The Exile of Sara Stevenson

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The Exile of Sara Stevenson Page 29

by Darci Hannah


  I stood up from my place of hiding near the precipice, intent on backtracking to the bay, where I would meet him on the beach. This thought filled me—the wondrous reunion of lovers torn apart. I would throw myself in his arms and beg him to take me away. I saw it so vividly in my head—his warm embrace, his hungry kisses … his soulful murmurs of apology. With excitement coursing through me—an excitement I hadn’t felt in a great many months—I turned to go.

  I didn’t see it coming.

  I never heard a sound.

  A hand, sudden and hard, hit me, covering my mouth while the furious weight of the stranger’s body forced me back to the ground. The weight crushed painfully on top of me. Fear and frustration burst forth and I screamed—or tried to, but the iron hand stopped me from uttering a sound. It was then a mouth pressed close to my ear. A hiss of hot breath came, demanding that I be quiet. It came again, this time gentler yet ever insistent. “For God’s sake, Sara, it’s me. Hush now! Hush, lass! For God’s sake, be quiet!”

  Recognizing the voice, yet positively stunned that he should be here, I nodded. The man, having considerable experience with me, kept his hand pressed to my mouth while his warm body remained very close to mine. He then gently rolled me to face the bay. It was then I understood. Just beneath us, on a lower rise, so close that were I so inclined I could have reached out and touched their heads, came a procession of men. They were silent but for the sound of their muffled feet on the soft ground, and they came one by one over the rise and to the pathway leading down to the beach. It was in the dark of night, and their faces were hidden from view, but the moon, lending its full intensity behind the silent army, revealed quite stunningly their silhouettes. And these, to my great astonishment, were familiar.

  The first to pass beneath us was the unmistakable effulgent head of Hugh MacKay, the tall, broad-shouldered, stalwart Highlander. He was followed, quite remarkably, by every other soul who had descended on the bothy unannounced—our reluctant boat crews—making me understand that it was no coincidence they had been there on that very day.

  The men of the Cape were up to something.

  This clandestine meeting—this lonely, sheltered bay, in the dead of night, under a full moon—and the strange barky sitting at anchor, waiting, was more than chance serendipity. With questioning eyes, I looked at the man next to me. He held his finger to his lips, indicating that I continue to watch in silence.

  When the men had finally reached the beach and were out of earshot, Mr. Campbell turned to me with eyes flashing dangerously and hissed, “What the devil are you doing out here? For God’s sake, Sara …” But he couldn’t form the rest of the words that tumbled into his brain. He was too angered.

  I glared just as darkly. “I might ask you the very same question! It’s three in the morning and you’re out here … wandering the moors near Kervaig Bay? What, were things too quiet at the lighthouse for you this evening? Or, perhaps, one of your ghosts chased you out?”

  His pale eyes glowed in the moonlight. “Stop it!” he seethed, and squeezed my wrist tightly, inflicting a small dose of pain. I flinched. Realizing that he was hurting me he let go. But his breathing came heavy; he was all worked up with the night’s exertion. And turning to me he asked, “And what do you mean by running off like that? Leaving at the crack of dawn with nary a word. By God, did ye not see there was a storm coming? And what’s this supposed to mean?” he questioned, passion gripping his voice as he pulled out the note I had written to him before I left and waved it under my nose. “Huh? Or do ye not remember, it was so long ago? Well, let me remind you, then.” And he proceeded to recite the two hastily written lines with jaunty mockery in his voice. “‘Gone to the MacKays for a holiday. Will return when ready’? What the hell were ye thinking?”

  I stared at him, unwilling to speak.

  “And since when do Edinburgh lasses take their holidays in a run-down Highland bothy? Isn’t that a wee step down in the world for the likes of you?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I replied, shifting my attention to the beach and the men below. “I had a lovely time. And their bothy is not run-down. It’s cozy. Very neat and tidy.”

  He grabbed my arm, forcing me to look at him again. “This is not a game, Sara! My point is … why do ye insist on running away like that all the time? You make it a habit, and it eats away at me when ye do. For God’s sake, I’m the one who has to answer for ye in the end! Do ye not understand that?”

  I looked closely at him, remembering what Hugh had said, how he had come to fetch me back—how he had been persistent in the matter. And then, only with the benefit of the moonlight, I saw the dark, mottled skin around his left eye. It was faint in the darkness, but it was there. Willy Campbell was recovering from a black eye. Reflexively, and rather touched that he should suffer the likes of this on my account, I brought my hand up and gently touched his cheek just beneath the eye, where the darkness started. He froze at my touch, yet he did not turn away. And then I asked softly, “Why do you feel you have to answer for me in the end? Why do you feel the need to fetch me back all the time? Is it duty that drives you, Mr. Campbell, or is there … something else?”

  His eyes, dark and liquid under the night sky, searched my face, and then, quite unexpectedly, his hand came over mine, pressing it securely to his warm flesh. His hold on me was firm, desperately so. “I know why it is ye left.” His voice, usually deep and a bit gruff, now came as soft and hesitant as the night air. “Kate told me of your mother’s letter … what it said. But I thought ye knew … I thought ye understood that …”

  “That I would be giving up my child?” I finished for him, sadness touching my voice as I tried to pull away from his grasp.

  He squeezed tighter, unwilling to let me go. And then he slowly brought my hand protectively to his chest. His pale eyes, catching the light of the moon, widened. “No! God no!” he averred. “I thought ye understood that if you or the baby … survives …”

  “You’re afraid that we won’t?”

  “Deathly” was his pained reply. And in that moment I could see this was his greatest fear. William Campbell, the unlucky physician, the man with the palpable pall of death surrounding him, feared for my life and the life of my child. It was touching but wholly unnecessary. I was about to reassure him that I would fight every ounce of the way, when a sound from below caught our attention. Boats were being launched from the beach.

  Our boats.

  Willy, seeing this misuse of lighthouse property, unceremoniously let go of my hand and popped up. “By God, they’re not really doing it!” He looked at me in astonishment. “That Highland devil is using my boats for his own gain.”

  “His own gain?”

  “Aye. Just look at them down there!” he commanded, and I did.

  Boats were plying to and fro in the still waters—lighthouse boats, to be more specific—and expertly handled, at that. They were carrying some type of cargo that the ship was unloading in them, but they were not making for the shore with their payloads. Instead, they were pulling for a spot along the cliffs, where they suddenly disappeared from view. Mr. Campbell pulled out a spyglass and, after looking through it a moment, handed it over to me. It was hard to make much out, dark as it was, but I could see there was a cave hidden in the cliffs, a cave that was only accessible by boat at high tide. I looked questioningly at Willy.

  “They’re smugglers, lass. Surely ye knew that. And here I was convinced that he was against bringing the boats to this bay on account of principle. But all along he wanted this.”

  “What do you mean? Mr. MacKay was indeed against you when you suggested training the men for the rescue boats. I was there, William, remember? I was the one who helped you convince them, talking Mr. MacKay and his men into rowing around to the bay in the first place. I even paid them to do it, if you’ll recall.”

  He glanced at me, his eyebrows pointedly arched. “So ye did. But no, Sara, it wasn’t you who talked them into it. It’s w
hat that red devil wanted ye to think. He used ye, Sara, just as I used his boy. Damn me,” he uttered aloud, appearing fleetingly amused by it all. But then he wiped the grin from his face.

  “How did you know they’d be here?”

  “Believe it or not, I happened to spy the cutter. She’s a fast sailor. Le Temeraire, she’s called.”

  “You know that ship?”

  “I know of her,” he corrected. “She’s French built, captained by a well-known French privateer by the name of Etienne Flambaux. A canny devil, isn’t he? Our Hugh MacKay had a vested interest in her too. He’s a relative that’s Captain Flambaux’s partner. But I’ve never been on time to witness their wee covert operation before tonight. Impressive, isn’t it?”

  “Very,” I uttered with a blatant lack of enthusiasm.

  “Well, now you know why it is I’m here. I spied her in the offing as she rounded the point, which, by the way, is hard to do, and then I woke up Robbie to take over the watch. He’s got the light now.” He was watching me, waiting for my sorry excuse.

  “You want to know why I’m here?”

  His reply was a curt nod.

  “Very well. I was growing a bit homesick.” This caused an incredulous expression on his face. “No, it’s true. I wanted to leave yesterday, but the men began showing up.”

  “Really? You were homesick? And which home was it ye were longing for?”

  “My home at the lighthouse,” I replied honestly. I was pleased to see this made him grin. “But then I saw that ship. And for some inexplicable reason I believed Thomas was on board. I know it sounds daft, but right when you tackled me, which, by the way, scared the wits out of me, I was convinced I was going to find him—I was convinced he was coming for me.”

  At this admission he grew quiet again, his face still and contemplative. “You still … love him?”

  I didn’t need to reply. He already knew the answer.

  A soft, plaintive smile appeared on his face and he held out his hand to me. “Come, Sara,” he said, “’tis time to go home. And, for what it’s worth, I’m glad you want to come back to the lighthouse.”

  William Campbell patiently guided me along the uneven ground as Kervaig Bay dropped from view. And once back on smoother ground he turned to me and said, “’Tis just not the same without you. Kate’s positively frantic. I now understand a little better what it is that lies between you, and I say this only for the sake of living peacefully in the cottage, but you will have to try to get along with her.” I nodded solemnly. “And one more thing: I am not your enemy, Sara.”

  “You won’t force me to give up my child … even though my family wishes it?”

  “Not if you don’t want to, which, by the by, I’m glad to see ye don’t.”

  We came to a horse—Bruce, I believed it was—hobbled to a scrubby little bush near the road. The animal whinnied softly as its master approached in the darkness, and Mr. Campbell, after greeting his horse with kind words and a loving rub on the nose, helped me into the saddle. I watched as he took the reins in hand and led us both down the road to the lighthouse.

  “What will happen to the men?” I asked, still awed and bothered by what we had just witnessed.

  “What will happen to MacKay, do ye mean?” he replied, walking closely beside my leg, his tall form brushing against me every now and then. I found it oddly comforting. “I’ll likely kill him,” he said evenly.

  “William!” I cried, pulling on the horse’s halter to stop both man and beast. He turned to look at me. I could see the hint of amusement touching his luminous eyes.

  “However, on account that ye fancy the man’s wife and children so, I suppose I shall find other means to punish him.” He continued walking.

  “Why do you hate MacKay so?”

  “Who said I hated him?” he replied, looking questioningly at me as he walked. “Aside from the fact we squabble now and then, sometimes even coming to blows over particularly touchy matters, if you must know, I rather like the man. If we were both on the same side, I might even be inclined to act a wee more neighborly.”

  “Will you report him?”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Because he’s a smuggler and smuggling is against the law, you even said so yourself. And lighthouses have a responsibility to uphold and protect maritime trade.”

  “Aye, so ye do know a thing or two about the trade? Yes, smuggling carries a heavy price, and I wonder at why they would risk it. But then, I’m reminded of how hard their life is out here, how they eke and struggle just to make a living off this old rock. Yet they choose this life and their freedom over being at the mercy of a capricious landlord who might toss them off their land at any time if the lord should so choose. MacKay and his men are intrepid. I respect that. It’s one of the reasons they’re so loath to rescue other imperiled ships—on account that they profit from the pickings. That, for my own reasons, I don’t respect. I also don’t appreciate the flagrant use of my boats. That will stop now that I know what they’ve been up to. But this enterprise, smuggling claret from France without paying the heavy duties attached to such a drink, allows them at the very least to feed their families during a harsh winter. That is survival. For that I will not report them, nor am I required to. The lighthouse, however, is forbidden to harbor smuggled goods. Since we don’t harbor anything, there’s no issue there. But my boats? By God, that does burn me!”

  “How long have you known about this?”

  “Oh, I’ve had my suspicions for some time now, and the claret you brought back after your first foolish visit to their croft confirmed it. Alasdair also knew something was up, and even had a word with MacKay on the matter. Did ye happen to know Alasdair Duffy?”

  “I met him briefly last summer,” I replied, trying hard to recall the man, for my mind was heavily encumbered with other matters back then. “He was an older gentleman, was he not?”

  “Aye, a bit. But he was also a bit of a meddler too. He had a habit of sticking his nose into other people’s affairs. He also happened to have a thing for a certain Mrs. MacDonald, the same lady who lost her husband and son on that day last fall. Her menfolk were fishermen; Alasdair had an amazing gift for knowing just when the herring were running.”

  “He was having an affair with a married woman?” The thought was scandalous indeed.

  “That was the rumor. I never pried much. I never asked the man his business. But I did find it odd that all three of them should die on the same day.”

  “Did only those three men go into the water?”

  “There were five men in the boat that day, the same as we run now. Alasdair was at the steering oar, the MacDonald men were in the bow. There was, however unperceivable, some bad blood between them, I’ll grant ye that. The other rowers that plied the oars were Tosh MacKay—Hugh’s uncle—and Danny MacDonald, a cousin of the deceased men and a fisherman as well. The seas were rough that day, Sara. It was a hard pull to the ship that was wrecking. I was in the other boat when I happened to see a wave come and swamp them. Alasdair had the bow at a dangerous angle to the surf, there were some who say ’twas spite or malice that he did so. But no matter how foolish he might have been, he was no murderer. It was an accident. The two MacDonalds, father and son, were taken out of the bow by the wave. The rest of the men were merely swamped. I was fighting to keep my own men afloat while it all transpired so I didn’t see what happened next. But when I did chance to look, Alasdair was gone. Only Tosh and Danny remained, and they were frantically searching for their mates while trying to stay afloat. The whole affair was a disaster from the start. The surf was too rough to have even considered a rescue. But I did. Danny and Tosh lost their heads entirely, and if it were not for fear of losing them too, I might have pressed on. As it was, we ended up turning back to save our own lives. We were still too far from the ship that was going down, but close enough to hear the voices of the men calling to us … begging that we come save them. Jesus, but it was bloody awful! And the pain of it,
Sara, was that it wasn’t only the three men who died that day. A whole bloody ship went down, every one of her crew dead. That, to me, was unbearable.”

  “I’m sorry,” was all I could utter after such a heart-wrenching tale. And I did feel sorry for this man; for I knew that the death of others truly haunted him. But then I asked, “Still, it is odd that Alasdair should have gone in too, isn’t it? Do you think the men pushed him—perhaps for what he knew … or for what he was doing with Mrs. MacDonald?”

  “I wouldn’t like to believe the men of the Cape are murderers, if that’s what you are asking. Perhaps it was the will of God that he died? Perhaps he was being punished for the liberties he was taking with a married woman? Who’s to say? Only God sees fit how to punish the sins of men. We are not to question the methods, only accept them as they come.”

  “And you accept them. Tell me, did you and Alasdair get along well?” I asked, curious at his devil-may-care attitude about his former employee’s death.

  “I got along with Alasdair about as well as I get along with anyone, I expect.”

  “William Campbell!” I chided again, watching him start at the name as he walked undeterred beside me. “And is it any wonder? You, sir, can be intolerably abrasive!”

  “Aye, I can,” he concurred. “And you, Miss Stevenson, have a habit of being intolerably foolhardy.”

  “Aye, I do,” I agreed with a wry smile. “Though truthfully, it’s only one of my many faults.”

  The look on his face further charmed my melting heart.

  • • •

  Just as the lighthouse was coming into view, dawn was breaking. We had been traveling the last few miles in companionable silence, each of us contemplating our own particular thoughts as Bruce trudged along beneath me. I watched Mr. Campbell walk beside the horse, his faultless, purposeful strides falling in time with the animal’s, his dark hair, a mop of chestnut-brown curls, now neatly queued. His black three-caped cloak fluttered in the wind, and suddenly I felt an overwhelming rush of gratefulness that he had found me on the moorland. I was tired, and doubted if I could have made the journey so swiftly on my own. I longed for my bed. I longed for sleep. My heavy body ached and yearned for the release only sleep could give; and I knew that he had likely not slept at all. I marveled at how he could manage. I found myself watching him, oddly drawn to the effortless way he moved: the solid build of his body, the complexity and perplexity of his mind, and so absorbed was I in him that I for once took little notice of the glorious dawn that was awaking around me. I heard the sound of birds taking to the air but paid them little notice. And I was staring at him still when he came to a grinding halt.

 

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