Grace in Thine Eyes (39 page)

“Up you go, Davina.” Her father helped her onto the sidesaddle, then strapped her baize bag in place, knowing she would want her fiddle safely at hand. Jamie mounted Grian with ease, then directed their horses toward the long avenue of firs and beech trees leading toward the bay.

Sunlight dappled the road, and birdsong filled the air, as if nothing had happened, as if nothing had changed since the pleasant Thursday evening she’d bumped along in a farm cart on this same narrow road. A time when life was grand and people were kind and no gentleman had done more than give her an admiring glance.

“Davina …”

She straightened in the saddle as her heart began to pound.

“I had a brief conversation with MacDonald. The explanation for his appearance in your bedchamber was romantic to the extreme. He said he’d climbed in for a single kiss before you left for kirk. Can that be possible?”

She blushed, yet made certain he saw her nod.
Aye. One kiss
.

“His reputation would suggest he came for a great deal more …”

Nae
. She could answer honestly, shaking her head.
Not this morning
.

“I’m relieved to hear it, Davina.” Jamie shifted in his saddle to look at her more closely. “You realize, I’m sure, that Reverend Stewart has a rather low opinion of Somerled MacDonald.” When she affirmed his comment with a slight shrug, he continued, “Aye, well, I prefer to make my own decisions on such things. Since my youthful behavior left much to be desired, I try to be fair in my judgment of others.”

Davina adjusted her skirt round the pommel, hiding her surprise. Father had never made such an admission—not to her, at least.

“Somerled is quite resolved that you will be his wife. Is that what you would wish?”

She took a deep breath, then nodded.
Forgive me, Father, but I must
.

His low groan made her heart ache. “ ’Tis serious, then, this affection you share.”

Aye
. Davina longed for her sketchbook. This evening at the inn she would put her thoughts and feelings on paper. Describe Somerled’s good qualities. Convince her father that, despite any scurrilous reports he might have heard, the accusations were not valid.
Not anymore
.

They rode on, catching glimpses of towering Goatfell through the silvery branches. After a lengthy silence, he reached over and took her hand. “I did not send you to the Isle of Arran to find a husband.”

I know
. She touched her brow.
And I did not come here looking for one
.

“I am afraid your mother will be inconsolable at the thought of your living so far from home. And I am not persuaded that you belong with a Highlander.”

She did not respond, hoping he’d not pursue that topic further. Family loyalties ran deep among the McKies.

“You are very young, Davina. But then I am reminded that Margaret McMillan is but sixteen.” He paused to brush a leaf from his coat, sighing as he did. “The heart does not pay much attention to calendars, I’m afraid.”

At least her age would not be a hindrance.

“As for Somerled, he seems well educated, well mannered, well spoken.
Not quite the rogue your cousin painted him to be. And gifted musically, I’m told, though the reverend is not enamored of his technique.”

Davina pretended to play her fiddle in a highly exaggerated manner.

“Aye, that’s the way of it.” His smile was slight but welcome. “I’ve asked Somerled to arrange a meeting for us tomorrow morning. Until I’ve met with Sir Harry and have discussed their proposal at length, I cannot promise what the future holds.”

She touched the instrument strapped behind her, a thought coming to mind. Could Father not come to the castle and hear the two of them perform? His Grace was a generous man; he would not protest one extra plate at his table. And surely if her father heard them play together …

“Would that I had received the MacDonalds’ letters before leaving,” he was saying. “Your mother’s mind would have been greatly eased, and I might have put a stop to the blether making the parish rounds.”

Her hand stilled on the fiddle bag.
In Monnigaff?
Davina listened with increasing dismay as her father described the letter Reverend Moodie had received from their cousin, asking the minister from Monnigaff to pray for her moral fortitude.

“ ’Twas a most unfortunate choice of words. We will be some time undoing the damage.”

Davina stared at the grassy verge, lest her father see her face.
Cousin, you have undone me!
The scandal was no longer contained within Arran’s shores. Her disgrace had gone forth, paving the way home with sharp-edged stones cut from lies and innuendos. She could not return to Galloway and hope to hold her head up. Nae, she could not return home at all.

Marry me, Somerled, and save me from my shame
.

Tears, held at bay all morning, welled up inside her, spilling down her cheeks.

Her father touched her shoulder. “Dinna fash yerself, lass.” Rab’s oft-used phrase. “Your mother will mend the parish fences in her own gentle way. And if you do marry, ’twill not matter what’s been said.”

But your name, Father. Your good name
. She sniffed, drying her
cheeks with her sleeve. He was being far kinder than she’d expected. Or deserved. But then he did not know the truth about Midsummer Eve.
You must never know, Father
.

He tugged on the reins, pointing Grian south along the coast road. A line of gannets flew over the bay, their white bodies and black-tipped wings conspicuous against the azure sky. Brodick Bay shone glassy smooth and iridescent in the morning sunlight, and boats bobbed along the water’s edge, well staked and filled with empty nets. No fishermen were about on the Sabbath; the few cottages nestled along the shore were quiet. On the rutted track ahead were families walking to the kirk, bearing dinner and children on their backs.

“The packet boat that brought me here from Ayr was stalled by calm winds yestreen,” her father said, gazing out to sea. “This morning’s weather is much more conducive for sailing: a good breeze from the east, dry air, and clear skies. I daresay many a boat will reach Arran’s harbors before this day ends.”

Davina glanced over her shoulder toward the castle and beyond. Somerled would sail from Lochranza four days hence, when the duke’s summer gathering ended and his guests headed for the far corners of Scotland. Some gentlemen had already departed for home days ago, Mr. MacDuff of Fife among them. She was glad to see him leave. The older man had regarded her too closely, with an unnerving gleam in his eye.

“What is it, lass?” Her father must have noted her furrowed brow. “Might you be uneasy about facing the parish? What say we show the folk of Arran you are a gracie lass, despite the
clack
they’ve heard?”

But I am not virtuous, Father
. Given or stolen, her virtue was gone.

Unaware of her musings, he continued, “I did not have time to greet the lasses when I arrived or anyone else at the manse. I ken they’ll be relieved to see you. And I’ve a word or two for an overzealous reverend.” Her father gestured toward the Clauchland hills ahead. “Suppose we ask our mounts to climb a bit faster and so give us time for a cup of tea before service?”

She’d not deny her mouth was dry as toast without butter. And a warm embrace from Cate and Abbie might soothe the painful wounds others had inflicted.

Her father urged their horses forward, tipping his hat as they passed a knot of islanders on foot. “The sooner we reach Lamlash Bay, the better, Davina. It’s been a trying morning. Who kens what the rest of the day may bring?”

Fifty-Seven

Their rage supplies them with weapons.
V
IRGIL

W
ill’s temper had not cooled in two days of hard travel. Not on the stagecoach from Edinburgh to Glasgow, jostled to and fro with fifteen overdressed passengers reeking of onions and whisky and sweat. Not astride the hired gelding that carried him south to the harbor at Saltcoats, the wet road tossing mud in his face until his visage was brown. Not aboard the fishing boat that stank of haddock, pitching his stomach fore and aft as he sailed across the Firth of Clyde toward Arran.

Nor was his anger abating now as he and Sandy stood on a stone quay on the north side of Brodick Bay with one portmanteau between them, a thinning purse, and no prospects for their Sabbath meal.

“Gaelic,” Will muttered, listening to the men round them helping passengers disembark. He took off in no particular direction except away from the foul boat. “How are we to find Davina if we cannot make ourselves understood?”

“You might have thought of that sooner, Brother.” Sandy grabbed their bag and caught up with him, aiming them toward a row of cottages thatched with heather. Folk of all ages trudged along the coast road, most barefoot, some carrying shoes. Heading home from kirk, it appeared, and eying the brothers with frank curiosity.

“Have they not seen twins before?” Will fumed.

Sandy stopped to converse with an elderly couple, their faces round and wrinkled, like overripe apples. He feigned spooning food into his mouth, then turned to the cottages, a questioning look on his face.

The couple nodded at each other, then at him. “
Tigh an Sglèat.
”

“Och.” Will wagged his head. “That’s helpful.”

This time the woman pointed to the only house with a slate roof and said again, “Tigh an Sglèat.”

Whatever the place was called, Will decided there were enough windows above stairs and below to suggest lodging rooms. And, God preserve them, some supper.

As Sandy thanked the couple with a nod, Will blurted out, “Ask them where we might find Brodick castle.”

The woman gestured toward a thick bank of vegetation to their right, then drew a line uphill with her finger. “
Caisteal
,” she said before the couple moved on.

Will looked over his shoulder. Not much to see except a narrow track crowded with firs. “We’ll start our search when our stomachs are full,” he decided. They hadn’t eaten in a full day and hadn’t slept or bathed their faces in two. An hour at most and they’d be tracking Davina.

The brothers approached the two-story cottage built of whitewashed rubble and found the front door ajar. Will knocked, the sound echoing down the hall, then ventured one step within. An open door was an invitation, was it not? He knocked again, harder this time.

“Aye, aye!” a woman’s voice called from the back of the house. She appeared a moment later, drying her hands on her worn apron. Nearly as broad as the lads, she might have been forty years of age. Or fifty. Her gray hair was scraped back from her face, revealing a low brow and a sharp gaze. “Mrs. McAllister’s me
nem
. Were ye hopin’ tae find denner or ludgin?”

At least the woman spoke English. “We need both,” Will told her.
And our sister
.

“I’ve let the twa rooms below stairs to a faither and his dochter just this mornin’. They’ve yet tae arrive, though I’m leukin’ for ’em onie time. But I’ve a room above the stair. Wull that do?”

“Aye.” Will nodded at Sandy. “My brother is in charge of the silver.”

“We’ve meikle time for that. This way, sirs.” As they followed her up the stair, she blethered on about the old inn. When Sandy tried to pronounce the Gaelic phrase the old woman had used, Mrs. McAllister snorted. “Ye haven’t the tongue for it, lad. It means
‘
hoose o’ slate.’ ”

Their lodging was as plain as her apron and as colorless. Two bedsteads, two chairs, an unsteady table, and a washstand. But the room was clean, and the inn stood near the castle where they hoped to find
Davina. MacDuff had said she played her fiddle for His Grace each evening. Surely she wasn’t residing at Brodick with all those men …

“Is there another inn nearby?” Will asked.

Mrs. McAllister’s expression hardened. “Doesna this suit ye, lad?”

“Oo aye,” he quickly said. “We’re to meet a certain lady and wondered where else she might be lodging.” He dared not give away their sister’s identity, not until they knew how things stood with her.

“Thar’s not anither proper inn for miles,” she said with a shrug. “I canna think
whaur
else the leddy would stay.”

“Is the parish manse far?”

“Aye, ’tis in Lamlash Bay, aboot five miles south o’ here.”

Will nodded, trying to piece things together. Davina wouldn’t make the long trek up the shore road to the castle every evening. Unless she had a horse. And a braisant Highlander to escort her.

“I’ll leave ye tae get settled.” Mrs. McAllister stepped back from the door. “Thar’ll be a plate o’ cock-a-leekie soup waitin’ for ye in the kitchen parlor. ’Twas hangin’ o’er the fire afore
midnicht
. I’ve not broken the Sabbath, ye ken.”

The moment she left, Will opened their portmanteau; his belongings were on one side, Sandy’s on the other. They’d packed in such haste he couldn’t remember what they’d brought, let alone determine what they’d forgotten. He looked up to find his brother gazing out the window as if Davina might wash in with the tide.

“We’ll find her, Sandy. And take her home.”

“But what will Father say when the three of us show up at Glentrool?”

“He doesn’t know what we know,” Will snapped, exhaustion and hunger sharpening his
birsie
mood. “Father didn’t overhear what this … this cur did to our sister.” He’d had nightmares about those bruises.

His brother turned round, pinning him with a hard gaze. “What should we do about the Highlander?”

Will had been asking himself the same question since they’d fled from Edinburgh. He knew what he wanted to do, what MacDonald deserved, what justice required. But ’twas an
ill-deedie
notion. And they’d brought no weapons, only their anger.

He finally told Sandy the truth. “I’ll know when I see Davina. When I see her eyes and can tell whether or not MacDonald has truly hurt her. And if he has—”