His expression turned thoughtful, eyes squinting and the corners of his mouth turning down as he considered what she said. “Aye. I see what ye mean.”
She looked up at him, surprised by the sincerity in his voice. He wasn’t arguing nor was he angry. He seemed . . . thoughtful.
Conall slipped a hand between hers, lifting one away to hold as he spoke. “Today’s Beltane. ’Tis the first day o’ summer—a magical night, a new beginning. Perhaps that’s what we need, Mrs. Leslie, you and I.” He tugged on her hand, making her look up at him. “I realize our association started out, uh, less than amiable, but I hope we’ll move past it. I want us to be friends and for ye not to feel like anytime I’m friendly to ye or Jamie that I’m doin’ it out o’ pity or because some auld wives convinced me to.”
His eyes were wide, hopeful, and the sight made her skip a breath. She gave a small squeeze then pulled away her hand, afraid he’d feel it shaking. “I’ll think aboot it, Sergeant.”
He smiled slowly, the left side of his mouth rising before the right, and crinkles fanned from the sides of his twinkling eyes. “Ye do that, lass.”
Chapter 8
As the evening cooled, the people of Dunaid began to draw closer to the warmth of the fire. Conall stood and helped Mrs. Leslie to her feet. He shook out the plaid shawl and placed it over her shoulders.
Aileen pulled it tight then took his offered his arm, and the pair followed Jamie around the bonfire. Conall noticed the darkness seemed to make some people speak in quieter voices and others grow brash and rowdy. A few of the younger men, no doubt emboldened by liquor, goaded each other into jumping over the edges of the fire, and Conall smiled, remembering doing the same as a youth. Usually the object of such a performance was to impress a young lady. He smiled, glancing at his companion, imagining how very unimpressed she would be with such a display. Aileen was a practical woman, and that sensibility was something he found appealing. He disliked the games some women played. With Aileen Leslie, he did not anticipate confused guessing or misunderstood intentions. She was reserved with her emotions, but he did not think her deceptive.
Since their conversation during the meal, he’d noticed that Mrs. Leslie had become thoughtful. She was proud, he knew, especially when it came to taking care of her family, but he’d hoped that his words had softened her heart toward him, even if ’twas just a bit. Perhaps they could even develop a friendship. The idea made him hopeful.They made their way to a quieter part of the field where the majority of the villagers were gathered. Around him, Conall could hear murmured conversations. Deep tones, loud exclamations, and guttural sounds formed at the back of the throat—this is how language was supposed to sound, he thought. Not the rapid chatter of Spanish or the nasal tones of French or even the precise, clipped words of English. The Scottish tongue was warm and hearty, filled with feeling. The language was as rich as the land it came from, and throughout his travels, he’d missed it more than he could have imagined.
A boy called to Jamie, and he ran to a group of children, giving a gentlemanly bow to the young lassies.
Conall smiled, pleased.
Aileen glanced up at him, offering a wee smirk, which he took as approval of his advice to the lad.
Not straying far from Jamie and the other children, they continued moving among the villagers, greeting friends and neighbors. Conall noticed Aileen shiver, and he adjusted their path, moving them closer to the fire as they walked.
Mrs. Campbell was distributing the bannoch Bealltainn, oatcakes baked especially for the festival. As had generations of Celts before them, they saved one portion to leave for the faery spirits, another portion to feed to the animals, and then ate the rest with a special caudle. Conall had only known the residents of the villagers for a few weeks, but the traditions were dear, familiar, and the sharing of them gave him a feeling of belonging to something greater than himself.
Noticing that people were moving toward the livestock pen, Conall called Jamie over. He took Aileen’s arm and led her and the lad to the corral, finding his animals and their goat.
The three of them joined the other villagers, leading the livestock in a slow circle around the bonfire. They made certain the smoke blew over the beasts then fed them a bit of oatcake and sprinkled cooled ashes on their fur.
Conall knew the upperclass Englishmen he’d served with would consider the rite archaic, arguing that a fire could not possibly have protective powers. But the educated British would never understand the heartfelt solemnity and faith that went into such a practice.
With the sounds of animals jostling, the smell of smoke and fur and ash, the memories from his childhood were strong and brought with them such a range of emotion that it caught him off guard. Conall shook his head, rubbing his eyes. When he opened them, Aileen was studying him. She turned away, bending down to touch a mound of cooled ash.
Conall stood near, watching Aileen daub ashes on Jamie’s cheeks. The lad did the same for his mother then turned to Conall, holding up blackened fingertips. Conall bent down and allowed Jamie to smudge some ash onto his face, scratching over the whiskers of his cheeks. The lad gave a serious nod. “There now, Sergeant Stewart. ’Twill keep ye in good health.”
Conall straightened and met Aileen’s gaze. She reached up and brushed her fingers over his cheekbone, rubbing in the ash, then she pulled her hand away quickly, as if she’d acted without thinking, and returned her attention to Nellie.
He stood still, his cheek tingling where she’d touched him. Was he reacting to the memory of the custom? Or to the person who’d performed it? Had Mrs. Leslie been ensuring that her son did a thorough job, or was there more behind her action? The cattle moved restlessly, tugging on the rope, and moving to tend to them gave Conall a private moment to think.
A warmth spread through him. The feeling of belonging grew stronger, not only as to fellowship among the people of the village but the comfort of being with family. He shook his head. ’Twasn’t his family, and he’d do well to remember it. He was letting the magic of Beltane affect him. “Jamie lad, we can leave the horses penned for a few more hours, but the cattle should be returned to the farm soon. Will ye go wi’ me?”
“Aye, Sergeant.”
“And Mrs. Leslie . . .” He spoke in a businesslike tone. Tending to practical matters did wonders to dispel the distractions that were taking over his thoughts. “Do ye mind waitin’ here for a bit?”
He and Jamie left Aileen in the company of Mrs. Campbell and Mrs. Ross, and made the trip through the village. He was glad the boy wore a coat. Once they left the warmth of the fire, the air was damp and chilled. They walked through the darkened village—houses gloomy and vacant, awaiting their owners’ return from the festival with holy fire to relight the hearths and candles.
They walked quickly and delivered the animals to their pens, but the trip still took the better part of an hour. The entire time, Jamie remained uncharacteristically quiet. On the return journey, the lad walked with his head down, hands in his pockets.
Conall slowed. “Is there somethin’ botherin’ ye, lad?”
He shook his head. “I’m just ponderin’.” He glanced up at Conall. “Sergeant, how does it work? How does the fire protect the animals and farms and people?” His nose wrinkled, and he chewed on his lip. “Mam says ’tis the earth and heavens workin’ together to look after us.”
“Aye, I suppose she’s right in that.”
“But people still die, and crops too. And animals get ill, even with the blessin’ and the ash. Does it mean the fire failed? Or that the people were wicked?”
Conall wasn’t prepared for this line of questioning. He’d no experience teachin’ doctrine to a child. Scratching beneath his ear, he considered before he answered. “I don’t think it means either. ’Tisn’t always a person’s fault if bad things happen. Nor is God to blame, nor the fire.” He glanced down and saw Jamie was watching him, listening closely. “We must have faith and do our best to be moral, honest people. And if m
isfortune does befall us, we pray for God’s mercy, and we help each other. ’Tisn’t enough to count on a fire or the Lord to keep everything in order. The most important thing is to care for others and to help them, ye ken? Thinkin’ bad things happen because of somethin’ we did or didn’t do is useless.” He stopped walking, turning to look Jamie in the eye, willing the boy to understand the weight of what he was saying. “Blamin’ ourselves or others leads only to remorse and pain.” Swallowing, he realized how often he’d done the very thing he was preachin’ against.
Jamie nodded slowly. “And ’tis important to be part o’ a village, like Dunaid, where we all watch over one another.”
“Aye, Jamie. Sometimes that’s how the Lord looks after us, through each other.” Conall hoped his answer was reassuring. It sounded exactly like something his da would have said. And it sounded exactly like advice he himself should follow. But knowin’ something and doing it were two very different things.
They walked in silence, each lost in their thoughts until Jamie jerked up his head. Conall darted a look around to find what had startled the child.
“Do ye hear the music?” Jamie pointed ahead. “There’ll be dancin’ now.”
The droning sound of the pipes reached them. The two grinned at each other and quickened their steps.
They found Mrs. Leslie speaking to Davy MacKay and his wife, Catriona. A short woman with a square face, Mrs. MacKay wore a scarf around her hair. She was a cheerful person with gentle manners and a pleasant smile, much like her husband. Conall greeted the women with a bow. “Good evening, Davy. Mrs. MacKay.”
“Good evenin’ to ye, Sergeant,” Davy said. “Good evenin’, Jamie.” He smiled as the boy followed Conall’s example and bowed to the ladies. “From what yer ma’s told me, ye’ve a right clever touch wi’ the horses, lad. Perhaps ye should come work with me in the livery.”
Jamie looked up at Conall, his expression uncertain.
Conall shook his head, placing a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Aye, and true ’tis. But the lad’s far too happy workin’ for me. I’ll not have ye poach my best employee.”
Davy gave Conall a wink and looked back at Jamie. He shook his head, clicking his tongue. “Poor Jamie. Ye must get tired o’ hearin’ the sergeant’s war tales, surely?”
Jamie shook his head, eyes bright. “Not a’tall, Mr. MacKay.”
“Well, more’s the pity.” He sighed. “My own stories o’ tendin’ animals and mendin’ plows are much more captivatin’.”
Catriona swatted her husband, rolling her eyes at his teasing. “And how are ye enjoin’ Dunaid, Sergeant?’
“A lovely place with fine people. I like it verra much, Mrs. MacKay.”
“Davy said ye’ve only taken the house for a few months. He worries ye’ll be off once the harvest is in.”
From the corner of his eye, Conall saw Mrs. Leslie turn toward him. He wondered if the news was a surprise to her. And if it was, how did she feel about it? “Aye, well . . . ’twill depend on what I discover about where my family’s gone to, ye ken. Mr. Graham helped me to contact a minister in Fort William, a Mr. Douglas. And I’m waiting on word. Otherwise, I believe I’d happily settle in Dunaid forever.”
“Well, we’re glad to have ye bide here as long as ye will,” she said. “’Tis nice to have the auld house occupied, and the mutton . . . Well, none o’ us are complainin’ aboot a full belly, now are we?”
He glanced at Aileen but couldn’t discern anything in her expression. She simply watched him. “Leavin’ the Highlands . . .” He sighed, feeling an ache at the thought. “’Twouldn’t be a simple decision, to be sure.”
Catriona gave an understanding nod.
Davy winced and rubbed his knee above the wooden leg. “Och, if ye’ll excuse us, I’ll be needin’ to sit a spell.” He motioned toward the music and the more boisterous partygoers. “Jamie, if ye’ve a mind to join the dancers, I’m headin’ in that direction. And perhaps Mrs. MacKay will need a partner, bein’ that her husband’s not disposed to doin’ a jig. ”
Jamie looked up at his mother, eyes hopeful.
“We’ll keep an eye on him,” Mrs. MacKay said. Once Aileen nodded her permission, Catriona took both Davy and Jamie by the arms and headed toward the dancers.
Conall and Aileen watched them go. The field wasn’t large enough to worry about Jamie getting lost, but away from the bonfire, the night was dark and cold with folks consuming ale and getting into all kinds of mischief. Conall wondered if Mrs. Leslie was concerned about Jamie finding trouble.
He thought they could move closer to keep a better watch over the lad and turned to propose the idea to Aileen when a gunshot cracked in the night.
Sweat broke out over his skin. Conall jerked around to pull Mrs. Leslie to the ground, but he got no farther than laying a hand on her arm before his mind registered the source of the noise. A log snapping in the fire. He closed his eyes to calm his pounding heart and dispel the battlefield terror that had come over him. He could hear screams and cannons but knew the sounds were no more than memory. At least the rational part of him knew. Another part—the same that fed his nightmares—was frantic to take cover.
“Sergeant?”
He felt Mrs. Leslie’s hand cover his and looked down to where he still held her arm. Releasing his grip, he winced. “I beg your pardon. I was—I was just caught off guard, startled for a moment.”
Instead of backing away, Aileen stepped closer. She took his hand, which he realized was still shaking. Conall felt mortified. What must she think of him? He steeled himself, pushing the memories away and blowing out a breath. “Truly, I apologize. I—”
“I ken.”
He looked into her face, and instead of pity or disgust, he saw understanding.
“It happens suddenly, for no reason.” She spoke softly, holding his hand in both of hers. “Sometimes weeks will pass without giving it a thought, then a smell or a sound, and it’s like bein’ back there again.”
He breathed heavily, studying her hands as his heartbeat calmed. Aileen’s hands were small, the nails were short and her fingers calloused. Not a gentlewoman’s hands, but those of a person who’d seen hardship, hands that labored each day to provide for her son.
She continued softly, “’Twas more than eight years ago, and the memories are still there, no matter how hard I try to forget.” She looked up at him. “Do ye have the dreams too, Sergeant?”
“Aye.” He nodded, wondering what ’twas that had happened to Aileen Leslie. Davy had told him the villagers came from all over the Highlands. Some after suffering terrible ordeals when they were driven from their homes. Eight years ago . . . Jamie must have been an infant or perhaps yet to be born. What kind of monster expels a young mother from her home? What had happened to her husband? Had he gone to the war? A number of scenarios moved through his thoughts, each worse than the previous. But he wouldn’t ask. He had a feeling she’d already revealed more than she was comfortable with. He looked up and held her gaze. “And how do ye overcome it?”
“I’ve Jamie. Without him to care for . . .” She let the words trail off. She dropped his hands but didn’t move away. Pulling the shawl tighter, she shivered. “And what about yerself, Sergeant? What keeps yer dreadful memories at bay?”
He shrugged. “The farm. I toil each day until I’m too tired to dream.”
The corners of her mouth turned down, and she nodded. An expression he’d seen before when she was considering something he said.
She shivered again and took a step close to the fire. Turning her head slightly to the side, she spoke, keeping her gaze on the flames. “Davy tells me ye didna ken aboot the evictions until ye returned home.” Her voice was a bit louder but not less concerned. “I’m sorry. Must have been devastatin’ for ye.”
He nodded, moving toward the warmth to stand beside her. “Aye. But I wager ’twasn’t as devastatin’ as experiencing it firsthand.” He wanted to know more but had to tread carefully, fearing she’d close off c
ompletely if he asked questions that were too personal. “Where was yer home, Mrs. Leslie?”
She stiffened, and he cursed himself for not exercising more caution. “Northeast of here,” she finally said.
The Duchess of Sutherland’s lands. He didn’t ask more.
After a long, uncomfortable moment, Aileen turned from the fire. She wore a smile that seemed a bit forced. “And where did ye serve, Sergeant? Ye mentioned Spain and Australia.”
He was grateful for the change of subject. The question was asked in a casual tone, and he answered in the same manner. “I was mostly at sea, assigned to one ship or another. I spent a bit of time in the Mediterranean and Greek isles, but once I served on the Bellerophon, Captain Seymour requested I be assigned to the ship until the end of the war. He primarily sailed convict vessels to New South Wales.
She nodded. “My father served as well.”
The way she said it, her voice low and shaking, told him all he needed to know. Like so many others, Mrs. Leslie’s father hadn’t returned from the war. One would think such news wouldn’t affect a person after hearing it so often, but each time he thought of a dead comrade or heard tales of brave men who gave their lives for the Crown, Conall felt an ache. “I’m sorry,” he said. “And yer mother?”
“Died when I was six. A fever and sickness o’ the lungs.”
Conall nodded, knowing without her saying that she didna want to speak o’ her parents anymore.
They remained, side by side, watching the fire. The silence wasn’t uneasy, but Conall still wished he could think of something to say.
Mrs. Leslie adjusted her shawl. Was she cold? Now that he thought of it, she’d shivered enough during the evening that he should have taken her home hours ago or at least found her a warmer wrap.
He nudged her arm with his. “Come, lass, if yer ready to leave, I’ll fetch the horses and Jamie.”
Chapter 9
The day after the Beltane festival, Aileen woke Jamie early. “Come, mo croí. We’ve hives to deliver.” She sat for a moment in the faint dawn light, rubbing her neck. Her head and body ached. She’d stayed out far too late the night before, and scrubbed the house for hours as well. It would probably take a day or so to recover.
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