The cave was little more than a hollowed-out rock behind the waterfall, deep enough that they could stand with their back to it and watch the silvery curtain in front of them. He wished it were daylight, so he could see the expression on her face. She was little more than a shadow. A breath of substance.
“I shouldn’t be here,” she said, addressing the waterfall. Her voice was faint enough, but it was oddly less noisy here than in front of the cascade of water. Did she stand so still because she sensed him in the same way he did her? He wanted some connection of flesh to flesh, so he placed his hand on her shoulder. He felt her shiver, a strange sensation that was neither in response to cold nor aversion to his touch. Instead, it was as if every part of her body stilled in that instant, became aware of how close he stood to her, how near they were to each other, how their very breathing seemed in tandem.
“What better place, Ealasaid?”
“In my bed. Asleep.”
“Dreaming?”
“Yes,” she said. The word sounded sorrowful.
“And what do you dream about, lass?” He had not moved his hand, imagining he could feel the texture of her skin beneath her shawl, her dress.
“I dream of the past,” she said. Her voice seemed as soft as a whisper; yet if it had been, he could not have heard it over the sound of the waterfall. “I dream of Scotland.”
“Does it frighten you that much?”
“It does not frighten me at all.”
“Yet we’re an impressive bunch, for all that. I think you a brave lass, to be standing here in the dark with a Scot.”
“Which is why I shouldn’t be here.”
“Do you question your courage, or my honor?”
“My own perversity, perhaps, that I would wish to be nowhere but here, even as I know it’s not right or well done of me.”
His smile broadened. “I’ll not harm you.”
She didn’t answer him, just looked around the cave as if she could see into the nooks and crannies of it.
“Is this where you hide from the patrols?”
“I’ve put my wayward life behind me.”
“Or encouraged me to join it.”
“Is that what you’ve been dreaming of? The life of a border reiver?”
“It seems a bit more exciting than the life I’ve led,” she admitted. “I’ve little liking for embroidery threads and sketching.”
“Are you craving an adventure, lass?”
She glanced at him. “I think you are my grandest escapade of all.”
* * *
She should not be here. It was one thing to be discovered barefooted and racing into the house; another to be missing when she’d convinced Harriet she was ill. She did not doubt that Harriet would send a servant to check on her or go herself to render condemnation and compassion in one breath.
The rain had come as if to wash the sky clean and then disappeared, leaving it dazzling with stars and deep-black night. The moon had been a lantern, illuminating her foolishness, and then his face.
Lachlan Sinclair. One of the Sinclairs. His name alone had sent a thrill through her. She would see him again, then, after Harriet wed. They would live in the same place, know the same people. And perhaps they could meet again, as they did now, stretching the boundaries of the restrictions that held them in place.
An unmarried woman did not eagerly grasp the hand of a man she did not know. She did not race into the woods with her lips clenched tight as if to muffle the sounds of excitement. She certainly did not stand upon the edge of a pool grown black and silver with moonlight and gape at the face of a man she’d never met.
She’d known he was tall, and his breadth had been hinted at in the shape of his shadowed form. But she had not known that his face would be so strong, that the moonlight would dance upon his features and give shape and hollows to them. It was a face of extremes, softened by a mouth that seemed adrift in smiles. She had stared at him as if she’d lost her wits. And perhaps she had, for in that moment, when the moon had encapsulated him in radiance, she’d wanted to touch him. Her fingers ached to dance over the skin of his cheekbones, to see if they were as sharp as moonlight made them. Was his nose that strong, his lips that full? His hair that thick?
Last night she’d thought herself wild. Tonight she knew herself wanton.
She brushed by him. Without another word, she’d found her way from the cave and back to the bank of the pool.
“Ealasaid?”
She looked back, and he stood there, his arm outstretched, his hand palm up. She shook her head. He was too much a lure, and she had learned caution and survival in the past years. She should wait until they met again in Scotland. It would be more properly done. Less tempting than seeing him in the moonlight. Even as she told herself to leave, she did not wish to. A clue, then, to how wild she truly was.
“Meet me here, tomorrow.”
Did she just imagine his words? Wishful thinking, Janet, or a dream? Or perhaps an echo of wildness?
Four
Janet slept heavily and woke late. She had crept to her room by the servants’ stair, had felt only a giddy sense of relief not to have been discovered. But sleep had not come easily. Instead, she had remembered every moment of the hour she’d spent with Lachlan. She spoke his words over and over in her mind, as if to fix them there.
The day passed with aching slowness, a warm spring day that lured her and beckoned her outdoors. She had no errands to perform, no visits to the village, no lists of items to procure at the various shops. Instead, she sat in the large and sunny parlor and read to Harriet while she sewed. Every sentence or so she was halted and made to read another passage, to obscure any hint of accent from her voice. She longed to ask Harriet what she planned to do once she was in Scotland. Was she going to make every Scot repeat his words until his speech sounded more English?
“You are looking peaked, Janet,” Harriet said now, her gaze sharp. “Are you still ailing?”
“No, Harriet. Shall I continue to read?”
“You don’t like it when I correct you, do you?”
Janet kept her face carefully blank of expression. Honesty was not truly wanted at this moment. She had learned, on too many previous occasions, that it was better to simply pretend to have no thoughts at all.
“I do it for your sake, you know. You’d sound like a barbarian otherwise. But sometimes you look at me as if you dislike my efforts to improve you. You mustn’t do so, you know. Servants should always have their eyes downcast when they are being reprimanded.”
“Yes, Harriet.”
“You dislike me, don’t you, Janet?”
She looked over at Harriet. The question surprised her, but it should not have. Harriet did not avoid confrontation; she embraced it. Indeed, there were times at which Janet had thought Harriet that spoiled for a fight, not unlike a young bully she’d known at Tarlogie. Robbie had had just that look about the eyes, that daring glitter.
Now there was a small smile on Harriet’s lips, and her gaze was fixed on Janet as if relishing the discomfort she felt.
Did Harriet wish her to fawn? She could not. In truth, she did not know how to answer. She had never thought of Harriet in terms of friendship. Their relationship was built too strictly on servitude, a position Harriet had made clear the first day they’d met, seven years ago.
“You’re to be my maid when she’s taking her half day, and my footman if none is available. You’ll do errands for me and fetch me tea if I require it. If your voice and your ability are agreeable, you will read to me. If not, you will be expected to sit quietly and not speak. Do you understand?”
She had only nodded in response.
“It is not important,” Harriet said now. “You are my companion, after all. That is all that’s needed.”
Janet lowered the book to her lap. “Do you want us to be friends, Harriet?”
“Why ever would I want that? You’re hardly my social equal despite our dubious relationship.” Harriet’s smile carri
ed a brittle edge to it. “I am to be married Janet. Did you know?” Harriet seemed to study her. “But of course you do. Servants always know what is happening in a house. I had decided to take you to Scotland with me, but I believe now that another female will do just as well. In fact, more adequately, I’m sure.”
Janet gripped the book so tightly, she thought her fingers might be embedded into the tooled leather. She clamped her lips over words that would plead. She would implore, and Harriet would only smile. Perhaps. Or maybe the price to go home to Scotland was her pride. Was she willing to sacrifice it? The gleam in Harriet’s eyes seemed to ask the question.
“Please, Harriet,” she said softly. “I very much want to go. Won’t you reconsider?”
No words seemed capable of warming that icy smile. If anything, it seemed to soften into contempt. “Do not look so stricken, Janet. Mama will find you a position among the ladies she knows. Someone elderly, perhaps, who nods off during the day and will not mind your odd accent and your moodiness.”
This, then, was the punishment for not toadying. For her silence, she was being penalized.
“Please, Harriet.” She gave her another part of her pride, delivered in a voice that quivered, but only barely.
Her future, the one that seemed to be changing, now seemed bleak as ash. The cold and empty fireplace held more brightness. Lachlan. She’d never see Lachlan now, never spend time with him, never grow to know him. His home would be a mystery to her just as it was now, a castle that existed only in her imagination. And she would never see Scotland again. Sunsets so vivid they made the heart weep, skies the color of slate, a stark and solemn landscape rendered beautiful by touches of color. A shade of heather, a brown capercaillie and her yellowish chicks.
She didn’t think she could bear it.
Did Harriet know how desperately she’d wanted to return to Scotland? If so, this was a wonderful punishment, delivered with a small smile. She felt something tear within her, a veil that hid her tears.
“Do not shame us both with your toadying, Janet.” Harriet’s voice seemed to come from far away. As far away as Scotland.
Janet began to read again, forcing the words past the constriction in her throat. The last remnants of her pride came to her rescue.
She would not cry in front of Harriet. Nor would she beg further. O sgiala bronach! The Gaelic seemed so perfect for this moment. Oh, sad news, sad news.
Where was Coinneach now? If the old man could read the future so well, why hadn’t he been able to foretell this disaster?
“What happened, James?” Lachlan stood at the cavern entrance. A thick, milky substance clung to the rock walls and fell in rivulets to pool on the stone floor. It stunk of scorched barley, yet also smelled sickeningly sweet.
James was covered in a similar fashion, as were half the men who stood before him. It was not simply their appearance, he reasoned, that made them hold their heads averted or look at the ceiling or the floor. They looked like children who had been caught at some forbidden game. “What happened?” he said again, and this time, his voice ricocheted back to him. He did not sound pleased.
“We thought we might up the mixture a bit, Lachlan. We discharged the still, and it was a puny brew. Hardly worth tasting.”
Twenty heads nodded.
“So you thought you might increase the fire a bit more, is that it?”
“Well, that, and the other,” James said.
“What would the other be?”
“We drained off a little more of the water, Lachlan.”
“You should have seen it, laird. The kettle looked to have the burps, it did.” That was contributed by a small voice from the rear. As he watched, young Alex peeped around his father’s legs. Barely six years old, and already learning the ways of a conspirator. Lachlan bit back a smile.
“I take it there’s no more potent result. Except for this mess.”
James shook his head.
“And no one injured?”
Another negative shake.
Lachlan surveyed the inside of the cavern again. The space was carved into a hill only a short distance from Glenlyon and had served as a hidey-hole for generations. In the last several years, they’d erected their pot still here, where it was sure to escape detection from the English excise officers. A series of pipes and vents ending in a crofter’s cottage on the other side of the hill carried the steam from the still. The fact was that although the cottage was sparkling clean and dusted often, set up with furniture, a cookstove, and pots and dishes, it had never actually been inhabited. But the steam that billowed from its chimney would be seen as nothing more than a peat fire. If it smelled a bit too hearty and forever bore the scent of barley, it was in keeping with the Sinclair diet. As it was, they ate barley from morning until night—barley bannocks and barley soup, barley stuffing, barley bread, barley stew.
This venture might very well save them. His bride’s dowry would be a blessing, but his clan could not live on it for long. The only thing that would save them was the income from their distillery.
It seemed a good enough plan. The problem was the hundred-pound copper pot. It had been paid for with the last of their ready coin, but it had arrived after Angus’ death. No one had been able to coax a palatable brew from it. His clansmen were dedicated, especially since they’d learned there was no more whiskey to be had, but their experience ran to small stills secreted in bed chambers and under piles of peat. They knew nothing about distilling in such a large and imposing vessel. Angus had been closemouthed and guarded his secrets well, so much so that none of their individual or collective efforts had resulted in anything approaching drinkable whiskey. And this afternoon, in an effort to make more powerful the mixture, they’d succeeded in dimpling the expensive pot and bending the tubes that fed into and out of it.
Lachlan stood in the middle of the cave and wondered if the actions of ancestral Sinclair lairds had been so heinous that he was still being punished for it. Surely it was not justice to starve innocents such as young Alex, or cause women to go about with a soft and worried look?
The only bright spot in the gloom of his horizon was Ealasaid. She had been on his mind all night, and she resided there even now as he strode through the cavern, mentally separating those pieces of pipe that could be saved.
“Lachlan?” He looked down, and it was Alex again, this time with his ‘hands tucked manfully into his trousers, his posture not unlike that of his father. His dark brown eyes were the same as most of the Sinclairs; so, too, his dark hair. But it was the stubborn set to his jaw that marked him as a true member of the clan. That and a sweet smile. Lachlan’s mother had told him that it was the downfall of many a shy Sinclair lass, that smile. But she’d laughed as she’d said it and looked over at his father fondly. He missed them both. Perhaps part of his sense of responsibility was the notion that his parents were somehow watching him, gauging his merits as laird. If so, they were no doubt disappointed.
“What will we do now, laird?” Lachlan found it disconcerting to be on the receiving end of an intent stare, especially since it was leveled by a six-year-old. But the question the boy asked was one that each man had in his eyes.
“We’ll clean up this mess, Alex, and try again. That’s what. And if that fails, we’ll do it again.”
It was an optimism he barely felt, but that must be voiced for the sake of the people standing in front of him. It was the only thing he could give them. That, and the gift of himself, freely given. A sacrifice of marriage. Only it did not feel as much of a loss as it had before he’d met Ealasaid.
Five
She could not wait for darkness; it could not come quickly enough. The sun hung upon the horizon like a recalcitrant child unwilling to find his bed. She urged it on with thoughts and words spoken only in her heart. But it did not pass any quicker.
Finally, it was night. The birds signaled dusk with their warbling. No rain marred the sky, but the moon was no longer full. Shadows graced the garden as the hour
grew more advanced. She had learned her lesson during the day-light and did not bid time to hurry, only endured it as she could, her mind blocked to the sound of Harriet’s criticism, her smile absent when she nodded to Jeremy.
Harriet had complained to her bedridden mother about her this afternoon. Janet could not help but wonder if it had been planned that she hear the exchange. She was, evidently, clumsy and aloof and rude. A barbarian who had been barely civilized. She had left the chamber rather than overhear any more.
She had worked beside her father for years, had watched as his hands had coaxed magic from the earth’s bounty. He was a man who’d taught willingly, naturally, sharing his knowledge with any who asked. It was he who’d explained to her the virtue of patience, that it was possible to hasten a thing to its disaster. He was the one, too, who’d shown her how to measure pressure, who taught her to gauge steam, the pattern it made as it floated toward the ceiling, how it gurgled in the pipes. Only then could one vat be combined with another, a mixture of agitation and one of reserve resulting in the perfect fermentation.
Janet felt the same right at this moment. She was outwardly calm, inwardly furious. But it did not show on her face, and her eyes were kept downcast in case their expression betrayed her rage.
Aloof—she was that and proud of it. She’d channeled her temper these past years. Grief and fury and worry and longing had no place in a fight for survival. She’d cooled them beneath a crust of ice lest they burn her.
Clumsy? She’d no words to fight that accusation. True, she’d tripped more than once on the small rugs scattered over the floor, and she was forever catching something that had fallen from a table or the mantle or a shelf. But the rooms were crowded with bric-a-brac, statuary, small pots, and dainty little doilies that collected dust and grabbed at sleeves.
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