
In the moonlight, she took a candle from the table beside her bed and lit it from the banked embers of the fire. It was very late. From outside, she could hear the sound of an owl calling mournfully. Her tongue felt thick, and there was an unpleasant taste in her mouth. She fumbled for the water jug from her bedside table, lifting it and moving to pour some into the ceramic cup. It was empty.
“Damn,” she whispered to the night, before remembering how her father disapproved of ladies cursing. She caught herself as thoughts of her father threatened to overwhelm. Long, slow breaths. A straight back. She could do this. Calm crept across her again.
“I’ll have to get something to drink,” she muttered to herself. Usually, she supposed, one would have a lady’s maid or somebody on hand, but no such provision had been made for her. Did they do things that way in Scotland? She supposed so. There being nothing else for it, she walked to the simple dresser, lifted the big, heavy woollen shawl she had been given, and shrugged it around her shoulders. Her boots were by the door, and she shivered as she pulled them on, barefoot. With the water jug in one hand and the candle in the other, Tara Bright ventured out into the dark corridors of Castle Grant.
Her first try, she thought would be to walk along to the sitting room where she had spent time with the family earlier. It was close, and there might well be a jug of water there. If that failed, she could go further afield. The kitchens, she thought, would no doubt be on the ground floor, and if she took care not to get lost, she could manage it. Failing that, no doubt there was a well in the courtyard. Was it really worth it? She smacked her parched lips together and ran her tongue over her teeth, grimacing at the sensation. Yes, it was definitely worth it.
She walked as quietly as she could along the corridor, past other bedroom doors which were closed fast. Not knowing if they were occupied or not, she tiptoed past them. There was the door to the sitting room. Feeling somewhat furtive as though she might be taking a liberty – she crept up to the door and tried the handle. It turned, and the door swung inward with a faint creak. The room was in shadow, the only light cast by the dull glow of the embers in the fireplace behind the iron guard. Tara held up her candle and looked around. The flame cast inky shadows in the corners of the room, but in its warm light, she saw a large dresser near the fireplace with an assortment of bottles upon it. She made for it, candle high and empty water jug swinging in her hand.
As Tara investigated the jugs and bottles - which seemed only to contain spirits or wine - an unexpected noise startled her so badly that she nearly dropped the jug. It was a groan, very like the one the door had made when she had pushed it open, but a little louder. Placing the jug safely on the dresser, she turned to look for the source of the sound in the candlelight. A man sat in a deep chair by the fireplace. His feet were stretched out in front of him, looking like he had been fast asleep. He raised a hand to shield his eyes from the candlelight.
“Who’s that?” he asked fuzzily, peering at her. She smiled in recognition. It was Callan.
“I’m very sorry to have disturbed you,” she said as courteously as she could. “It’s Tara Bright.”
“Tara…” he murmured, “Miss Bright,” he corrected himself. He sat up, blinking, gave an enormous yawn and groaned as he stretched his long, powerful limbs. Then he made a sound, smacking his lips together.
“Och, man, I’m parched,” he said, and she had t
o laugh.
“Me too! There was no water in the jug in my room, so I came searching for some here, but there doesn’t seem to be any…”
“Aye, ye willnae find water sitting here. For freshwater, ye will need tae go down intae the courtyard and use the well. Iain Grant doesnae hold with keeping water standing in jugs about the place. Too easy for it tae go bad, ye see. Bad water can kill a man.”
Callan stood, stretched again with another groan, and then looked down at her. He stood head and shoulders taller than her, and his build very impressive. She thought he must have been one of the biggest men she had ever laid her eyes upon, but it was easy to see that there wasn’t an ounce of fat on him either. He was lean and strong, a young man in the very prime of life. As she looked up at him, she smiled and felt the heat rising to her face, and was glad of the low light in the room, lit only by her single candle.
“Well then,” he said, “would ye have me take yer water jug down tae the well and bring it back up tae ye? I must visit there myself.”
She did not know what prompted her to say it. The castle was cold and dark, and she was poorly-dressed for going outside, even on such a warm summer night as this. She could wait in the warm, and he would bring her water to slake her thirst. But she refused his offer.
“If it’s all the same to you, Mr. MacPherson, I would accompany you down to the courtyard. Then I could drink my fill and carry my own full jug back up to my room.”
She smiled and thought he gave her an odd look, as if he was trying to discern some deeper motivation for her words, but then he shrugged.
“Come on, then,” he said, and they set out together from the warm little sitting room.
The castle was dark and empty, and before they had gone far, was very glad of his company. She might not have got completely lost and was happy to follow Callan as he made his confident way through the corridors and down stairwells. She blew her candle out. Windows lit the hallways on the upper floors, and torches burned in sconces where windows did not let the light in. She had to trot to match his pace. Callan’s stride was long and loping, and he did not slow for her. He seemed to assume that she would be able to keep up.
They did not speak to one another as they made their way down into the courtyard, both troubled as they were by their thirst. Outside, the courtyard was lit by the low moon. Far off in the east, the sky was just beginning to brighten.
“Here,” he gestured to the bucket on its metal chain. “Give me a hand, will ye?”
Together, though she was sure he could have easily done it himself, they dropped the bucket down the long stone shaft and heard it clatter and splash into the water below. After giving it a moment to fill, they hauled it back up on its winch. The bucket dripped silver in the moonlight. Dipping the jug into the cold, fresh water, she offered it to him. Instead of politely insisting that she drink first, he accepted it gratefully, thanked her, before draining the whole jug in a long series of deep swallows which she thought would go on forever. As he drank, she noticed a small metal cup hanging from a chain beside the winch. Taking it, she filled it from the bucket, drinking more slowly as she watched him slake his thirst. When he was done, he gave a deep sigh of satisfaction. He proffered the jug back to her, saw her cup, and laughed. She smiled back.
The silence would have become awkward if they had held it longer, but she jumped in and spoke quickly.
“So,” she said, leaning back against the stone lip of the well, “how did you come to be fast asleep in Mr. Grant’s sitting room?”
He gave a shamefaced grin.
“John, Alice, and I sat up for a little while after the older folk had gone tae bed. When Alice and John sought their beds, I thought I would just sit on for a wee while, give a think tae the events o’ the day, ye ken? Well, I only took one more glass o’ whisky after they had left, but I’m afraid I must have dropped off there by the fire. I would have slept on, too, if it hadn’t been for ye and yer candle, and I would have woken up when Iain Grant came in in the morning, nae doubt! So, I thank ye kindly for saving me from that embarrassment!”
Their eyes met, and so did their smiles.
“I suppose ye will be eager tae see yer husband-tae-be soon?” he asked. Was there a trace of regret in his eyes? “The message will go tae Ranald first thing in the morning…”
He glanced around at the lightening sky. “Morning… ye ken what I mean…”
“I do,” she said, and could not restrain a sigh. “But I am afraid, Mr. MacPherson. I am afraid that he will not want me once it is known that my father is… that my father is…” she could not say the word.
Pity filled Callan’s heart, and without thinking about it, he reached out and put a hand on her arm. She tried to hold back her grief, but it pushed through her barriers. She gasped and choked on her pain, and he reached out and gathered her into his arms. Tara cried so hard that no sound came out. Weeping silently, taking great shuddering breaths, Callan held her, and his mind raced with how inappropriate this looked, how dangerous it was, and how good it felt to hold her. He tried not to breathe the scent of her hair or feel the soft shape of her body pressed against him, and he failed at both. He raised his eyes to the sky and prayed silently for strength.
After a while, her tears ran their course. The sound of birdsong broke the silence of the quiet courtyard, and the two figures by the well parted a little. Tara gave an apologetic laugh and sniffed. Callan fumbled a huge handkerchief from a pocket in his britches, and she took it gratefully, wiping her eyes and blowing her nose loudly. He stepped away from her, allowing a little privacy as she cleaned herself up, splashing water from the bucket onto her cheeks and blowing her nose again.
“I’m so sorry,” she repeated, regaining her composure, and he could hear in her voice that she meant it.
“Please,” he responded, “don’t concern yersel’. It’s only right that ye should be upset. I’m glad I was here tae… well… so that ye didn’t have tae be alone.”
She reached out and took his hand.
“Thank you, Callan,” and he felt the hair stand up on the back of his neck to hear his name spoken from her lips. He smiled at her and forced himself to look away.
“It’s getting light, we should go back upstairs.”
Tara shivered, drawing the shawl around her.
“Yes,” she said, and filling her water jug from the bucket, he led the way back toward the doorway.
When they parted in the corridor, each to go back to their room, both wanted to speak but couldn’t. They stood in the hallway, looking at each other, for longer than they should. Eventually, wishing each other an awkward goodnight they headed off in opposite directions.
Callan opened the shutters before he climbed into his bed. Laying with his arms behind his head, he stared out of the window into the gathering dawn. As he dropped off to sleep, his thoughts were full of the earnest, honest face of Tara Bright.
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Kenna Kendrick is an American based author of Historical Scottish Romance living in Austin Texas with her husband and three children. Her more than 25-year-old experience as an English
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Her love for literature was also strong because of her father John who used to write crime-stories. While she tried following on her father's footsteps, a trip to Scotland sealed the deal for as she fell in love with the Celtic myths and the bleak Highlands.
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