Once they’d freshened up, Meg, Kate, and Mrs. Bettredge descended once more and followed the music into the assembly room. A dance for the villagers, the innkeeper had explained, to cheer their spirits. Most were farmers and could not leave the land long enough to travel to London and hear the floating symphony. ’Twas unheard of, a public symphony, and something they were breaking their hearts to miss. So they’d rallied their spirits and put together their own celebration this night. Guests, the innkeeper said, were most welcome indeed.
High wooden beams lifted the roof far above them. Three round iron chandeliers, each bearing a ring of candles, lit the room. A thrill stole through Meg. She would be so glad to watch, to take in the joy of the night. She would not dance herself, for she did not know the fine dances of the English folk. And Duncan, she recalled from their fireside encounter, did not dance.
Mrs. Bettredge bustled through the crowd, balancing three crystal cups of water. “Mrs. Bettredge!” Meg rushed toward her. “Here, let me help.”
“Thank you, my dear,” she said, letting Meg take two of the cups. “One for your own parched mouth, and one for that of the unceasing Kate.”
Meg nearly spewed the sip she’d taken. “Unceasing Kate,” she repeated. “It does have a ring to it.”
“Yes, and she’s disappeared, I see.”
Meg turned, scanning the room for Kate’s long golden braid. She was not to be found in the throng of dancers, nor anywhere among the onlookers.
A flutter of applause drew her attention—and there was her friend. Clapping as she jumped for joy, nodding adamantly at something the conductor of the fiddle orchestra was saying.
She threaded her way back toward Meg, cheeks rosy.
“Well, Mrs. Bettredge,”—she plucked the extra glass from Meg’s hand, gulping the water down in four unladylike sips and setting the glass firmly on the table behind them—“you are to have your reel.”
“Ach!” The woman put on what was presumably her very best Scots accent. “Ye be certain, lassie?”
Kate doubled over laughing and pulled both of her companions to the floor. “Aye! We be not the only Scots here tonight,” she replied in kind with an exaggerated accent. “‘Twould appear many have made the journey for the symphony, and many have stopped over at ye olde Quiet Country Inn.” Kate leaned in and whispered to Meg, “Take heart. I see no Campbells.”
A massive shifting of formation took the dance floor, groups gathering in four circles. Men and women dashing to the dance floor in couples. A pang shot through her at the sight of all the couples…and through the steady stream of them, there across the room, she saw him. Duncan. Studying her carefully. When their eyes met, one corner of his mouth pulled into a smile, and he nodded toward the dance floor as if to usher her in, away from these sudden nerves.
If he would cross the room, offer her his hand, the dance would be so much more. But she knew he would not, and she would never ask that of him. But with the smile he gave, and the surge of joy she felt at it, she stepped onto the dance floor.
Duncan watched as the fiddle orchestra struck bows to strings twice in quick succession, signaling the merrymakers to bow and curtsy. Deep pride welled in Duncan. Whatever may be said about the Scots, they worked with all they had in them and celebrated just as furiously afterward. The tradition of dance was a stronghold, an unflinching resolve to rejoice and commune even when the perils of such a life weighed heavy upon them. Deadly exhaustion, dwindling hope of crops, mounting odds in warfare—their foes were as real and dark as the night. But come evening, they pushed through the resignation that threatened to isolate them each, joined hands, and set their feet to flying together.
Tonight the people did just that. On the eve of a symphony held to break through tensions and forge trust. During a time when this new Great Britain of theirs faced enemies from without and within. These country folk and sojourners gripped one another’s arms as if on a battlefront…and began to march in dance.
The music was lively, the souls even more so. To an outsider, it might look like an utter tangle at first, but every step of a reel was planned, every weaving movement as intricate as if the dancers pulled strings behind them, tying an elaborate Celtic knot as they went.
Kate hollered instructions to Mrs. Bettredge around the poor fellow in between them. “To the right! Now left! Now clap and—yes! There you are. Less like a rabbit, if ye please. More like a gazelle, Mrs. Bettredge.”
“Cow’s bell?!” Mrs. Bettredge tipped from side to side with great confidence.
“Gazelle! Yes, there! Now to the center, and take your partner’s hand….”
“Aha! Here I go! Did you see that? Rather like a gazelle!” Her face flushed with alternating concentration and delight as she swished herself side to side. Her feet did not know the intricate steps, but she caught the movements of the circle dance fast and was soon hollering her own whoops and trills along with the others.
And then there was Meg. Her bowed lips parted in a smile so warm it made him ache. Oh, how she laughed. Tossed her head back, dark hair flying like freedom itself. Eyes alight as she danced with abandon, like a bird in full and stunning flight. She looked his way, searching—her smile brighter when she found him.
Duncan swallowed. Longing filled him for the fine light of Meg’s spirit. If all went well in the coming days, that spirit would fly far across the ocean with her brother. The very thought snapped something within him. Father above, keep her. Keep her fast and well, even if ye keep her not for me.
She set to the center of her circle, hands clasped behind her back as she awaited her first partner. A wide-set man with a curling gray mustache bobbed in. They each raised a hand to meet as they stepped in time and turned together. She turned, faced her second partner to repeat it, and Duncan held himself back from bursting in to meet her himself, bad leg and all. The circle broke into an intricate weaving pattern, the dancers joining hands to travel under the arch the next group over made for them. Another weaving to and fro to intermingle the groups, and they faced fresh partners.
Meg was nowhere in sight. Duncan shoved away from the wall, moving along it as he craned to spot her. When he saw the deep red of her sash, he breathed again. He began to count off the dancers. Trying to find whom her next partner would be. Not that it mattered, but—
Duncan’s stomach knotted. The man who would clasp Meg’s hand in a matter of moments—Duncan could not see his face. But he could see the unmistakable blue, green, and black plaid of his kilt.
The black watch.
Chapter Thirteen
Meg dipped to the right with the reelers. Then to the left, barely noticing the stifling heat of the room. If she could stop time and soak in every corner of this moment, she would. Each strain of the dance seemed to feed her heart with something more to be grateful for. Her sides ached from laughing over Kate’s and Mrs. Bettredge’s volleying dialogue. Each time she joined hands or linked arms with one of the kilted officers, she was reminded that only a matter of hours, if the Lord saw fit, remained until she’d see her brother’s face once more.
And then there was the matter of the silver candelabra in the corner. For each time the dance brought her closest to it, she had an unhindered view of Duncan Blair. And each time she looked his way, his eyes were fixed on her. The corners of his mouth turned down in a stifled smile when she made a wrong turn once. His eyebrows lifted, mouth in a full, open smile when her dancing partner whooped and hollered for his entire turn with her in the center. ’Twas as if, through his antics and rhythmic clapping, Duncan had joined the dance, though he did not budge from his place against the wall.
When her circle broke into the grand chain and then threaded through the tunnel of arches created by the next circle, it took her a moment before she could glance back at Duncan’s place.
It was empty.
She searched the crowd, smile fading as she passed from face to face, with no sign of him. Her feet carried her through the steps, her gaze anywhere but
on the dance. ’Twas her turn in the center of the circle—but even as she assumed her place there, she could barely concentrate.
Her new partner’s hand met hers as they began to turn, and still she could not focus. She pressed her eyelids closed just long enough to talk sense into herself. This would not do. She needed to give her partner the common courtesy of attention. The same moment she thought this, her slippered foot collided with his.
“Will ye not watch for yer piper, then?”
Meg’s eyes flew open.
Duncan. But it could not be. He did not dance. Because of her. She moved her thumb across his, time slowing, the warmth of it quite real.
Those gray eyes, gray like the storm they’d weathered together and gray like the morning just before dawn, held her. Seeing her, knowing her fears and follies and somehow looking at her that way still, like a man who had found what he’d searched for all his life and would not let it go.
They turned together in the circle, not speaking a word. His steps were uneven, but somehow all the stronger for it.
And just as they were to part ways as the dance steps required, his hand closed around hers entirely. He leaned in, and her breath stilled. “Follow me,” he said.
A chill wrapped her at the gravity in his voice. As he led her out of the circle, weaving around the puzzled onlookers, his pace quickened, and so did her pulse. Something was wrong.
“Duncan.”
He did not stop. He cast a glance over his shoulder, but not at her. Whatever he saw, it made his grip on her hand tighten. Faster they moved, out of the assembly room, through the entryway. The night was dark, the carriages oddly unsettling as they dashed through the maze they created. “Duncan!”
But he did not stop, not until they’d reached the clearing’s edge.
“What’re ye about?” She broke her hand away from his, breathless.
“Shh.” He skimmed the scene. She whirled and did the same. The woods at their back, the inn glowing its golden light from the windows, the strains of the reel finishing and applause drifting their way…along with the crunch of slowing footsteps.
“Blair!” a whisper hissed. “Duncan Blair, show yourself!”
Duncan leaned close to Meg. “Stay here,” he said. He hesitated only long enough to lift a hand to her face and sweep his thumb across her cheek with a strength that trembled with restraint. “Whatever ye hear,” he said, “I am true to you, Meg MacNaughton. I swear it.”
And he was gone. She listened hard, trying to hear above the wild thumping of her heart. The men began to talk in clipped words—and she recognized the voice. ’Twas the man Angus, from Campbelton. The one who’d sent Duncan on his way, the one with the rough sort of kindness. But his voice now was laden with anger. If he meant any harm to Duncan…
She gave thanks for the slow-moving cover of the clouds and lifted a rock from the ground, clutched it. It wasn’t much. But it was something, should the man have any ill intentions.
With every muscle in her body held tight to keep quiet, she closed in on the pair. Pressed herself against an empty carriage.
“Return her, Duncan.”
Duncan’s voice grew lower. “I’ll thank ye to leave her be. Even if she was the ‘wayward bride’ “—the words dripped with disdain, as if they were shackles about Meg—“she’s no object to be carried away at your whims.”
Heat crept up Meg’s neck.
“Not my whims. The Campbell—he is in no good humor about his nephew’s antics. He will restore the alliance, make right by the MacNaughtons.”
Meg felt sick. She did not know which was worse—Ian’s price on her head, or his uncle’s plan to see them wed after all.
Duncan scoffed. “Too late for that, don’t you think?”
“I’m no fool, Duncan. But you are. To let a lass drive you to such madness. It’ll bode no good for ye with the clan. Ye’ve lost yer brain to yer Neach-Gaoil.”
Meg’s heart lodged in her throat. His…beloved? Her thoughts raced, barely registering that something was terribly awry with the other things spoken. Her heart swelled, and her stomach sank. Why would Duncan’s clan—these Blairs she’d never met—object to Duncan’s actions?
Silence cut like a sword through the night.
At last, Duncan spoke. “I’ve borne the wrath of my clan for eight years now.” The very length of time since he’d arrived at Cumberave. “Ye can tell the Campbell I’ll be stayin’ my course.”
The words slogged through Meg’s mind. These words that did not go with one another, lining up and scaling a wall inside. The Campbell…Duncan’s clan…
It could not be.
The clouds overhead began to break apart, a slip of moonlight stealing through. She leaned around the corner and saw deep pain, and even deeper resolve, carved on Duncan’s face.
But those words, they kept right on with their attack, smashing around her head until a tremor swept down her spine, her arms, her fingers. The rock dropped from Meg’s hand, hitting the ground with a sickening crunch.
She winced. If this carriage at her back could somehow swallow her up. If she could vanish away and never be seen—
But then there was Duncan. And his…his…clansman. Both of them, staring right at her. And all she could do was stare right back, mouth clamped shut, breath coming shallow through her nose, eyes wide until they hurt.
Duncan ducked his head down and to the side toward Angus. “Leave us,” he said. “Please.”
Angus turned to go, stopped, and spoke two words, not even turning to face Duncan.
“Ne Obliviscaris.”
And like a millstone sinking all trace of hope, the motto of the Campbells cinched around her heart. Forget not.
As if she ever could.
Angus departed, leaving Meg and Duncan and an ocean of impossible.
She knew not how long it was before either of them spoke. She sensed it—that the moment either of them did, they would be irreparably broken. Shattered. Whatever this shifting truth was, she wanted to vanish into the woods with him, outrun the revelation that quaked her soul.
He took her hand in his. Covered it with his other hand like a pearl to be kept safe from the harsh currents of this world. Her mind told her this should not be—that if what they said was true, she should be pulling away, running from him and never looking back. That perhaps he’d been behind the attack all along, that he was even now setting a trap. But her heart…Its whisper was stronger, surer. Stay, it seemed to beg her. This is Duncan. Your own Duncan. The man who’d given up his own livelihood, the very thing that made his heart beat, to keep a vow to restore her to her family. Hear him.
Without a word, he led her to the bank of the creek, a thin line of trees between them and the carriage-filled clearing. The water whispered past them at their feet. She would not look away from the long grass that cloaked her bare ankles.
At last, he lifted her chin. Ever so slowly. Ever so gently. With all the courage she could gather, she met his gaze. The depths of it were fathomless, aching, this man who knew her very heart. He lowered his forehead to hers. Closed his eyes, brows furrowed against the fragility of the moment.
And then her lips were rising to meet his. Defying the dam that would be broken. Standing fast on it before words were spoken and it crumbled beneath them. ’Twas no joyful kiss—not like in the tales of queens and kings and light shining down upon their union. ’Twas a requiem for the love slipping through their fingers, the heartache swelling between them in this place of what could never be. There, she lingered in his arms. Holding off the inevitable for just…a little…longer.
At last, they pulled apart, the air cold upon her face.
“Please,” she said at last through pain in her throat. “Help me understand.”
He nodded, expression grim. Her dress billowed about her as they sat upon the grassy bank, and he began to chip away at the rocks in that dam holding back the truth. One by one, letting the tide of history trickle over them. He released one of her hand
s as he told how the Campbell laird had a sister…Duncan’s own mother. Who married a Blair, and Duncan was born.
Meg traced his hand slowly—this hand that had held the tale for so long, with no one to share the burden. The tale went on—how the Campbell laird also had a brother…Ian Campbell’s father. How the cousins—the young Ian and Duncan—had grown up, first as friends, but with a growing chasm of philosophies and ambitions cleaving deep between them. His voice was hollow. So heavy with the loss of something deep and true when he’d lost the friendship of that cousin.
Plans had stirred among the clan about their neighbors, the MacNaughtons. Their land. Their people. The plans had taken an unprovoked dark turn, and Duncan could not in good conscience stand by and do nothing—but neither could he stand in the path of an entire clan to stop them.
“I did the only thing I could think of,” he said. “The Campbells are fiercely loyal, whatever their faults may be. I thought—I hoped—if one of their own lived among your family, they might not take violent measures. But that fierce loyalty backfired, for they then saw me as a traitor. And perhaps they were right,” he said. “It wasn’t until much later that Angus brought news that plans had changed. That all was well, for they’d arranged a peaceable union.” He swallowed, hard. “Between my cousin…and my new laird’s daughter. That I could come home now. Only”—he tossed a pebble into the stream—“I couldn’t. My home was there now. With…” He left the sentence unfinished, an unspoken you landing with such force in her heart, it knocked the rest of that wall clear away, the truth flowing full and fast now.
Meg’s stomach churned. That the man before her—the one to save her from the Campbells…was one himself. That he’d been wounded just as much as she by their actions. Lost all his family. Both his original family, and the one that had taken him in as their own. And she had been blind enough to miss the love of the man who’d given everything for her. But oh, how she knew it now. Her heart bursting with such strong, tender love.
The Message in a Bottle Romance Collection Page 19