“Aye, ’tis best not to delay such matters.” Sir Harry grunted as he rose, then settled his gaze on Somerled. “We will sign away our land and silver. And pray good fortune attends us.”
Sixty-One
Who thinks that fortune cannot change her mind,
Prepares a dreadful jest for all mankind.
ALEXANDER POPE
As Sir Harry took his leave, Davina rested her hand on Somerled’s arm. Don’t go.
He gazed down at her, the row of brass buttons on his coat catching the light. “What is it, milady?”
She heard the confidence in his voice, saw the assurance in his blue eyes. If only she might follow him down the castle stair, rather than face her father and brothers, whose brooding countenances could not be ignored. Somerled did not know them as she did. The McKie men were far from appeased, no matter what bargain had been struck.
Anxious for some reason to detain him, Davina wrote across the sketchbook page. What of tonight?
“I shall ask His Grace to include your family at his table.” Somerled’s expression softened as he added, “Practice your Gow tunes, Miss McKie. I’ve arranged a surprise for you.” He bowed, then wisely kissed her hand rather than her cheek; the slightest provocation, and her brothers would surely bolt from their chairs and wrestle him to the floor. “I will count the minutes ’til I see you again,” he promised, then was gone.
The sound of the iron latch falling into place echoed across the silent room. Davina stared at the door, her vision clouding. I will count them as well.
“Davina, look at me.” Her father was beside her now. Kneeling. “You do not have to marry him.”
Oh, Father. He’d misconstrued her tears. She turned to her sketchbook and started to underline what she’d written earlier—My heart and my body belong—but he stopped her pencil.
“That is not true,” he said, the strain in his voice evident. “Until you are wed, Davina, you belong to me. It is my responsibility to care for you—”
“And ours to protect you,” Sandy insisted. “I cannot fathom what poor Mother will think when she learns what this miscreant did to you.”
Hampered by her father’s grasp, Davina could not write and so stamped her foot in protest. I have forgiven him. But she could not expect that her family would do the same.
“We shall weather the scandal in Monnigaff,” Father said, releasing her hand, “and raise MacDonald’s bairn, if it comes to that. But I’ll not see you married to a brute.”
Davina quickly reclaimed her pencil to respond. Father, I have made a vow—
“Vows can be unmade.” Jamie rose from his knees and began to pace the room, ignoring the rest of her written declaration. “We shall depart for the mainland this very afternoon.”
Depart? Her heart leaped into her throat. Did he mean to abscond with her? Somerled would never allow it, nor would she.
“Why wait?” Will countered. “Escort Davina to the harbor this morning. When the MacDonalds reappear, Sandy and I will bid them good riddance, then sail for Saltcoats.” He leaned across the table, his dark eyes snapping. “Leave at once, Father. Before the Highlander returns and convinces our sister otherwise.”
Jamie eyed the door. “You may be right, lad. He has her quite spellbound.”
Och! Determined to be heard, Davina wrote across the page in letters too large to ignore. I accepted Somerled’s proposal of marriage willingly.
“There! Do you see, Father?” Will’s face was ruddy with rage. “MacDonald has stolen more than Davina’s virtue. He has robbed her of all reason as well.”
Nae! She stamped her foot, then pushed her sketchbook at them, pointing to her last word. Willingly. Even if that was not so at first, it was now.
The twins bristled but held their tongues, staring at the irrefutable truth.
“All right, lass, all right.” Her father’s sigh was heavy, a fitting punctuation. “You have accepted his proposal, and the MacDonalds have agreed to our terms. I suppose if honor is to be served—”
“Honor?”
“He debased her, Father!”
Jamie ignored his sons. “Given the unfortunate circumstances, perhaps a wedding is inevitable.”
Davina’s racing pulse began to slow. Aye, ’tis.
“We shall pocket their letter of agreement,” Jamie finally said, “and tarry until Wednesday afternoon. That is when His Grace sails for the mainland and the MacDonalds take their leave.” He shrugged, his face filled with resignation. “Who can say? Three days spent together at table and at sport may blunt our fury toward these Highlanders.”
Will snorted. “My anger will burn far longer than that.”
“Aye, and so will mine.” Sandy’s features were sharp as razors.
Davina cringed at their harsh words. Clearly the twins had no mercy for the man who’d ravished her. But might their father come round, as Somerled had said? She slowly closed her sketchbook and pressed it to her heart. Please forgive him, Father.
Jamie stood before her, his broad shoulders sagging as if sensing what she was asking of him. “Give me a moment with your sister, lads.”
Davina’s throat tightened. After such a morning, her courage was waning. Remember me, I pray thee, and strengthen me.
Her father waited until Will and Sandy were halfway down the stair before he spoke again, his voice raw with emotion. “Davina, had I known from the first … had I realized that this man … that he …”
Jamie looked away but not before she saw the tears in his eyes.
Nae, Father. Her fingers tightened round the frayed edges of her sketchbook, her nails digging into the cloth. Please, I cannot bear it.
“The thought of him hurting you … forcing you …” His words dissolved into a groan as he pulled her into his arms.
Davina collapsed against him. I did not know … Oh, Father, I did not understand.
He nearly crushed her in his embrace, whispering ragged phrases in her ear. “Forgive me. For bringing you here. Abandoning you here.”
She tried to shake her head. ’Tis not your fault. I wanted to come.
“Nae, Davina.” His voice was taut with pain. “Do not excuse me so easily.”
She pressed her sketchbook to his heart and her wet cheek against it. But I must.
They remained there, father and daughter, with only the sandstone walls to witness their grief. For all that was lost and could never be regained.
After many minutes, her father released her with a tender kiss to her brow. “I see forgiveness in your eyes, Davina, though I hardly deserve it.” When she started to protest, his answer was firm. “This would never have happened had you spent the summer at home. Your brothers are right to be furious with Somerled. And with me.” He glanced toward the door. “I will see what can be done to change their minds, though you ken the twins: slow in mercy and plenteous in anger …”
As his voice trailed off, he touched her elbow and guided her toward the stair. “Perhaps this evening’s music will temper their wrath.” Even though he smiled, the sadness never left his eyes. “Yet I fear ’twill take more than a few merry tunes to convince your brothers this Highlander is worthy of you.”
Sixty-Two
No man likes to be surpassed by those of his own level.
TITUS LIVY
Davina gripped her fiddle, praying for a miracle. Candlelight within and daylight without illumined the room where she’d dined with a dozen gentlemen. How extraordinary to find three dear faces among them. Father. Will. Sandy. She missed her mother and Ian all the more, having some but not all of her family present.
The Duke of Hamilton had made the McKies welcome at his table, introducing them to his guests, announcing the betrothal, and praising Davina’s talents. His flattery had pleased her father but incensed her brothers, who’d grumbled about their sister being forced into the role of an entertainer. Her father, engaged in conversation with Sir Harry, had eaten little of the roast gr
ouse; her brothers had eaten much and barely spoken, least of all with Somerled.
Now it was her turn to mollify Will and Sandy. Might music accomplish what food and conversation had not?
Dressed in pale green muslin—the twins’ favorite color—she stood with the castle hearth at her back, eying the duke’s guests. Somerled’s promised surprise had yet to materialize, and the gentleman himself was nowhere to be seen. Should she begin without him? She’d dutifully rehearsed all the Niel Gow tunes in her repertoire that afternoon while her brothers had climbed Goatfell. They’d returned drenched with sweat and breathing hard, with barely enough time to dress for dinner, wearing expressions as hard as the granite they’d traversed.
Lifting her bow, Davina prayed her instrument might be like David’s harp, soothing their spirits. Please, Lord. She began with a familiar Gow strathspey, “Highland Whisky,” driving her bow across the strings with even more vigor than usual, attacking the dotted quavers. When she finished the opening measures, a second fiddler joined her for the repeated phrase, matching her spirited bowing. Somerled.
He was smiling as he walked across the room, playing all the while, his tail coat a fitting match for her darker green sash. Wherever had he located a fiddle? The duke’s guests applauded his entrance; her brothers did not join them. Refusing to be discouraged, she segued into another strathspey in the same key, “Miss Stewart of Grantully.” Somerled kept pace with her, letting her add the many grace notes that enlivened the tune, communicating only with his eyes and with his bow.
Mind the G natural. That’s the way. A bit faster this time? Perfect, my love.
Davina looked away, overwhelmed by her feelings. Somerled understood her. Nae, he heard her. And spoke in a language meant for her alone.
As they finished the tune, the duke called out, “Have you a jig for me, Miss McKie?”
Davina nodded to assure him that, aye, she did: one with a blithe melody yet a sobering name, “The Stool of Repentance.” She could not imagine climbing the dreaded wooden stool of old, sitting before the pulpit for an entire morning service, then openly confessing her sins to the congregation. Had the cutty stool not gone the way of tricorn hats, Somerled would surely have been sentenced to compear for many Sabbaths in a row. The notion would no doubt please her brothers.
Their dark eyes were fixed on the Highlander as he played, their mouths unsmiling, their chins jutted out. Even the energetic reel “Dunkeld Bridge,” to which the twins had often danced on Glentrool’s lawn, did not set their feet tapping or erase the furrows in their brows. Davina kept to the melody, allowing Somerled to embellish the tune, and still her brothers seemed unimpressed by him.
As the hour grew later and drams of whisky were poured round the room, the lads did not imbibe but sat straighter in their chairs, defying those who were beginning to list. Davina had one final Gow tune to offer, a gentle air written for Lady Ann Hope. Somerled lowered his fiddle, giving her the stage. She missed hearing his notes intertwining with hers, yet was grateful for his perceptiveness. If she played alone, the twins might sense her affection for them and put aside their need to punish the man who’d changed her life in a single night.
The tune swept up and down the scale in graceful phrases, even as her hands moved up the ebony fingerboard to reach the higher notes. She looked directly at Will and Sandy as she played, hoping they might read her thoughts as Somerled often did. You will always have my love, dear brothers. Nothing could ever change that.
Did she note a sheen in Sandy’s eyes, or had the flickering candle fooled her? Davina took one step toward them, pleading her case with music. Can you not see that we must marry? And that I have forgiven him? Will shifted his posture but not the firm line of his mouth. Please, Will. He is not so different from us.
Somerled accompanied her on the final chorus, playing not in harmony but in unison, strengthening the power of each note. The McKie men joined in the crowd’s lengthy ovation, though her brothers’ applause ceased when she nodded toward Somerled, inviting him to take a bow as well. He clasped her hand as together they acknowledged the audience’s enthusiastic response, his grip strong and warm as ever. If the twins unnerved him, it did not show.
The duke’s guests rose to their feet at last—some more steadily than others—and ambled off in several directions toward their sleeping chambers. Her father reached her first. “You’ve never sounded better,” he told her, paternal pride shining in his eyes. “Don’t you agree, lads?”
“The last tune especially,” Will said, looking only at her.
Somerled squeezed her hand before releasing it. “I concur with you, Will. Your sister fares very well without my accompaniment.”
“Indeed she does.” Sandy folded his arms across his chest, like a bird ruffling its plumage to appear larger to its rivals.
Davina was glad when Sir Harry joined them; three McKies to one MacDonald felt less than sporting. She slipped her hand through the crook of Somerled’s arm, making her allegiance clear to her brothers. Though I am proud to be a McKie, I will soon become a MacDonald. A tremor ran through her at the thought of all the changes ahead. A new name. A new home. A new life.
“So, lads.” Sir Harry’s booming voice, soaked with whisky, filled the quiet dining room. “Your father tells me you spent the afternoon on Goatfell.”
“We did.” Will exchanged glances with his twin. “Have you been to the summit yet? It offers an incomparable view.”
“So we’ve been told, though Somerled and I have yet to make the ascent.”
“Really?” Sandy arched his brows with marked disdain. “Surely you’ll not leave Arran without mastering Goatfell?”
Sir Harry rose to her brother’s challenge. “Nae, we will not.”
“Have you forgotten, Father?” However smooth Somerled’s delivery, Davina heard the underlying tension in his voice. “Tomorrow we journey on horseback to Machrie Moor for a look at the stone circles. With His Grace.”
“Aye, aye.” Sir Harry rubbed his chin. “Still, if the weather holds, we might climb Goatfell on Wednesday before we take our leave.”
An uneasiness stirred inside Davina. Goatfell. Somerled had lodged a fortnight in the jagged mountain’s shadow with no desire to mount its heights. Yet if he did not climb, the twins would brand him a coward.
“My brother and I would be willing to guide you,” Will offered. “What say you, Father, to a scramble up Goatfell?”
“Alas, I cannot join you,” Jamie admitted, though it clearly pained him to do so. “ ’Tis difficult for me to get a decent footing on the steeper hills.” He shrugged in Sir Harry’s direction. “I once wrenched my leg crossing a tidal burn at night.”
The older man frowned. “A pity, that.”
“Sorry you cannot join us, Father.” Will sounded more compassionate than usual. “Suppose you keep Davina company while Sandy and I take the MacDonalds climbing. Other than some loose stones and gritty slabs of granite near the summit, Goatfell is none too daunting.”
“See that you descend along the same path,” Jamie cautioned, “for there are dangerous precipices to the west.”
Sir Harry drew himself up. “You forget, McKie, that my son and I are Highlanders. We’ve climbed many a ben and will hardly be bested by this one.”
“Let us hope for fair weather on Wednesday, then.” Somerled rested his hand on Davina’s; she nearly jumped at the coolness of his skin. “As for this evening, with your permission, I should like to escort Davina to your lodging at Cladach.”
“By all means.” Will stood back, gesturing toward the door. “We know what a gentleman you are, MacDonald. ’Tis why my brother and I will stay close on your heels ’til the very hour you depart this isle.”
Sixty-Three
When the mind is in a state of uncertainty
the smallest impulse directs it to either side.
TERENCE
Leana knelt beneath her dining room window and pressed the sha
rp blade of her garden knife against the thorny stem. She winced as the first bloom from her Apothecary’s Rose gave way, feeling her heart break with it. I should never have let her go.
She held the deep pink flower to her nose, hoping its sweet fragrance might ease her anxious thoughts. Would her husband come riding up with Davina in a day or two, rescued from the Highlander’s embrace? Or had Jamie already sent a letter, assuring her their daughter was well and in no danger?
Leana had little hope for either outcome; her heart was too heavy, her spirit too restless. She’d lived with a sense of dread from the moment Arran had been mentioned. Then Sunday at kirk the phrase “moral fortitude” had flown round the sanctuary like a trapped wren. What has Davina done? Who is she with? What will become of her? Between services Leana had remained in the pew with Ian rather than face the gossips in the kirkyard belittling her daughter.
Please, Lord, let none of it be true. Leana hastened for the door of the house, as if she might outrun her fears, breathing in the rose’s fragrance once more when her foot touched Glentrool’s threshold.
“Och! Thar ye are.” Eliza closed the drawing room door behind her, then hurried to Leana’s side, keeping her voice to a whisper. “Ye’ve a visitor, jist arrived. I’ve taken the leebeertie tae serve him tea.” She relieved Leana of her apron and plucked the rose from her fingers. “ ’Tis Mr. Webster o’ Penningham Hall, mem.”
Leana had taken note of him on the Sabbath: seated alone in his pew, his auburn head bowed, his shoulders sagging as if he bore a heavy burden. She’d longed to speak with him, but he’d slipped out the door when the morning service ended. Away to the Penningham kirk, perhaps. Away from the blether, to be sure.
Had he come to inform her he no longer wished to court Davina?
Moving toward the library, she told Eliza, “I’ll speak with Ian briefly and then greet Mr. Webster. You say he has tea?”
“And honey cakes baked fresh this morn.”
“Well done. Do tell our guest I shall join him presently.”
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