Instincts trained to the very second, he spotted the most direct route through, scanned the periphery for any signs of trouble. All seemed safe. He pressed on.
“What’re ye doing?” Meg’s amused question halted him, and he turned to find her behind him. “Do ye think we’re headed into battle?” She stood with her arms crossed and a look of friendly amusement on her face. “By all means, good sir.” Laughter was barely concealed in her voice. “Lead the way. Since you know just where we’re going.” She emphasized the word just with a sarcastic lilt. “And since these fearsome foes are clearly such a threat.” She motioned wide to the small clusters of jovial summer walkers, who sat with tin plates and laughter to commune together. One of them pulled out a fiddle and began to play. A sparkle lit Meg’s face, and she leaned in as if to impart a great secret. “Such formidable weapons they wield.”
Embarrassment burned in the back of his throat. He swallowed it away, only to be chased by jaw-tightening anger. “Very sorry, my lady, for doing what I once vowed to do for your family.” The words were out before he could stop them, and the moment they were, he wished he could snatch them back. Everything he knew of Meg MacNaughton told him she meant no harm, even down to the warmth of her voice as she’d jested. It was what had caught his attention eight years ago, when he’d first come to serve the family at twenty years of age. A warmth that had burst uninvited into his life, when all he’d known was coldness.
She’d been racing two of the young scullery maids up the back stairs at Cumberave, wearing a simple brown dress, her laughter bouncing about the cold stone walls like sparks. He’d been going down to find his quarters below, and she’d been running up, carrying a bucket. They’d nearly collided. She’d turned that bonny face up toward his, brown eyes dancing.
“Ye’d best give watch where ye’re goin’,” she’d said.
“Yes,” he’d replied. “If there be banshees such as yerself flyin’ through these halls. I’ll keep watch for ye.”
And he had. For a week after, he’d watched at every turn for the mirthful maiden who occupied his thoughts. It wasn’t until the feast days later, when he was first summoned to play for the family, that he found her. And his gladness both swelled and shattered.
For there she sat between the laird and lady, clad in silken finery that puzzled him. Was she a lady’s maid, then? Dark hair falling over her shoulders in curls, fair face sprinkled lightly with a dash of rose and freckles across her high cheeks—a feature whose effect somehow gave the impression that the same sun that had touched her face now warmed the room from within her.
“Margaret,” the laird addressed her. “It is you we celebrate this night. Sixteen years is a noteworthy age. Will you choose our dinner ballad this evening?” He opened a palm toward Duncan. “A fine piper whose reputation precedes him. He’ll know many a tune, I’m sure.”
Duncan bowed, evading the young Margaret’s gaze when he straightened. She was family to the laird, then.
But he felt her gaze on him, and when at last he lifted his eyes to hers, her face was solemn as stone. Perhaps she did not recognize him. Fool that he was, had he imagined she’d been watching for him all the week long, too?
“Aye, Father. I think a cautionary tune. Perhaps ‘Keep Watch, Ye Lads and Lasses’?” She paused after the first two words of the name, a lightning-quick smile lifting the corners of her mouth. “Ye’d best give watch,” she’d said to him that first day. So she did recognize him, after all.
That dreaded heat overtook his face. He tried to mask it by quickly filling his lungs and lifting his pipes. When their eyes met just before he was to play, she tilted her head to the side ever so slightly, suppressing a smile. He could not look away.
And he’d been watching for her ever since, though he knew now that any future with her in it was foolish and impossible. For more reasons than one.
He’d played the tune, making eye contact with her only when, had anyone been singing, the song would have said “keep watch.” And the delight he’d seen in her eyes was one that held him fast over the years, try as he might to forget how she captivated him.
She slipped past him now, leading on through the camp without a word. So changed. They joined a small encampment at the far edge of the clearing.
A flood of stilted introductions followed as a plate of steaming stew was ladled from a bubbling pot. The folk gathered: a lively older man, the young woman—Kate MacGregor, he learned—who’d been at Meg’s side all afternoon; Mrs. MacGregor, Kate’s mother, and it showed, for the yellow hair and blue eyes they shared; and two younger families, a handful of boys and girls circling their parents in a pre-supper blur.
They’d stood with wary faces when he and Meg approached. Meg assured them it was all right, that he was “an old…friend.” The pause between those last words was painfully long. Even as they dined in seeming ease, he did not miss the watchful glances cast his way from all directions.
At length, Mrs. MacGregor began to gather the tin plates. She took theirs and lingered in front of Meg and Duncan. “Go on,” she said, “have a dance, then.” She nodded to where Thistle Jimmy was tuning a fiddle, wincing as he plucked a discordant string. He uttered something about a storm-a-blowin’ in and meddling with his fiddle, though nary a breeze rustled. Then he shrugged and resumed twisting the knobs until at last, he struck up a lively reel.
“Well?” Kate’s mother looked between the two of them in a way that made Duncan want to release a bitter laugh. If she had matchmaking notions between him and Meg, she’d learn soon enough that such a thought was wretchedly absurd.
Meg sat close enough to him on their shared boulder, he could feel her tense.
“Yes, do!” Kate scurried over, touching her friend on the shoulder. “‘Tis high time you danced again, Meg. What better time than with an old friend?” Meg hesitated, looking toward Duncan with a fragile question on her face.
And though it struck a hollowness into his chest to do it, he shook his head. “I don’t dance,” he said. True though it was, he hadn’t meant it to sound so abrupt.
All three sets of eyes were on him as if he’d just declared night was day and day was night. “‘Course you do,” Kate said. “Everyone does.”
Meg’s words were more knowing, tinged with a soft mix of sorrow and curiosity. “You used to, Duncan. All those sword dances and reels. What’s happened?”
The near-constant ache in his leg burned, as if it knew it were being spoken of. He shook his head. She didn’t need to know. It would only add to her burden. “’Twas long ago,” he said and left it at that. Her face fell. Kate pulled Meg up from the rock and looped her arm through Meg’s.
“Come, Meg,” she said. “I’m in need of a spritely friend to whirl with, and there’s none better than you.”
Meg whispered something to her friend, glancing back toward Duncan. Kate studied him then whispered something back—and not very quietly. He didn’t mean to overhear, but she was as discreet as a bear. “Have pity, at least. Poor man looks like he’s been wandering lost for two years.” She paused. “Same as you.”
Meg stood alone and still as the others swept off into the dance. The late-summer sun stretched the dancers’ shadows into a churning pool about Meg, and she turned to face him.
“Duncan,” she said simply. “I was hasty before, in the woods. And cruel. You came to bring me news, and whatever it is—I will hear it.” She swallowed. “And thank ye for it.”
He nodded. “Come, then,” he said, and he prayed grace upon his words as she sat again beside him. This would not be easy, and he wanted to take care with the shock it would surely bring. Best to ease into it from a sideways approach.
“Meg,” he said. He searched for words. He was never very good about easing into things. “Come with me to London.”
He winced at his own directness.
She drew back, bewilderment on her face. “Duncan Blair, why would we go to such a place? So far away—”
“Ye must com
e, Meg. To make things right—for me to make things right—”
“Nay,” she said, shaking her head. “I’ve never so much as left the highlands, Duncan. The Tinkers—they’re the closest thing I have to family, now. I cannot leave them.” She sighed. “If not for them,”—she gestured to the dancing folk—“I may never have stepped foot back in Argyllshire. They follow this route every few years when the pearl fishing brings them, for ’tis their livelihood. I’ll move with them wherever the rivers call them.”
“Then move in the general direction of London,” Duncan said with a desperate laugh. Time was so short. “I’ll be your guide. The journey is not easy, but…”
The song came to a close, Duncan’s voice too loud over the sudden silence. The others gathered around Thistle Jimmy in low conversation, who stooped to draw in the sand with a stick as he explained their route for the next day. So, they were leaving the encampment already. Duncan’s time was shorter than he’d thought.
Meg spoke, gentle finality in her tone. “I…will visit the graves of my family while I’m here. To say good-bye. ’Tis one good thing that can come from facing this place again. And you, Duncan. I am glad to see you. That you are well after—everything. You did much to save us that day.” She took a deep breath. “Anyway,” Meg said. “Did ye not say ye had news of home? What has London to do with all this?”
He wanted to burst out and tell her but did not want to startle her yet again by speaking too bluntly. It would be a shock to her, no doubt.
Jimmy’s voice rose with excitement as he spoke to his gathering. “With the pearl fishin’ running low hereabouts, we’ll go west tomorrow,” he said.
Duncan leaned in closer to Meg. “Go south.”
She whispered back, “Ye’re mad, Duncan.”
Jimmy carried on with his plan for the group. “Across the land, to the sea, and on to Skye and the other isles after.”
“Go to London,” Duncan countered again, but for Meg’s ears only. ’Twas a bit too loud, for Jimmy shot him a puzzled look before moving on with his plan. “Ye needn’t go with me, Meg, if that’s what’s stoppin’ ye. I needn’t be your guide.” Though he’d give anything to, to make what he’d done right. “But just—”
“Ye’re daft,” Meg said, shaking her head in refusal and fixing her eyes on Jimmy.
Jimmy continued, “We’ll outfit with boats at Craignish….”
Duncan set his jaw. This would sound insane, but there was no going back now. If Meg would not listen…He stood and stepped toward Jimmy. “If I might, sir.” Jimmy nodded. “If it’s pearl fishin’ ye’re after, you might think of the river Esk.” If he couldn’t get Meg to London, perhaps Thistle Jimmy could get her as far as the borderlands. It was on the way and nearly into England itself.
Jimmy’s eyes narrowed, and a vague look of recognition dawned. “Lowland territory? Too far south for us,” he said. “Not our normal grounds. We stick to the highlands and islands for our trade.”
Duncan’s mind raced, grasping at arguments and assembling as fast as he could. If he could but get Meg even partway to London…“You’re right. ’Tis a fair journey, and not an easy one. But many a walker has said just that, and the plentiful pearl fishin’ is proof.” All eyes were on him now. “I came from there just a month past. ’Tis fair beggin’ for someone to come and pluck the mussels from the waters.”
Meg leaned in, anger in her low tone. “What’re you doin’, Duncan?”
“Take a barge or a ship from Campbelton,” he continued aloud and felt stiff ire take over Meg beside him at the mention of the place. “It’ll even carry your carts and horses. Cross the Irish Sea and go south to camp at Gretna Green. You could spend the whole summer there on the river, maybe more. I’ll guide ye, if you like.”
The others began a low chatter among themselves, this new possibility bandied about with alternating doubt and hope.
“Duncan.” Meg took hold of his shoulder and turned him to face her. “I’ll thank you to leave us be. You come here with such a plan, turning everything upside down, and look at the trouble you’ve caused.” Meg gestured at the others, but the smiles beginning to dawn on their faces did not support her. She dropped her hand and led him to the edge of their tent cluster. Light was fading to nearly nothing, and so was his hope. “Please, Duncan. ’Tis getting dark. Perhaps ’tis best if ye head home.”
She was pulling on his arm now, leading him away for a send-off.
He thought of Meg as she had been: warmth to his cold life. He looked at her now, barely a thread of that girl hiding behind her sorrowful eyes, and hated what he was about to do. She’d despise him, too, once she knew all. He pulled in a breath and stopped in his tracks, causing her to stop as well.
Face-to-face with Duncan, her shoulders rose and fell quickly with her breath. “Ye promised news and have only brought trouble. Perhaps ye meant well, but…Please. Just go.”
“Meg,” he said at last. “‘Tis Graeme. He is in London.”
Meg blinked. Shook her head. “What cruel trick is this?”
He closed the small gap between them, putting his hands on her arms. “No trick, Meg. He is there.”
’Twas as if he’d struck her with a blow that turned her to stone. “You mean his grave is there,” she said. “Was he buried there? I know he loved his time at Eton, but surely…”
She was stiff but let his hands remain on her shoulders. And there—just in the very depths of her eyes—he saw it. A flicker of hope—distant and elusive as a will-o’-the-wisp light upon the loch. If she could dare to believe…But then she shook herself as if to shrug off a snare, his hands right along with it. And just like that, the light was gone.
“I heard the bell ring for his death. For my parents—and for him.” She paused, as if trying to convince herself. “I remember it, for I counted the bells, and one was with his number of years. I would never have left if he’d lived.”
“Listen, lass.” His voice was low now. The press of ten sets of eyes from behind, all fixed on the pair of them, seemed to weigh each moment down into a slow crawl. “Graeme is in London.” She watched him, hanging on his words. “Alive as the day.”
Chapter Four
Daybreak never looked so like the night. The sun should be shining, but blue-gray mist cloaked land and loch like a curtain. Fog such as this swallowed people alive, or so Tinker lore said. Stole away years from them in the blink of an eye then released them back into the world, left to find their place where time had marched on without them.
Standing here at Tinker’s Heart, Meg began to think it wasn’t just lore. For just a dash down the valley and over the covered hill, the very one she’d climbed on her wedding day, Castle Cumberave awaited, same as the day she’d disappeared.
She clutched the rustic brown knit cowl about her neck and shoulders, shivering beneath the billowy sleeves of her ivory blouse. A peasant’s dress over it, in the same muted blue as the mist, a length of brown twine crisscrossing back and forth in front of her bodice. It felt like a tether about her lungs just now.
“Ye dinna have to go back there,” Thistle Jimmy said beside her. He slipped his weathered hand around hers.
“I do,” she said. “And I thank ye for coming with me. I need to see for myself whose graves those are.”
At the campfire last evening after Duncan’s revelation, Jimmy had insisted he’d seen three graves, all new since two years ago, in Cumberave’s kirkyard. Duncan insisted Graeme was not buried here. The men both drew up until, fearing they’d come to blows, Meg had stepped in the middle. “I’ll see for myself,” she’d said.
Duncan had protested. It was best left alone, he said, and it was too dangerous—Campbell territory that it was. Jimmy sided with Duncan, and suddenly the two were allies, insisting that Meg trust them.
As if trust were something to be given freely. Or at all. Her thoughts were so thick by then, she didn’t even protest when Kate intervened and led Meg away to their tent for the night.
But
come dawn, when Meg had slipped out of the tent to make her way to the kirk of Cumberave, there was Thistle Jimmy, knobby and strong as the tree he leaned against. “You’re going,” he said gruffly. Perhaps she imagined it, but there seemed to be a prickly sort of respect at the edge of his voice. “Thought as much. Well, then. On with it.” And he’d led the way deep into the thick fog, until they stood here on the brink of the place.
They followed closely the tree line now, for—though the Campbells were rumored to be away and, according to Duncan, Cumberave was empty as the tomb on the third day—they all knew there was still danger, her being here.
Croft after abandoned croft they passed, and Meg could not help but wonder what life they might hold now, had things been different. The trees grew thicker until the heavy presence of a rock wall loomed dark to their left. She ran her hand along the dewy stones until at last they reached an opening to the kirkyard. Her toe caught on a tree root, and she tumbled over the hallowed ground, catching her balance and freezing. For there—dark silhouettes against the fog now lit by the rising sun—were three wooden crosses. Not the elaborate stone typical of a laird’s family. Jimmy hung back, crossing his hands in front of him and bowing his head—a show of respect for what this moment would mean. Confirmation of what she’d already mourned and would mourn once again…or a complete upheaval of all she knew to be true. Her heart beat wildly as she drew near enough to read them:
ROBERT MACNAUGHTON
ILISA MACNAUGHTON
And the third one, smudged with mud. She wiped the dark earth away to reveal the deep engraved letters beneath:
MARGARET MACNAUGHTON.
She stumbled back a step, pressing herself against the rock wall. This could not be. She saw a dash of motion and someone beside her. She reached for Jimmy’s hand, thankful for his swift presence.
“The villagers wanted to protect you,” he said. Only the voice was decidedly not Jimmy’s gruff one but of low and steady timbre. Duncan. Meg turned to look at him. He studied the lifting fog ahead as he spoke. “They risked their own lives, stealing in to give your parents a proper burial in the land that was rightfully theirs.”
The Message in a Bottle Romance Collection Page 13