The Message in a Bottle Romance Collection

by Joanne Bischof

  A gust off the loch curled up the hill and plucked the treasure right from Meg’s hands. It spun in the air, her face registering distress. Had she anything left of her family besides that piece of tartan? The very thought had him bounding toward it.

  “Duncan, wait!” Meg’s voice was urgent but somehow distant.

  He sped around the stone wall. At last the item fell, and he closed his hand around it just before it hit the ground.

  Soggy, wet ground, he realized too late. Mud was thick around his ankles, bouncing oddly beneath his feet as he tried to catch his balance. A thin web of peat was all that kept him from the hidden pool below.

  “Brilliant,” he muttered. At that instant, the web snapped. Sludge engulfed him up to his waist, cold and thick. He grasped onto the bank, but the muddy mass of roots came away in his hand. He reeled backward, splashing into the muck. The stench was nearly suffocating. He lunged for the bank again, grasped harder, pulled himself halfway up. He could make it—if he grabbed the ground with both hands. But Meg’s scrap was held fast in his left hand, and he would not let it go. His hand alone kept it from being soiled irreparably.

  A branch thrust into view, nearly colliding with his stomach. Two bare feet stood on the grassy bank. His eyes traveled up from the muddy blue hem of a dress to the fair face looking down.

  “Take hold,” Meg said, a mass of her curls falling over her shoulder.

  He was about to protest—for if she got pulled in, too…

  “Quick!” Meg shouted. Behind her, Kate and Jimmy and one of the younger men of the party came running, grasping fast to the long end of the branch.

  “A h-aon,” Meg began to count in Gaelic. “A dhà.” Tension spread across the branch; a slight cracking sounded. “A trì!” On the third count, he fought with all his might against the mud, and the company on the other end of the branch heaved back. He emerged, dripping with brown muck like a swamp creature from the tales of old.

  “Just thought ye’d clean up a bit for the townsfolk, did ye?” Jimmy clapped him on the back, releasing a full-bodied laugh.

  Duncan leveled him with a glare but let it morph into a low laugh. “Thank ye kindly,” he said. “One and all.” Meg looked half-bewildered and half-amused, the way she scrunched her eyebrows together and stifled a smile. The rest seemed on the verge of laughter, turning redder in the face by the moment. Probably holding back to spare him embarrassment. Well, ’twas too late for that. He breathed deep, shaking his head. “I told ye to beware the bog.”

  Every pent-up laugh burst forth with abandon, the tide of it carrying them back to the wagons. Duncan ducked away to scrub off in the creek then ran to catch up just before they reached the outskirts of town.

  Meg trailed the group. When she looked back and saw him, she stopped, letting the caravan move ahead. And for the first time since he’d seen her three days ago, there was her smile. Real and true and full. The same one she’d given him the day they’d first met. It lit her whole countenance.

  “You’re back,” she said with gladness in her voice.

  “And human again.” He shifted his weight, and his boot released a loud squishing sound. “Nearly.” He matched her smile then held out his hand to return what the wind had stolen. It was indeed a square of soft wool tartan, no bigger than the palm of her hand. Interwoven squares of red and green, with threads of light blue outlining bits of the plaid.

  She took it gingerly, smile fading. “Thank you, Duncan.” She studied him. “Truly. You can’t know how much this means to me.”

  “Your family tartan,” he said. The very colors he’d worn with pride all those years.

  “Aye, and the only piece of it I have left. All I have, really, of any of them. Mother Aila tied it into my hair on my wedding day, and”—she closed her palm around it—“well, you know the rest.”

  “Come on, lollygaggers!” Kate motioned afar down the road.

  Duncan’s boots continued their loud narrative, the unevenness of his limp maddeningly loud. After a few strides, Meg spoke again. “I am sorry,” she said.

  “Ye’ve naught to be sorry for. I’m the one who plunged into the bog like a fool. And I know it could have gone much worse.”

  Meg laughed softly. “No, I mean—I am sorry for all that, but…” She cast a glance down at his feet then pursed her lips as if unsure how to proceed. “When you found me in the forest the other day.” She paused, expression hopeful.

  Duncan narrowed his eyes, not following.

  “When I…kicked you.” She bit her lip, eyebrows raised, an expression of guilt. And remorse, probably. “I never meant to truly harm you.”

  His uneven gait punctuated the silence between them—a rhythmic stomp-pause-squish, stomp-pause-squish that sounded off kilter. His limp. She thought she’d done this to him? How easily he could free her of that burden. But…he held back a smile.

  “Ach, yes,” he said. “I do recall a scrappy rapscallion attacking me. I’ll never walk the same now.”

  Meg looked askance at him. “Scrappy rapscallion, is it? And who gave me a fright to last a lifetime? Letting me think you were a Campbell, ready to carry me away.”

  That silenced him. The look of fire-lit terror in her eyes in that moment was burned into his memory. As much as he wished to, he could not undo that. But he could at least ease her worry. “Dinna concern yourself over this.” He patted his leg. “Aye, you gave me a muckle kick.” Enough to leave an impressive bruise. She hung her head. “But this particular friend”—he kicked his wounded leg out—“has been with me for much, much longer.”

  She tipped her head to the side, listening.

  He did not wish to trouble her, for he knew she’d find a way to carry fault for this, too. He exhaled. “The day of the wedding,” he said. “We all lost something. He tipped his head toward his leg, remembering the deep and long-healing gash. “My loss was far less than all others.”

  Again, Meg seemed to search for careful words. “Is that why you don’t play the pipes anymore?”

  Duncan kicked a pebble in the road, noting the arched stone entryway to the town ahead. The proverbial hornets’ nest was just minutes away.

  “You don’t have to answer that,” Meg said, filling the silence.

  “No. ’Tis a fine thing that ye’d ask. The answer is a simple one.” He shrugged the bag carrying his pipes higher on his shoulder. “The day I came to Cumberave was the day I became piper to the MacNaughtons. When everything happened…I swore I would not play until I’d done all I could to reunite the family I owe everything to.”

  Meg stopped in the middle of the road. “D’ye mean to tell me, Duncan Blair, that ye’ve not played a single note since then?”

  “Who would I play for?” He was still walking, but he stopped at last and turned to see her worrying her scrap around and around one finger, an intent study on her face. “Best to hide that,” he said, nodding toward the tartan. “We’re nearly there.” She nodded, hesitating only briefly before slipping it into her satchel. The others had already passed under the stone arch, their wagons clattering down the cobbled streets.

  “It would nae have a warm welcome here. Not from some.”

  A serious look crossed her face. “Duncan,” she said and paused as if turning something in her mind just as she had the fabric in her fingers. “Do ye think Graeme will take me with him? To America, I mean.”

  He stopped in his tracks, a tension girding him. “Is that what ye’ll be wanting?”

  She hesitated only a moment before nodding. “’Tis what seems right,” she said. “To be together.”

  “If I know Graeme, he’ll not step foot aboard any ship until he’s secured a place for ye if that is what ye want.”

  She dropped her gaze. “It is,” she said at last. “Thank you, Duncan.”

  The arch stood before them, and Duncan could not shake the feeling that it was a portal to another life. Once they passed through, there would be no going back. The last piece of Argyllshire soil Meg MacNaugh
ton would tread.

  The thought sank heavy in him. But his feelings were not what mattered. Her life was. Meg set her satchel down and removed from it her earasaid, draping it over her head like a hood. ’Twas good she did so. The faster they could get through Campbelton, the better.

  Chapter Seven

  Meg knew she should be thankful for the bustle of the town, overwhelming as it was. The streets flooded with the smell of salt air, the warmth of fresh bread wafting from a bakery, the jumble of people milling about the market. Spritely fiddle music played from somewhere nearby. ’Twas easier to blend into such a scene, but easier, too, to lose Jimmy and the rest. Meg hurried to keep close.

  They congregated at the center of the market near a towering stone cross. Meg studied the intricate etchings swirled into it and wondered at the hands that had placed it here, probably hundreds of years ago. What would they think of the wavering faith in her heart?

  Jimmy began assigning duties. They were to procure supplies for the next leg of the journey and meet on the dock in a half hour’s time. Kate and Mrs. MacGregor for the salt pork. The others for fish and oats. Jimmy for the potatoes.

  Meg hadn’t been named in any of the jobs. “What can I do to help?” she asked.

  Jimmy closed the gap between them. “You and Duncan head straight for the ship.”

  “I can help, though.”

  Jimmy leaned in. “I know ye can, lass. But ’tis best ye move on through.”

  Duncan closed in on them. “He’s right.”

  Meg looked to the waterfront. It was horrid to be such a burden. “At least let me get the potatoes,” she said. She pointed at a booth where an older man and woman were bundling lumpy cloth parcels. “We’ll pass them, anyway.”

  Jimmy searched her eyes. “Ye’re a brave lass,” he said.

  Meg smiled. “Indeed. The bards shall sing for ages to come of the girl who purchased potatoes.”

  Jimmy gave a hearty laugh. “Go on with ye, then.” He turned, started up the street toward the church.

  “Where is he off to?” Duncan asked.

  “The kirk.” They watched as Jimmy pulled a bottle from his jacket. Aged bronze, the vessel’s sheen was long dulled, but strength of life filled it from within. Much like the man himself. “Every town we stop in, he goes into a church, finds the Holy Scriptures, and copies down whatever he can. Just a line or two, but he says it’s a way to carry the Word with him when he has no other way. He keeps them on a scroll in that bottle.”

  “A Bible in a bottle,” Duncan said.

  “Yes. Well, parts of a Bible, anyway. He says there’s no tellin’ how far God’s Word will travel, no matter what vessel it’s in, ‘be it a bottle or a book or a braw brave brain,’ “ Meg recited Jimmy’s oft-repeated chant.

  They watched the man disappear within the red door of the stone building.

  “I respect a man who will search out the truth,” Duncan said. And then he turned to her. “And I respect a woman who dares to vanquish fearsome potatoes, too,” he said with a wink.

  At the booth, Meg thanked the couple, offered a few of her meager supply of coins, and walked a little surer for having done even a small task to help the others. Even if Duncan refused to let her carry the sack of them.

  They had not walked ten steps when a shout stopped them.

  “Blair!” A jovial voice, from behind. Meg’s heart pounded in her ears, and she searched for the source.

  A man with deep red hair bounded down the lane, dodging shoppers. “Duncan Blair!”

  Duncan muttered something under his breath and, in one fast motion, set himself between Meg and the man. “Quick,” he whispered in her ear, gesturing with a nod to the open door of a milliner’s shop beside them. “‘Tis one of Ian Campbell’s nephews.”

  Meg ducked inside the white building, just far enough to be out of sight. Wishing her heart would quiet down. He is just a relation, she told herself. Not all Campbells are Ian Campbell. Perhaps this nephew was of the laird’s—Ian’s uncle’s—camp, who reportedly were more interested in wars between countries than wars between clans.

  She slowed her breath so that she could hear.

  Rows of fabric rolls lined the wall like books in a bookshop, and Meg took hold of one of the lengths as if to examine it. But her every nerve was trained on the scene unfolding outside, just beyond her view.

  “Come to make good at last, have ye?” the man said, out of breath.

  Meg ran her finger across the fabric of the bolt in front of her. Make good…? Duncan did not seem one to be beholden to anyone.

  “Angus,” Duncan said. “Off to rid the sea of its fish?”

  “Not I.” He laughed. “Not unless you mean the Irish Sea,” he said. “Or the river Thames.”

  “Are ye headed all the way to London, then?” Duncan asked, his tone one of ease. As if they didn’t also happen to be planning the same trip. Meg caught a reflection in the wavy glass of the open door. The man patted a fishing basket.

  “Aye,” he said. “Most of us are. The Campbell wants to show support for King George. Says a Campbell contingent must represent us well at this concert he’s planning.”

  A touch on Meg’s shoulder made her jump.

  “Didn’t mean to startle ye,” a woman clad in deep burgundy said beside her. “Will ye be wanting a length of the black watch?” She gestured at the fabric Meg fingered.

  “The black watch?”

  “Aye, the Campbell tartan,” she said.

  Meg pulled her hand away from the blue-and-green-plaid fabric as if it had burned her. “I…” She was being ridiculous. They were threads. Threads with their own name, apparently. But they could not harm her.

  Outside, Angus laughed and talked on. Duncan glanced her way, their eyes meeting fleetingly.

  “Ah, a gift for your beau?” the shopkeeper leaned in with a warm smile and asked conspiratorially.

  “No, he is…” What? Her oldest friend? Her guide to a land she’d rather not see? She shook her head, leaving the sentence behind. “I wonder,”—she faced the woman, noting the gentle lines creasing her smile and eyes—“do ye know aught of a concert in London?”

  “Oh, aye,” the woman said. “The floating symphony. The king has had an entire series of pieces written just for the occasion by a fine composer. Can’t recall the name. Begins with an H. Hanford, maybe? Hanover. No, that’s where the king hails from. Han…Handel. Yes, that’s it! The musicians will board a boat, of all things, and play as they float down the river.”

  “An outdoor performance,” Meg said. A fine thing indeed, for most people never dreamed of hearing a single orchestral piece in their lifetime, let alone an entire grouping. Such joys were reserved for royalty and the like.

  Outside the window, Angus was gesturing wildly, consumed with a tale of some kind. “Will you be goin’?” Meg asked.

  “Me!” The woman laughed. “No, not the likes of me. But many a Campbell will be, for ’tis a great act on the part of the king. Governors and courtiers and all the fine, fine people will be along, and they hope ’twill soften the hearts of the land toward the king.”

  In the shadows of her mind, Meg latched onto something. These words this woman spoke…and Duncan’s words of her brother. “He’ll stay to see the governor through an important political event.” The two strands of words wrapped about each other inextricably.

  So. She was headed to London. Without a day to lose. To see her brother at a floating symphony, it would seem, and the very people who’d driven them apart would be surrounding them.

  “Are ye all right, miss?” The woman said. “Here.” She bustled across the shop, pulled a kettle from the stove in the corner, and poured steaming amber liquid into a teacup. “Have a strupak,” she said. “‘Twill warm life back into those white cheeks of yours.” Meg took the earthenware cup pressed into her hands and sipped. The chip on the clay-colored rim made the whole gesture somehow even more comforting.

  “Thank you kindly,” she said. She
reached into her satchel to dig for a penny. She had barely a farthing to her name after the potatoes, but such kindness…She took hold of a coin and pulled it out.

  “Oh, no, no, no,” the woman said, bending to retrieve something that fluttered down from the satchel. “No coin needed for that. If we Campbells can’t pour a simple cuppa for our visitors, then I dinnae know what we are about,” she said, her merry face brightening.

  Meg swallowed too fast, the liquid nearly scalding her throat. We Campbells…

  She froze. For the woman stood, every trace of her smile gone. She held her palm out toward Meg, displaying what she’d plucked from the ground. Her own faded tartan scrap.

  “Oh, lass…” Just two words. Yet the compassion and sorrow and knowing in them seemed to reach straight into Meg’s heart, cradle it like a mother with her bairn.

  “Please,” Meg said. “I know I shouldn’t be here. I—”

  “Wheesht, child.” She pressed the scrap into Meg’s palm, easing the cup away. “You’ve nothing to fear here. Not from the likes of me. Do wait here until young Angus skiddles away.” She shot a worried glance out the window. Duncan had shifted toward the street, drawing Angus’s vision away from the shop. “Tuck yer plaid away, for some here dinnae look so kindly upon the Clan MacNaughton.” She leaned forward and whispered with a smile, “But not all of us.”

  Relief untied a thousand knots that had held Meg’s muscles captive. “Thank you,” she breathed.

  “Meg.” Duncan’s voice came from just outside the shop. He bowed toward the woman then spoke to Meg. “We’d best away. The ship’ll be leavin’.”

  “Ach, you’re on a journey, then!” The woman said. “Take these.” She scurried behind the counter, pulling out a bundle wrapped in muslin. It looked to have been packed as her personal supply for the day’s work. “The best scones in Alba,” she said. She leaned in and dropped her voice. “And if I don’t miss my guess, ye’re a lass of the highlands just as I was. That makes us sisters enough. Just take care in this town, and may your journey be swift and smooth.”