Grace in Thine Eyes

by Liz Curtis Higgs

  Will tried to shrug, though it felt more like a nervous tremor. “My father has not climbed Goatfell in thirty years. Sandy and I were here on Monday and tested this descent ourselves.” He swiveled toward the precipice, if only to mask the heat climbing up his neck and no doubt staining his cheeks. He’d lied before, but not with such murderous intent.

  When he turned back, Somerled was beside him. Alarmingly near.

  Without thinking, Will took a step back. Closer to the edge. He could feel the winds sweeping up the precipice and over his shoulders.

  Somerled eyed him. “Careful, Will.” Almost a threat.

  Surely the Highlander had no scheme of his own? He was taller, if not stronger, and half a dozen years older. Will would not forget that when the time came. He stepped round him, then motioned to Sandy. “Join us, Brother.”

  Sir Harry came along as well, his color restored and his breathing even. “Any route we take will be slow going in this weather.” He scanned the cloud cover. “We’d best begin before the rain does.”

  Will nodded, grateful for the baronet’s unintentional support. “Here is what Sandy and I had in mind.” Using terms known only to veteran climbers, he described the route, carefully chosen to start with ease. “Sandy and I will descend on either side of you so we can easily maintain contact. And assist you, should your foot slip.”

  “Send me down first,” Sir Harry demanded. “I’ve spent the better part of my life on hillsides.”

  Will heard the bravado in his voice but would not dispute the man’s claim. Not when his foolhardy offer so thoroughly suited his own needs. “As you say, sir.”

  Somerled was not so quick to agree. “Might it not be best if I went first?”

  Sir Harry scowled at him. “And risk losing my heir? Nae, ’tis a father’s duty to go first.” He straightened his woolen coat and stamped the grass from his boots. “On with it, gentlemen.”

  Will walked the precipice with Sandy once more to be certain—very certain—of their starting point. He caught his brother’s gaze. Are you sure? Any doubts? They’d be jeopardizing their own safety in the process. If Sir Harry grabbed one of their arms in desperation … If Somerled had seen through their ruse and formulated a plan of his own …

  Nae. The scoundrel did not know Goatfell. His ignorance would be his downfall. Quite.

  “Sandy, if you’ll start to the right.” Will watched his brother gamely lower himself over the edge, then he did the same, half a dozen feet away. Jamming his boots into narrow crevices, Will rested his arms on the summit and looked up at their adversaries. “Sir Harry?” He nodded to the gaping spot between them. “The place of honor is yours.”

  With a grunt, the man lowered himself over the precipice and started downhill. “Aye, ’tis an easier path,” he said, a look of relief on his broad face. “Follow my lead, Somerled. I’ll have you back in your lassie’s arms before noon.”

  The man hadn’t looked at his pocket watch of late, Will decided. It was already noon.

  Sir Harry continued moving downward with Sandy’s encouragement. “There’s a solid ledge there, sir. Have you found it?”

  “Aye, aye. Come along, Son.”

  Somerled crouched over the summit, looking down at the three of them. Will could not read his expression. Fear, hidden behind a firm jaw? Resolve, locked inside his unblinking gaze?

  “Have a care, Father. For I do not trust these hills. Nor this weather.”

  Nor us. Will caught Sandy’s gaze across the stony expanse. Be on your guard. He suspects something.

  With his long legs, Somerled was soon lower than they were, with his father directly below him, barely visible in the cloud. “How goes it, sir?”

  “Well enough,” he called up. “Are the lads coming, or have they abandoned us?”

  “We’re on our way, sir.” Will and Sandy moved as one, easing down only a few steps. The terrain would soon take care of things without any assistance from them.

  Somerled inched farther down as well, his countenance a fair match for the granite.

  “Och!” Sir Harry fumed. “ ’Tis my hand you’re stepping on, lad.”

  When Somerled shifted his leg in search of another toehold, his father began to lose his footing, with nothing but loose gravel beneath his boots. The sound of rocks tumbling into a vast cavity of air was wrenching. The older man’s urgent cry for help was worse.

  “Father!” Somerled shouted. “Take my leg. The lads will hold me.”

  Will heard Sir Harry’s anguished groan. Saw Somerled’s body jerk as his father latched on to his boot. Watched them both slide farther down, almost beyond reach. Felt his stomach heave as Sir Harry lost his grip and went the way of the rocks, his heavy frame not falling into thin air but hitting the jagged mountainside with sickening thuds, his screams fading into the cloudy abyss.

  A deep and terrible silence descended on Goatfell.

  “Father …” Somerled was weeping. Pressing his forehead against the rocks.

  Will could not bear to look down. Could not bear to think of what he had done. Could not bring himself to do it again. For any reason.

  “Somerled. We’re coming.” He started down, ignoring the risk. “Sandy, please … help him.”

  His brother did not protest. Yet even moving another foot lower, the twins were barely able to grasp Somerled’s coat sleeves. “We’ll have to continue down,” Will insisted, knowing what it could mean. “One more foot, Sandy.”

  “Will …” His brother’s eyes were wet with tears, his body trembling. “I cannot go farther.”

  But I can.

  “Somerled! Are you able to move this direction?” Will reached into the wind. “Take my hand.”

  Somerled looked up at him, his face ravaged. “Did you mean this to happen?”

  Will swallowed. The time for deception was over. “We did.”

  “Then how can I trust you?” Somerled struggled to pull himself up, fighting for a toehold.

  “I give you my word.” Will clamped onto his forearm. “As a brother.” He dragged him toward the summit, straining to keep his balance. “Get your footing,” he yelled, sensing the pull of gravity. “Sandy! Can you reach him?”

  He could not.

  Somerled slipped from his grasp, a look of terror on his face as the rocks beneath him gave way. “Will … help me!” he cried before disappearing into the cloud.

  Will grabbed for him nonetheless, nearly falling himself. “Nae!” He choked on the word as he clung to the hillside, wishing he could cover his ears.

  Sixty-Six

  When the day gaed doon ower Goatfell grim

  And darkness mantled a’.

  THE SIGNAL OF THE BRUCE

  They’ll not come hame onie faster, Miss McKie, nae matter how lang ye leuk oot the windie.”

  Davina kept her nose pressed to the glass, even as the innkeeper’s nagging voice grated against her ears. Mrs. McAllister had fussed at her when she’d had no appetite at noon, then complained when Davina had put aside her book of poetry to stare out the kitchen window, watching the road to Brodick castle and imagining Goatfell beyond it.

  Will and Sandy had asked her to wait for them at the inn. Could she not honor their simple request? Perhaps her loving obedience might build a bridge between the twins and Somerled. They were soon to be related by law; she prayed the McKies and MacDonalds might someday be true brothers.

  Mrs. McAllister leaned closer and squinted through the glass. “Hoot! Whan did the sky turn sae mirksome? ’Tis dark as nicht oot thar.”

  Davina had spent the last hour pretending not to notice how thick the clouds had become—so dark they almost shut out the sun. She knew enough about climbing hills to realize that clouds ruined the view and rain showers made for slippery footing on grass and granite. Still, the men should be long off the summit by now.

  My brave Highlander. Somerled had climbed Goatfell for her.

  She was already thinking of wa
ys to show her appreciation: learning a tune from his repertoire; sketching him as he played his wooden flute; fashioning a waddin sark for him, as marriage customs of old required, though she’d need her mother’s help. Sewing an embroidered shirt to fit Somerled’s broad shoulders would be no easy feat, yet the thought of him wearing it warmed her heart.

  Hurry home, lad. She expected him shortly, but without the sun’s position to guide her, she could not be sure of the time. Might the innkeeper know? Davina drew an imaginary clock on the pane, marking the hours, adding the hands.

  “ ’Tis nigh two o’clock,” Mrs. McAllister said before returning to her soup kettle. “Yer brithers told me tae leuk for them onie time noo.”

  Davina turned away from the glass. She could not speed their journey by fretting. Only by praying for guidance and protection. God is our God for ever and ever. A comforting verse, that. He will be our guide even unto death.

  Davina eyed the table in the kitchen parlor, plates and spoons already in place for the hungry sportsmen. She was certain Somerled and his father would join her brothers for a plate of barley broth before riding north to Lochranza. It was unlikely they’d find a meal waiting for them at the castle; a steady stream of guests had departed Brodick all morning, bound for the stone quay.

  She’d paused to straighten one of the horn spoons when the front door opened and closed so quietly she knew it could not be her boisterous brothers. Was Father home early? Or was Somerled playing a trick on her? She smoothed back her hair and pinched her cheeks, then started for the entrance hall, the innkeeper not far behind.

  A soft knocking sounded on one of the hall doors. “Davina? ’Tis Will.”

  Nae. That thin, weak voice could not possibly be his.

  Alarmed, she turned the corner and found the twins sagging against the door to her lodging room, arms limp, as if the wooden panels were their only support.

  With a soundless cry she ran up and clasped their hands, only to discover their palms bruised and bleeding.

  “What’s this?” Mrs. McAllister demanded, her sharp gaze roving over their disheveled clothes and filthy boots. “Ye didna return from Goatfell in sic a state on Monday.”

  “Nae, we did not.” Will and Sandy straightened with obvious effort. “If you might fetch us two pitchers of hot water, Mrs.—”

  “Aye, and weel I maun, or ye’ll have bluid on me linens.” She was already bound for the kitchen.

  Davina opened their hands, staring at the torn skin. Poor lads. Had they not worn gloves?

  “ ’Tis nothing,” Will said, pulling free of her grasp, then lightly brushing his fingertip along her chin. “You are safe. That is all that matters, lass.”

  Safe? When she turned to Sandy, he nodded but made no comment. His hand in hers was limp.

  The innkeeper returned promptly, holding up two pitchers. “I’ll tak these tae yer rooms, for yer hands dinna leuk as if they’ll grip the handles.” She headed for the stair, calling over her shoulder, “ ’Twas fearsome on the hills, aye?”

  Sandy did not look at her when he answered. “It was.”

  Davina followed them up to their room, unwilling to let the lads out of her sight. Something was very wrong. Had the men quarreled? Lost their way? And where was Somerled? Surely he’d not departed without bidding her farewell.

  To her relief, Mrs. McAllister poured the steaming water into the bowl yet did not tarry. “If ye need oniething, I’ll be doon the stair.”

  Davina helped her brothers remove their coats, then gave them room to bathe, dismayed to see them wincing in pain as they splashed hot water over their cuts and bruises. Whatever has happened? she asked them with her eyes, touching her lips with trembling fingers. Speak to me. When they did not respond at once, Davina tugged at their shirt sleeves, her desperation mounting. Look at me. Please, for I can bear it no longer.

  At last her brothers turned to her. Their hands were dry, but their faces were wet with tears.

  Her throat tightened. ’Twas even worse than she’d feared.

  “Davina … oh, my dear sister.” Will took her hands in his, squeezing them until they ached. “Sir Harry … fell.”

  Fell? Her eyes widened in shock.

  “From the summit …,” Sandy said, his voice breaking.

  But did he … was he … As if by rote, she pulled one hand free to pat her forehead. I don’t understand.

  “Davina, he did not … survive the fall.”

  Nae. ’Tis not possible. She shook her head, slowly at first, then harder. Not Somerled’s father. Not Sir Harry.

  “We are so very sorry, lass.”

  The room began to spin. He cannot be dead. Cannot, cannot.

  “Somerled tried to rescue him …” Will’s voice was raw, painful to listen to. “He did everything he could, Davina.”

  “Everything.” Sandy took her free hand, numb as it was. “Somerled was very brave.”

  “And he …” Will choked on a sob, then looked down at the floor.

  He what? Davina tried to mouth the words but could not. She wrenched her hands from their grasp and pressed them to her brow. What? Somerled what?

  They did not answer her. They could not look at her.

  And then Davina understood. He fell too.

  She sank to the floor. A faint groan, low and deep, came pouring forth like blood from a wound. Not my betrothed. Not my Somerled. He cannot be dead.

  He had kissed her. That morning. And she had kissed him. That morning.

  He cannot be gone. Davina began to rock back and forth. Nae, nae, nae, he cannot.

  Will knelt beside her and gathered her in his arms. “Davina, you must believe me.” The words sounded bruised, like his hands. “We tried to save Somerled. Truly, we did. We wanted him to live. We wanted him … for you.”

  For me, Somerled. You did this for me. Tears flowed from the well of her heart, from the place where sorrow had its source. ’Tis my fault. My fault completely. If not for me … oh, Somerled, if not for me …

  Sixty-Seven

  See, sons, what things you are!

  How quickly nature falls into revolt.

  WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

  Jamie leaned forward on his borrowed mount, urging the mare on, even as he cast an eye to the darkening skies. The inn at Cladach was only a mile hence. Might he escape the coming storm?

  One plump drop of rain hit his cheek, then another.

  Pulling the brim of his hat more firmly over his brow, Jamie rode hard for the inn where his daughter waited for news: They would indeed sail in the morning. Home to Glentrool and to Leana, who would be shocked to learn their daughter was betrothed to a Highlander.

  I had no choice, dear wife. She was already his.

  The rain was slowly increasing by the time he reached the small settlement. Doors were still propped open, and folk stood about in twos and threes, engaged in their endless gossip. At the sight of him the cottagers bent their heads together, making no attempt to conceal their scorn or lower their voices.

  Circulating among them was Mrs. McAllister, Cladach’s leading purveyor of clack. Jamie would not miss her meddlesome ways or her thin mattresses or her thinner broth.

  “Thar ye are, Mr. McKie!” Despite her girth, she hastened toward him with surprising speed, her visage more ominous than the clouds overhead. “Ye maun see tae yer family wi’oot delay.” She waved toward the inn. “Mak nae mistake. ’Tis a tragedy what’s come.”

  “My family?” Jamie had already dismounted and was running for the door, dragging his horse and the innkeeper with him. “Tell me what’s happened, woman!”

  Breathless, she managed a single sentence. “Sir Harry MacDonald tummled from the heid o’ Goatfell and didna survive the fa’.”

  He stopped as if struck. “Sir Harry is … dead?”

  “Aye.” She dabbed at her moist brow with her apron. “MacDonald’s son tried tae save him, they said.”

  Jamie stared at her. “Wh
o told you this?”

  “Aye, weel …” Her cheeks grew ruddy. “I hearkened near yer sons’ door. From the landin’ on the stair, ye ken.”

  Disgusted, he thrust the reins into her hands. “ ’Tis nothing but blether you’re peddling. See it travels no further ’til I learn the truth.” Fueled by anger, by grief, by fear, Jamie marched through the inn door and up the wooden stair, grinding his teeth when he turned on the landing and heard voices from above. How dare the woman eavesdrop on my sons!

  Jamie took the rest of the steps two at a time, then knocked on the door out of habit before flinging it open. “Lads?” He found them pulling on their coats while the storm unleashed its fury on the slates above them. “Can it be true?”

  The twins looked at each other, then at him. Their hands stilled, and their faces grew ashen. “You know?”

  “Aye.” He gestured toward the stair, then closed the door behind him. “Mrs. McAllister tarried on the landing and jaloused some of your conversation.”

  Sandy’s shoulders sagged beneath his unbuttoned coat. “Goatfell was covered in clouds. We should ne’er have climbed it.”

  “Then why did you?” Jamie regretted his sharp tone; Sandy was clearly in enough pain. “Did Sir Harry insist upon it?”

  “The four of us struggled to reach the summit,” Will admitted. “Once there, ’twas difficult to find our bearing.”

  Jamie slowly nodded, imagining the harrowing scene. Poor Sir Harry. To have lost his life for no good reason. Somerled must be suffering as well, having witnessed his father’s deadly fall. And Davina would be inconsolable.

  His heart stopped at the realization. “Where is your sister?”

  “We left her not a minute ago,” Will said, “in her room down the stair, curled up on the bed. She is …” He paused, struggling to find the words. “Grieving. Terribly.”

  “And no wonder.” Jamie shifted his weight, torn by his responsibilities. Davina needed him; so did his sons, who’d beheld a grisly sight. Mindful of the need for prudent action, Jamie pressed the twins harder than he liked. “I assume you’ve reported Sir Harry’s death to the duke’s steward.”

  Sandy was attempting to button his coat without much success. “We’ve told no one. Yet.”