Grace in Thine Eyes

by Liz Curtis Higgs

  “ ’Tis breezy tonight.” Somerled caught her shawl before it slipped to the ground and arranged it round her shoulders. “I’m glad you brought something to keep you warm.”

  Davina blushed, grateful for the cover of night. Did he not know that his voice, his words, warmed her far more than a length of fabric?

  She had yet to slip on her gloves, kept in her reticule while she played. As she shook them out, Somerled gently took them from her. “Let me.” He fitted each silk glove over her fingers, in no hurry, his voice soft as the night air. “If I cannot hold you in my arms, Miss McKie, I must be satisfied with this.” He smoothed her gloves in place and buttoned the pearl at each wrist.

  His tenderness took her breath away, even as his entreaty from Monday night pressed on her heart. I am asking you to forgive me. Could she extend grace to this man, however grave his transgressions? As Christ forgave you, so also do ye.

  “What time will you leave for kirk in the morning?” he asked, unaware of her spinning emotions.

  She drew the time on the palm of his hand, a figure eight, then touched his cheek as her eyes filled with tears. Mercy is a gift. Her father’s words, spoken to her. And her words, written to her father. Will you not do the same?

  Fifty-Three

  Here shame dissuades him, there his fear prevails,

  And each by turn his aching heart assails.

  OVID

  Jamie climbed the road heading north from Lamlash Bay, his gait unsteady from too many hours on the open water. Though the night had been clear and moonlit, calm winds were the boat’s undoing. The Westgate had sailed out of Ayr yestreen, then stalled off the Arran coast. The captain and crew of the packet boat had no choice but to wait until the Sabbath dawned and a fresh wind carried them into the bay. Their only passenger had remained awake through the long night, pacing the deck.

  ’Twas not the rocking boat that had left Jamie sleepless but thoughts of the daughter he’d brought to Arran’s shores. Two days of riding alone on the road they’d traveled together had grieved his heart to the point of breaking. My darling girl. My precious, innocent girl. As he’d crossed over Rowantree Hill, he’d imagined the worst—that Davina had scandalized the parish, then fled for Argyll with the Highlander. By the time he’d made his bed on Michael Kelly’s cottage floor, Jamie had tamped down such fears, certain he would arrive on the island and find Davina playing for His Grace with her usual carefree spirit and the Highlander nowhere in sight.

  Perhaps his ministerial cousin was prone to exaggeration. It is difficult to say what else may have transpired. Was Benjamin Stewart the sort of fellow who saw a bogle behind every hillock or warned his parishioners against the evils of modern poetry? Did he observe two talented musicians playing with heartfelt passion and unfairly jalouse the rest?

  Jamie turned onto the narrow lane leading to the manse, shifting the traveling bag strapped to his shoulders. Poor Leana, distraught and tearful, had packed his belongings in a matter of minutes. He required little for his journey except her prayers. And her forgiveness. You were right, Leana, and I was so very wrong. Why had he not listened to his own wife’s counsel and kept Davina home for the summer? Jamie knew the answer and did not like it. A man’s pride shall bring him low.

  The plain manse rose before him, shutters open, doors closed, neither welcoming nor foreboding. Birdsong filled the ruinous old kirkyard, and the eastern sky was bright and cloudless at the break of day. Mrs. McCurdy would be tending her kitchen hearth even if the rest of the household were asleep in their beds.

  He knocked, hoping he would not wake them.

  The black-haired maid—Mary? Betty?—opened the door, blinking as she did, almost forgetting to bob a curtsy. “Guid mornin’ tae ye, Mr. McKie. We’ve been expectin’ ye.” She did not comment on the time. Six o’clock at most. “Reverend Stewart’s in his study.” She deposited his leather bag in the parlor, then knocked on the door to the minister’s study. “Ye hae company, Reverend.”

  He appeared in the hall a moment later. “Cousin Jamie.” Benjamin took his arm, a look of dread and sympathy on his face, as if he were about to conduct the funeral of a dear friend. “Join me in my study.”

  “Forgive the hour,” Jamie began, but his cousin brushed off his apology.

  “The sea keeps no hourglass. We’re grateful to God when visitors arrive at all.”

  The moment they were seated in the cramped study, Benjamin said without preamble, “I know you must be eager to see your daughter. Though she did not appear at kirk on the Sabbath last, Davina assured me she will be here this morning.”

  Despite his exhaustion, Jamie clearly heard the dissembling in his cousin’s voice. “Why was Davina not at kirk?”

  The minister hastened to offer an explanation. “She overslept, apparently. The evening before, she’d returned to Kilmichael rather late.”

  Jamie narrowed his gaze. “What else have you learned?”

  Benjamin did not respond at once, fidgeting with some papers at hand and avoiding Jamie’s gaze. “ ’Tis difficult to sort out such things, gossip and hearsay being what they are.” He shifted his weight, as if trying to get comfortable in a hard-backed chair. “You received my letter, of course, so you’re aware of my objection to Davina’s music on Midsummer Eve.”

  Jamie rose to her defense. “My daughter plays with great feeling. As do most fiddlers—”

  “Now, now. I know ’tis true.” The minister eyed the door, then lowered his voice. “According to her maid, Davina continues to play her fiddle with rather too much zeal. She has, however, been well received by the duke’s guests. All gentlemen, I might point out.”

  Exhaling with some frustration, Jamie leaned forward, hands on his knees. “Cousin, have I traveled all the way to Arran to be told that my daughter has found an appreciative audience?”

  “Nae, Jamie.” His shoulders drooped, like a man defeated. “ ’Tis your daughter’s obvious fascination with Somerled MacDonald that prompted me to write you.”

  Jamie nodded, though he had a hard time picturing such a thing. Davina never flirted with men in the kirkyard, as many young women did. “This Somerled … he’s a gentleman, is he not?”

  “If you mean is he of good stock, well educated, and of sufficient fortune, then aye.”

  Most fathers would be relieved; Jamie heard something that was not spoken.

  His cousin cleared his throat. “But MacDonald also has a reputation for … ah …”

  Jamie’s heart seemed to slow, waiting for the rest. Except he knew, even before the minister finished. Not my Davina. Surely not my daughter. He could hardly form the words. “A reputation for …”

  “Lechery.”

  Jamie sank against his chair, as if felled by a pistol. “You are certain of this?”

  “Apparently ’tis common knowledge round Argyll. As to whether or not MacDonald has ensnared Davina, I cannot say. She has confessed such details to no one.”

  Jamie heard his words through a fog of pain. Please tell me it is not so, Davina. Please tell me you are unharmed.

  “Had you not come, Jamie, I would have risked offending His Grace and insisted she remain at the manse this evening rather than returning to Brodick. But now that you are here, I believe things may be resolved and the truth brought to light.”

  Jamie stood so quickly he almost sat down again, dizzy from the effort. “Benjamin, I must borrow your horse.” Whatever had happened, his daughter needed him. At once. “I’ll return later this morning,” he pledged, “with Davina.”

  He did not wait for a reply nor greet the rest of the household as he hurried down the short hall and out the front door, grabbing his leather bag en route. Time enough for greetings when he returned. For now, only Davina mattered.

  Within minutes the horse was saddled and Jamie was riding north toward Brodick Bay. Though surrounded by verdant glens and rugged hills, he saw nothing but the ribbon of road leading him to his daughter. All
the gossips on Arran could not tell him what Davina alone knew. Have you given yourself to him, lass? Or has he taken you against your will?

  Both possibilities weighed heavily on his heart. If the first, then Jamie had failed her as a father by not teaching her the fear of the Lord and the wisdom of his commandments. But if the second—if this cursed man had violated his daughter—then she could not have cried for help, could not have begged him to stop, could not have pleaded for mercy.

  “Nae!” Jamie shouted, bearing down on the horse, sending dirt and gravel flying. Hot tears stung his eyes, and his heart grew hard as a fist.

  O God, to whom vengeance belongeth, show thyself.

  Fifty-Four

  Our wanton accidents take root, and grow

  To vaunt themselves God’s laws.

  CHARLES KINGSLEY

  Somerled could still feel Davina’s gloved fingertip drawing the number eight on his bare palm. If she planned to leave for kirk at eight o’clock, then he would tap on her bedchamber window at seven and see if she might give him what he longed for.

  One kiss. That was all he would ask of her, all he would expect.

  Hadn’t he behaved like a gentleman for more than a week? Not one untoward touch, not a single improper suggestion. Then yestreen on the castle stair she had brushed his cheek with her hand, a most welcome overture. Surely a kiss would not undo her. Just one, my love.

  Monday evening at the castle was far too long to wait. He would see her now and know her heart. Aye, she had agreed to marry him, but had she truly forgiven him? One kiss, and he would have his answer.

  Somerled crossed the burn that bordered the Kilmichael estate, taking care not to plunge into the cold water swirling round his boots. He neared the bench where they’d met on two very different occasions: a moonless night full of passion and a sunlit day full of tears. Forgive me, Davina. For both of them. Once they heard from Davina’s father and could proceed with the wedding, perhaps they could meet here again to celebrate.

  I shall kiss you then, too, lass. More than once.

  Skirting the garden, trying to disappear among the taller plantings, he eyed the house, grandly proportioned, the windowpanes in the upper story sparkling in the early morning sun. One ground-floor window near the rear of the house drew his gaze: the one he’d climbed through on Midsummer Eve. Was Davina a light sleeper? Would she hear his gentle knocking on the glass? At least that detestable Nan Shaw did not sleep in her lady’s room, or she’d wake the whole household and cry, “Thief!”

  Not altogether without merit, that charge.

  He approached the window, feeling his heart beginning to pound, though no servants were in sight. Until this moment he’d have told anyone who surprised him on the lawn that he was joining Miss McKie for breakfast in the music room. But now that his back was pressed against the side of the stone house and he was inching toward the window, that story would no longer be plausible; most visitors entered through the door.

  Surrounded by an enormous clipped yew, Somerled turned and faced her window at last, confident he could be heard by her yet not seen by others. He tapped on the glass, then pressed his ear against it, listening. No rustling of bedcovers, no footfalls. He knocked again, more firmly this time. In the hush of early morning, his knuckles on the windowpane sounded dangerously loud.

  There. He heard movement within. For a moment his heart caught in his throat. What if this was no longer Davina’s room? What if the Fullartons had brought home another guest? Nae. There she was, parting the curtains, a look of astonishment on her sweet face.

  “Good morning,” he murmured, then smiled as he helped her lift the heavy window sash. She’d tied a linen wrap over her long nightgown in haste—inside out, with the seams showing—and her unbound hair cascaded round her shoulders. A charming vision of youth and innocence and beauty.

  And all mine.

  He had never been a possessive man. Had avoided such entanglements. Davina McKie had changed all that. The man who’d never wanted a wife could not slip a ring on her finger soon enough. Aye, he longed to bed her—properly this time—but his desire ran far deeper than that.

  Somerled rested his arms on the windowsill as she knelt to hear his whispered words. “I have come for one thing only. Naturally you are free to refuse.”

  Davina glanced over her shoulder—was there a sound in the hall?—then turned back, brushing the sleep from her eyes. She nodded. Go on.

  “ ’Tis a kiss I’m wanting. Only one. Chaste and true.”

  She studied him at length before answering. Aye.

  “Is the door locked?” he asked.

  A shake of her head. Nae.

  “Will that maid of yours appear soon?”

  A slight shrug. Who can tell?

  Somerled smiled. Already he was beginning to hear the words she could not say but meant. A promising sign for the years to come.

  He looked round her at the shadowy room. Did he dare risk climbing inside? The window was broad and the drop to the ground short; he could leap out with little effort if someone knocked on the door. But the coins he’d paid Nan would not be enough to buy her silence if the maid discovered him in Davina’s bedchamber, however innocent his intentions.

  Davina sat back on her heels. Her hands were folded on her lap in ladylike fashion, her wrap modestly tucked round her. Despite her state of undress, Davina was everything virtuous, everything pure.

  Unbidden, a lump rose in his throat. Could it be he’d not ruined her completely? This young woman who’d stolen his heart—might she offer hers in return?

  He could not find out across a windowsill. “May I come inside for a moment, Miss McKie? And kiss you there?” When Davina blanched, he held up his hand. “One kiss, I assure you. Nothing more.”

  She hesitated, eyes closed, as if she was listening. Nae, as if she was praying. At last she scooted back across the carpet, making room for him. Trusting him.

  He crawled over the windowsill, dragging his long legs over with caution, aware of sounds elsewhere in the house. Their one kiss would need to be very brief. Since he’d not see her again this day nor much of the next, he would do his part to make it memorable.

  “I’ll not put my hands on you unless you want me to,” he said, kneeling before her.

  She shook her head. Please don’t.

  Somerled leaned toward her with care, both of them on their knees, his fingers touching the floor so he would not tip forward and knock her over. “Thank you, my love,” he whispered, and then he pressed his mouth to hers.

  Time swept backward. To their first kiss, tender and sweet.

  And in her kiss he tasted forgiveness. And in his heart he knew his love for her was genuine, a love that would last for all their days together.

  Somerled fought to keep his balance, not wanting their one kiss to end. Not hearing the knock at her bedchamber door until it was too late.

  Fifty-Five

  Know this, that troubles come swifter

  than the things we desire.

  PLAUTUS

  Miss McKie,” Nan sang out. “ ’Tis yer faither, come tae see ye.” Davina broke their kiss with a gasp, falling backward onto the carpet as Somerled shot to his feet.

  “Sir, this is not as it appears—”

  “Appears?” Jamie McKie was shouting, on the verge of exploding, as he strode into the room. “What right have you to speak of appearances?”

  Davina was too stunned to do anything but clutch her robe round her neck as her father pulled her to her feet.

  He circled his arm round her, his gaze still pinned to Somerled. “I will let my daughter explain what has occurred here. Not you, MacDonald.”

  He knows his name. Davina could not breathe, could not think. What was he doing here? And why was her sketchbook not at hand when she needed it so desperately? Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Nan standing in the open doorway, gloating.

  Father turned round long enough to
dismiss the maid. “Inform the Fullartons of my arrival. And see that we’re not disturbed.”

  Davina felt his chest heaving, fury coming off him like steam. Father, dear Father. She loved him but was terrified he’d found her like this. With Somerled. ’Twas only a kiss, Father. One kiss.

  Somerled straightened his coat and ran his hand through his disheveled hair. “Forgive me, sir, but I hardly know where to begin.” He bowed stiffly. “I am Somerled MacDonald of—”

  “I ken who you are, lad.”

  Her father was not looking at Somerled now. Only at her. Searching her face for answers. “Tell me, Davina. What is this man to you?”

  She saw the glint of tears in his eyes. And the disappointment. And the fear. I will tell you, Father. When we are alone, I will tell you everything.

  “Has he hurt you, Davina?” A note of urgency in his voice. “Are you well?”

  Davina heard the unasked question: Are you still chaste? She swallowed, wishing she might close her eyes and hide the truth from him. Instead she nodded in response, convincing herself she wasn’t telling him a lie. I am well enough.

  Somerled tried again. “May I assume you received our letters, sir?”

  Jamie looked at him now, his expression hardening. “The only letter I received was from my cousin, Reverend Stewart, full of concern for my daughter. I came at once. For her sake.”

  The strain in her father’s voice was nothing compared to the tension Davina felt in the arm surrounding her. Shielding her. Protecting her from the man she’d pledged to marry.

  Despite her father’s anger, Somerled did not back down, nor was he disrespectful. “Mr. McKie, two letters were sent by packet boat on Monday. One from my father, Sir Harry MacDonald of Argyll, and one from me. I regret that you did not receive them before you left Glentrool.”

  “Whatever the content of those letters, words cannot atone for what I witnessed in this room.” Jamie glanced at the floor and then at her hand. “Unless a wedding ring has been placed on my daughter’s finger without my knowledge, your conduct … nae, your presence here is reprehensible.”