A Bound Heart

by Laura Frantz

  “’Tis wrong. And the danger’s too great. There’s said to be a spy about, so signaling is especially chancy.”

  He pondered this, appearing more alarmed. At last he handed her the weapon. “But the captain’ll be all aflocht!”

  She nearly sighed. Truly, the captain in his anger was nearly as fearsome as the laird.

  Together they looked to the sea. The pistol in her hand grew heavy. The night gave no hint of a vessel, either friend or foe. But the Merry Lass was indeed out there somewhere. Any minute now would come the flash from the mill signaling the coast was clear, then the expected charging of the pan with powder and pulling of the trigger. The resulting blue light was unmistakable on shore. But tonight there would be no light.

  ’Twas so calm. Nary a breath of wind. This was why she heard someone else approach. Her blood froze. The spy? Standing in front of Brodie, she faced the sound, hating the taste of fear.

  “Lark.” The bottomless voice left her weak-kneed with relief. Magnus?

  “Why have ye come?”

  “To send ye home where ye belong.” Though it was dark she read his consternation. He fairly bristled with it. “What risks ye take on such a night. What’s come o’er ye?”

  She sought to explain. “I—”

  “No more, Lark.” Closing the distance between them, he put out a hand. “I’ll not have word of ye in gaol alongside the captain, aye?”

  “Ye misunderstand me. Brodie was set to signal but I talked him out of it.”

  “And d’ye think the excise men and sheriff would believe such blether? Armed with a pistol, yer as guilty as the ground ye stand on.” He took the weapon and thrust it into his waistband. “No more free trading for the both of ye.”

  Chastised as a child she felt. And near tears at his tongue lashing.

  In moments they scattered in three directions. Would this be how he left it between them? With cross words? Would he now ride off to Edinburgh, never to return?

  “Make haste,” Magnus said over his shoulder.

  She grappled for her bearings, staying away from the cliff’s rain-slicked ledge to take an inland path that led the long way to Kerrera Castle and her croft. Even in the darkness she knew it by heart. Halfway home she began to make sense of the meagerest silhouettes, thanks to a bonfire above the beach. The Merry Lass had finally run aground despite the missing blue light. Now the sand teemed with people and carts and horses, all working to unload the goods and spirit them away.

  Thieves, all?

  Lord, forgive us.

  Lark awoke to a gown of lustrous yellow and a card of lace that was like seafoam. The captain of the Merry Lass was gone but had left a gift. Was he not angry with her then?

  Granny clucked over the gift with a kind of awed disapproval. “A lass like yerself canna wear such finery. Ye’ll draw the tax men like bees to the blossom. And they’ll not rest till they have yer story. What can the captain be thinking? Besides, yellow makes ye look sallow. ’Tis not the color for ye, and the captain should ken such. Hide it, we will.”

  Beneath the hearthstone it went, but before Lark felt any loss there came a knock at the door. A footman from the castle?

  “I’ve a note from the laird. He bids ye answer by morn.”

  Slowly, Lark broke the seal bearing the MacLeish crest, an angelic being in a praying posture. The note was addressed to them both. She read the words aloud, voice rising in surprise. “Your presence is required in Edinburgh. Details to come. We depart week after next.”

  They looked at each other, disbelieving. Edinburgh? Auld Reekie? Years ago Granny had set foot on the mainland, but Lark, never. They faced a ferry crossing. A long coach ride. She was pitched between dread and expectation. Did Magnus hope to remove them from any trouble between smugglers and authorities by taking them to the city?

  “There’s no saying nay to the laird,” Granny murmured, going to assess the state of their laundry. “I suspect this has something to do with Lady Isla.”

  At once any high feeling left her. Of course. What else? Had Isla summoned them? Unlikely. But if so, they’d best bring the fertility herbs from the stillroom and anything else that might be of merit. Yet wouldn’t so great a city with all its physics mock their wildcrafting, their herbs and simples?

  “How far, Granny?”

  “A good hundred miles by my reckoning.”

  “’Twill be more than a day’s journey then.”

  “Aye.”

  “’Twill be arduous for yer auld bones.” Lark looked at her with alarm. “’Tis a hard thing he asks of ye.”

  “Och! I’m merely decoration! Ye canna be traveling alone with the laird. Now that would set tongues afire!” Granny smiled so widely she revealed all her missing teeth. “Mayhap Edinburgh is to my liking. I’ve heard tell of the castle and such. ’Twould be a fine thing to lay eyes on before I die.”

  “What is it all about, d’ye think?”

  Granny took the summons from her hands. “We’ll soon find out.”

  8

  Edina! Scotia’s darling seat!

  Robert Burns

  On the rare occasions Lark traveled by coach, she became queasy from the pitching and swaying, and today was no exception. The world outside seemed to be wearing a winter’s cloak, draping the island and mainland in shades of gray. A stiff wind shook the coach, never allowing a moment’s ease. With the weather so chancy, the coach’s shutters stayed shut and the airless interior, though very fine, escaped her appreciation.

  Magnus sat across from them, eyeing Lark as she extracted gingerroot from her purse and commenced chewing. “We’ll come by an inn shortly,” he said as if to cheer her.

  And so they did, but not before she’d lost her midday meal of cheese and oat cake and they’d covered countless leagues. Never had she been so glad to set foot on muddy ground. The sun was setting as she looked up at the colorful sign swinging in an inland wind. The Osprey Coaching Inn. The Thistle seemed bedraggled in contrast, mere shirttail kin.

  “I’ve secured the best rooms for ye,” Magnus said. They followed an apron-clad maid up polished steps to untold wonders while Magnus remained below for a pipe and tankard of ale.

  Lark suppressed a gasp as a door flung open. The timid maid was eyeing them as if trying to reconcile two commoners with such genteel accommodations. “His lairdship’s called for tea. ’Twill be here shortly.”

  Into the bower of brocade and beeswax and paneling they went, Granny’s cackle overriding Lark’s own sigh of delight.

  Tea was brought with a platter of sweetmeats that settled Lark’s uneasy stomach. Feet to a crackling fire—made of coal, not peat—they enjoyed copious cups of hyson that rivaled any that the free traders smuggled ashore.

  “Can it be that in all my years I’ve never once left the island?” Lark’s gaze traveled the length of the room, savoring every richly appointed detail. She and Granny would share a bed as they always did, but ’twas a big bed, a box bed, with brocade curtains to guard against any chill. “Being a lady, even for a day, suits my fancy,” she admitted, stirring both cream and sugar into her tea.

  “Once yer stomach settles, aye. Bethankit we’re not ship bound.”

  Lark shuddered. “The captain talked of the American colonies. He wants to go there.”

  “Then let him go with all the other lunatics and convicts. ’Tis no fate for a lass such as yerself.” The firm line of Granny’s mouth declared she had no more to say on the subject. “Best hie to bed as we rise early, the laird says.”

  Lark could give no objection to that.

  “Yer room was to yer satisfaction, I hope,” Magnus said as he handed them into the coach the next morn.

  Granny’s nod punctuated Lark’s effusive thanks. But truth be told, neither of them had gotten much sleep. Though lush, the bed was strange, the feather mattress swallowing them in its downy embrace. There was all manner of sounds in the street—talk and sated laughter, not the relentless rush of the sea and a clean coastal wind. Lark
lay awake wondering if they’d indeed locked the door as the footfall of noisy guests in the hall kept up a steady rhythm.

  Within two miles, Granny’s snore was muted by the clatter of coach wheels. Magnus opened the shutter nearest Lark, letting in the early summer air. A smirr of rain gave way to sun, turning every leaf and blade of grass glistening.

  “A farthing for yer thoughts, Lark,” Magnus said, eyeing her from the opposite seat.

  “A gold guinea for yers,” she returned, gaze fixed on a distant manor house that rivaled Kerrera Castle.

  He chuckled and removed his hat, laying it on the upholstered leather seat. “Have ye ne’er left the island?”

  “’Tis obvious then?”

  “Aye. I ken yer missing yer bees.”

  “I ken what I have missed beyond those bee skeps . . . and count it as very little.” She smiled and returned her attention to him. “A simple life suits me.”

  “Yet ye have MacDougall blood.”

  “Once upon a time. And now I’ve traded the castle for the croft.”

  “Uncomplainingly so. Yet I ken ye appreciate a bit o’ finery.”

  His words seemed laden with meaning. She nearly squirmed. Did he know of Rory’s gift? “Betimes I’m guilty of coveting a comely gown or hair ribbon—or yer library. But it doesna stray much beyond that.” She looked to her lap, glad she’d worn her second-best dress. The soft green was the color of moss and paired well with her plaid shawl. She’d used a bit of the lace the captain had given her to trim her sleeves and bodice, though his gift of fine cloth remained hidden at the croft.

  “Where did ye come by yer lace?”

  A faint tingle turned into a full flush. “From a certain captain of a fast sloop.”

  “The Merry Lass, no doubt.”

  Alarm doused her. “Is it too much?”

  “Nay. It becomes ye, though I wonder about the sentiment behind it when a chest of tea would do.”

  Their eyes met. Held. Was he . . . displeased?

  “I have tea besides,” she confessed.

  “’Tis easy to be generous with smuggled goods,” he mused, buttoning the top button of his greatcoat against the damp. “I’ve no quarrel with the captain except for his reputation.”

  Drinking and wenching? The ladylike part of her wouldn’t allow for such plain speaking. “People change. Better themselves.”

  “Many die as they lived.”

  He was in a rare, reflective mood. They’d not spoken so freely for years. It cast her back to former days that had a golden mist about them. Before Edinburgh. Before his barrister life.

  “Ye need to be away from the island and anything unchancie there. Not even to cover a peat stack nor shine a light.”

  She let loose a sigh. Somehow the captain’s latest gifts seemed more bribe. A bid to sway her and return her to smuggling. “The captain was so fashed when I refused to help—”

  “The captain answers to me.” He’d switched into laird and barrister again, not her childhood friend. Not the Magnus of old. “He’s not to ask yer involvement ever, nor complain of yer refusal.”

  His stern tone roused Granny just for an instant, and then her head lolled onto her chest once more. Lark stroked the lace of her sleeve, wishing she could peek inside Magnus’s finely tuned mind. He was so like his father that the previous laird leapt to memory with unusual force. ’Twas hard to believe such a man had fallen in battle. Not one larger than life.

  “I’ve always had reservations about yer involvement,” he told her. When she opened her mouth to agree, he cut in. “Though most of Kerrera’s women are part and parcel of the trade, ’tis doubly dangerous with a spy unaccounted for.” His gaze bore into her. “Promise me.”

  She took a deep breath to quell her rising queasiness, despite the pinch of her stays. “I promise. But what of ye?”

  He rubbed his bristled jaw with a leather glove. “I feel called to forsake it as well. The Almighty wants us clean—holy—in all our parts. Ever since I heard George Whitefield preach in Glasgow, I’ve been struck by the light he brought.”

  “Are ye now a member of the Holy Club?” she teased, seeking to dispel the dark mood of before. “Alongside Mr. Wesley and others?”

  He chuckled. The coach took a sharp bend in the road with a lurch that nearly launched Lark from her seat into his lap. It came to her in that instant just why he forbade her involvement with any smuggling. Because of Isla. Because Lark might, as mistress of the stillroom, be of help in some way.

  Were they not hurtling toward Edinburgh for that very thing?

  “You’ve come.” Isla gestured to a settee in the parlor of the MacLeishes’ Edinburgh townhouse.

  They’d arrived but an hour before, and Lark had the impression Isla wanted them in and out of Edinburgh as quickly as possible. Magnus had disappeared altogether once the housekeeper had led them to their bedchamber. His sudden, unexplained absence upended her. Likewise, Granny had been kept from this meeting, was even now upstairs napping, and so Lark faced the laird’s wife alone.

  “Allow me to introduce my physician, the renowned Scottish surgeon, Dr. John Hunter,” Isla said. “’Tis he who summoned you.” Not I, she seemed to say.

  A slight, tidy-looking gentleman rose from a chair and gave a little bow. “You are Mistress MacDougall of Kerrera,” he said, making it sound like a most dignified title. “Keeper of the castle stillroom.”

  “Like my grandmother before me, aye.”

  “Quite lovely you are. And quite young,” he said with warm enthusiasm. “I was expecting neither.”

  The mischievous light in his eyes set her at ease. If he was fire, Isla was ice. She regarded Lark with no warmth, but if she had, Lark would have been doubly upended.

  “Perhaps we can combine our skills and treat my patient successfully. Allow me to explain just what I do. Are you familiar with the term accoucheur?”

  Though she’d been schooled in French, the word rolled off Lark like water. “Nay.”

  “It simply means a physician specializing in obstetrics. A male sort of midwife, if you will.”

  A male howdie? She worked to stay stoic when she wanted to laugh. What would the island’s midwife think of that? Men were kept from such matters, at least on Kerrera.

  “Please, be seated. What is in your kit there?”

  “The herbs and simples of the castle’s stillroom,” Lark answered.

  “Excellent. May I see them?”

  “So what kept ye all afternoon?” Granny asked as Lark entered the townhouse bedchamber.

  “I returned to the schoolroom and learnt all about male midwifery.”

  “Hoot!” Granny looked more dismayed than shocked. “Since when were men let in the birthing room?”

  “City-bred doctors, mayhap. Isla seems to favor it.” Lark went on to explain all she’d found out and in turn what she’d told the doctor. To his credit, Dr. Hunter seemed genuinely interested in what she had to say and was not altogether ignorant of wildcrafting. “He believes we must meld the Almighty’s natural remedies with more scientific methods.”

  “What’s that ye say?”

  “Bring the bounty God has given us in nature into the medical rooms. We clashed on but one matter. Dr. Hunter feels barren women must partake of bed rest and forsake all activity. I say they should walk or ride about freely and live wholeheartedly.”

  “And Isla? What did she say?”

  “Very little. She mostly sat with her pugs and listened.”

  “And the laird?”

  “He came in at the last.” Lark sat by the window, wishing it would open to more than iron gates and a congested street. “He sided with me on living naturally but respects the doctor. He’s arranged to take us about the city day after tomorrow once we’ve rested.”

  “Has he now?” Granny seemed pleased. “I’ve always wanted to see Auld Toun.”

  “I’ve brought hartshorn to mask the smell. Mayhap I’ll stay behind and let ye and the laird go.”

 
“And insult his hospitality?”

  Truly, Lark had no desire to see any more of Edinburgh than she had from this soot-stained window. But for Granny she put on an expectant face. “Till our outing, then.”

  9

  Piled deep and massy, close and high; mine own romantic town.

  Sir Walter Scott

  Magnus hoped for sun and got rain, but it in no way dampened Granny’s glee. As for Lark, she was unusually quiet, taking in the filthy, early June streets and tottering tenements with a canny eye, hartshorn in hand.

  “There’s talk of a new town,” he told them, the words wrapped in an apology. “A more genteel section with parks and townhouses. Safer. Cleaner. The city planners are already calling it the Athens of the North.”

  “Well, I’ll not live to see it, but Lark might.” From her carriage seat, Granny regarded her surroundings with a lively curiosity. “Now where is that coffeehouse ye speak of in this great sea of need?”

  He smiled, telling the coachman to turn onto a side street. A wayward cow and gaggle of geese barred their way, and several dirty, barefoot children ran after them, begging. He emptied his pockets of coin if only to ease the telling empathy in Lark’s face. He was used to turning a blind eye. But Lark . . . She reached out to them, extending her fingers toward these dirty urchins who craved all sorts of attention. The simple gesture cut him to the quick. Had he grown callous to city life?

  The carriage slowed before a respectable coffeehouse, frequented by physics and barristers and open to gentlewomen as well. At Lark’s wide-eyed look, he sent the carriage back to the townhouse and offered both women his arm. “Edinburgh is better seen on foot. Besides, the townhouse isna far.”

  He had to remind himself she’d not been off the island, had never seen a village bigger than Balliemore. Nor had she much considered the novelty of a meal beyond the croft or castle kitchen.

  Her voice rose in amazement as she read from the bill of fare. “Potato pudding under a leg of mutton larded with strips of Seville orange peel.”