Grace in Thine Eyes (45 page)

Davina scampered ahead of them, more like a child than a woman.
Nae
. He grinned.
More like a fairy
. She was breathless and pink cheeked by the time she reached him, her hair turned to wisps, the hem of her blue gown drenched with dew. When she turned her face toward his, Somerled did not hesitate for a moment, claiming a kiss he’d imagined for days.
So sweet, my love. So pure
.

“That’s enough,” Will barked as he and Sandy drew near.

Somerled kissed her once more, not caring if he irked the lads, then murmured in her ear, “The day will come, Miss McKie, when I’ll have you all to myself. And then we shall see what ‘enough’ is.”

Davina’s face turned so red her freckles disappeared, though he noted a slight smile as well.

Her brothers marched up, dressed for a day on the hills: coarse woolen clothing, sturdy boots, and flasks of water on their hips. “Where’s your father?” Sandy asked, looking about with obvious irritation.

“You’ll find him in the vicinity of the lowpin-on stane. If not now, momentarily.” Somerled waved his hand in that direction, already weary of their company. James McKie seemed decent enough, but his sons left much to be desired. “Wait for me there,” Somerled told the twins, “while I bid your sister farewell.”

When she touched his watch, he assured her, “I shall meet you at the inn six hours hence. Then, alas, we truly must part.” He turned to meet Will’s narrowed gaze. “Well, lads?”

“We’ll not be far,” Will warned him. The twins crossed the lawn but did not round the corner, stopping instead to watch the couple from a distance.

Somerled turned his back on them, ignoring their belligerent stances. “I fear your brothers’ trust will not be easily won.” He gazed down at her, memorizing her delicate features. “But if I have yours, Miss McKie, that is more than sufficient.”

She touched her heart, then his. Slowly, tenderly.

Oh, lass
. He swallowed hard. To imagine that she would trust him. Care for him. It was almost more than he could grasp on that cool, gray morning.

But Davina was not finished. Her blue eyes shimmered as she reached up to cradle his face in her small hands, then stood on tiptoe to kiss him.

My love, my bride
. He pulled her into his embrace.

Somerled did not care if her brothers were consulting their watches. Did not care if the servants gaped from the castle windows or whispered in the halls. Davina McKie had forgiven him. Nothing else mattered.

“Make up your mind, Son.” Sir Harry’s gruff voice carried across the lawn. “Will you spend the day wooing Miss McKie or climbing Goatfell?” He strode toward the couple, a determined look on his face. “You’ve already conquered the first. Come show these McKies you can handle the second.”

“Aye, Father.” Somerled did not take his eyes off Davina as he released her. “I’d much rather remain by your side, Miss McKie. But if ’twill convince your brothers I am worthy of you, I will gladly climb any hill on Arran.”

She stepped back, tears swimming in her eyes, then pressed her hands together.
Thank you
.

“Where is your sire?” Sir Harry demanded to know when the twins strolled up. “Will he not see you off this morning? Or does he leave such duties to your sister?”

“Our father departed for Lamlash Bay an hour ago,” Will informed him, chewing on each word. “Arrangements must be made if he and Davina are to sail for Ayr in the morning.”

“And what of the two of you?”

“We sail for Saltcoats this afternoon,” Sandy said, glancing toward Brodick Bay. “Almost the moment we return.”

“Time we started, then.” Sir Harry led the way, walking stick in hand.

With its filigreed handle wrought in silver, the ebony stick was more ornamental than useful, but Somerled did not begrudge his father a prop if it pleased him. For his own footing on the hills, he would count on his leather boots and a careful eye. And Davina’s prayers; no man could wish for greater support than that.

Will turned to his sister, a stern expression on his face. “ ’Tis not far back to the inn. Will you be all right on your own?”

She nodded, though her eyes still bore a faint sheen.

“Father promised to return by three o’clock,” Sandy reminded her. “We’ll arrive a bit sooner. I’ve asked Mrs. McAllister to look after you until then.” Having attended to their sister’s welfare, the brothers trailed after Sir Harry.

Somerled hung back, clasping Davina’s hands once more. “Pray for us, aye?” He kissed her cheek, then released her, difficult as it was, and sent her in the direction of the inn, waving farewell before he turned toward the woods where the others stood waiting.

“Besotted,” Sir Harry said, shaking his head as Somerled walked up. “The lass will still be here when you return. For the moment, we’ve a hill to climb.”

Since the well-trod path accommodated two abreast, Somerled joined his father with the McKies close behind them. “How high is Goatfell?” he asked as they struck out. Though he dreaded the answer, a bit of conversation would calm his nerves more readily than silence.

“ ’Tis high enough,” Will said bluntly. “Nigh to three thousand feet.”

The path was not steep, but the incline was noticeable, more so after they passed through an old gateway in a low dry stane dyke. Somerled kept his gaze to the ground, watching where he planted his feet, though a quick glance upward revealed a thick mantle of clouds. “Are you not worried about the weather, lads?”

“Nae.” Will slapped his shoulder from behind, rather harder than necessary. “The clouds are so low, we may climb above them before we reach the summit.”

“You’ve been on the isle longer than we have,” Sandy chided him. “Do the skies not alter without a moment’s notice?”

Somerled could not deny that Arran’s weather was changeable. “ ‘A cloudy morning bodes a fair afternoon,’ eh?” He could only pray the Scottish proverb proved true. He’d not felt a drop of rain yet, and the ground was moist but firm. Bracken and heather covered the area round them, with scattered stands of birch on the slopes. He had yet to feel the change of altitude in his lungs or his legs. They’d only ascended a few hundred feet, he imagined. ’Twould be a different story by morning’s end.

As they started up the east ravine of a hilly stream, Will said, “I’ve heard this called ‘Knockin’ Burn,’ though I cannot fathom why they chose such a name.”

“ ’Tis
Cnocan
Burn,” Somerled corrected him, spelling it out. Did these Lowlanders know nothing of Gaelic? “It means ‘hillock.’ ‘Stream of the little hill,’ as it were.”

And a fine streak of water it was, falling down rocky gorges and forming deep pools along the way. From the branches of the rowan and birch trees framing its banks, willow warblers sang a plaintive tune, descending the scale in a fall of liquid notes. Somerled listened carefully, wondering how he might mimic their song on his flute.

When Cnocan Burn veered to the west, the twins guided them north instead. Somerled asked over his shoulder, “You are certain of this route, Will?”

“My brother and I took this same path two days ago,” he said, not bothering to hide his impatience. “ ’Tis the fastest way.”

“We need to be off this mountain by two o’clock,” Sir Harry insisted.

“Oh, have no fear of that,” Sandy told him. “You’ll be off even earlier if the weather cooperates.”

They trudged through a wet, grassy moorland strewn with boulders as Goatfell’s slopes loomed closer, the summit draped in clouds. No wonder they’d not encountered other walkers on the route.

An hour or more had passed since they’d left the castle. With
Davina’s father busy in Lamlash harbor, Somerled wondered if she would remain at the inn, immersed in reading
The Lay of the Minstrel
, or go walking with her sketchbook in search of some view she’d not captured. He only knew that he missed her and wished he’d had the courage to stay behind.

Or was this the braver thing, to face what he feared?

Somerled knew the answer.
I will do this for you, beloved
. He’d neglected to tell her so, but the canny lass knew. Though her tongue was silent, those charming ears of hers missed nothing, not even words left unsaid.

“Climbing a bit more now,” Sir Harry observed, a slight wheeze to his voice.

Somerled eyed him askance. Despite the man’s silvery crown, Sir Harry was far more fit than most men his age. Would his father manage the climb without mishap? Would he?

As the gradient increased, their vista widened, encompassing more of the mountain fastness that was north Arran. Somerled spotted a red deer amid the heather. To his right a peregrine, flying high in search of prey, swept down suddenly on its unsuspecting victim.

“Heaven knows why ’tis called ‘Goatfell,’ ” Will groused, “when there are no goats to be seen.”

Somerled kept his irritation in check. “ ’Tis from the Gaelic word for wind:
gaoth
. It must be a windy hill.”

“Not today,” Sir Harry muttered, “or why have the clouds not lifted?” He began puffing harder as they ascended a much steeper slope, then turned west, directly toward Goatfell. “It seems we’ll have no view at all.”

Will turned on his heel. “Would you quit here, gentlemen, so close to the summit?”

“Quit?” Sir Harry shook his walking stick at him, his face red. “Indeed not. Shall we, Son?”

“Nae.” Somerled paused to catch his breath, gazing up at the formidable granite peak. Just as well he’d not eaten much breakfast; his stomach was tied in a knot.

“The last bit is the roughest.” Sandy pointed to the gritty surface of the granite, worn down by the moist westerly winds. “Mind the loose stones beneath your boots, or you’ll lose your footing.”

Will gazed at the summit. “ ’Tis about six hundred feet up. The path is winding and not easily tracked.” He turned round, a hard look in his eye. “You’ll have to follow Sandy and me.”

“Aye,” Somerled said grimly, knowing he had no other choice. “Lead the way.”

Sixty-Five

Deep vengeance is the daughter of deep silence.
V
ITTORIO
A
LFIERI

F
ear not, Somerled. I’ll lead you where you need to go
. Will clambered up the bare granite bedrock, leaning into the rugged slope, his hands outstretched, ready to grasp at anything to keep his balance. Sandy was close at his heels, the MacDonalds straggling well behind them. So much for Highland superiority on the hills.

The weather was ideal. Rain or high winds might have put an end to their plans; a solid bank of clouds would make things far easier.

Conversation among the men had ceased, which suited Will. He wanted them to reach the summit in one piece. Wanted their confidence bolstered, their heads swollen with pride. What was the verse Father often harped upon?
Pride goeth before destruction
. Aye, that was it. Will grimaced, remembering the rest.
And an haughty spirit before a fall
.

He gripped the rocks beneath his hands, steadying himself, no longer able to walk upright; the ascent was too steep. A ridge of rock struck a jagged, vertical line toward the summit. Had he and Sandy veered to the right of it last time or to the left? Too late for such questions; they had already started up the grassier left side. Tempting as it was to secure his footing using the boulders scattered round them, Will had learned such footholds could give way. On Monday’s climb hadn’t he nearly clobbered Sandy with a rock the size of his head? He could not afford a single misstep this morning, not of any kind.

Three days they had waited. Three days they had stilled their tongues and plotted their revenge.

When he heard a sudden cry from below, Will’s heart stopped. “Sandy?”

A quick glance down, and his heartbeat steadied. His brother,
without meaning to, had sent a shower of loose gravel raining down on the MacDonalds. “Careful,” Will called out, though his admonishment was unnecessary. His brother was being as cautious as he, their two minds thinking as one since they’d learned the truth.

Somerled MacDonald had violated their sister. Treated her like a common harlot. Such a man deserved no mercy. And they would show him none, nor his arrogant father. Never mind that the McKie brothers had fled from Edinburgh without sword or pistol. The mountain would be weapon enough.

“Ravens,” Sandy cried, drawing his attention upward. Two birds came tumbling through the clouds, their wings folded, their solid black bodies diving and rolling, showing off their wedge-shaped tails.

Will looked away, refusing to acknowledge the superstition: Two ravens foretold a wedding. He was relieved to glance up a moment later and see another pair of birds gliding through the air with the others. Four ravens meant death, a more timely portent.

Will lodged his feet against an outcropping of rock and waited while the others caught up. Whatever Sir Harry’s claims, his golden-haired son had no gift for hill climbing. Will almost felt sorry for Somerled, watching him scramble upward, his long arms and legs working against him, as if he might fall through the air like the ravens.

“Do you need a rest?” Will called down, exchanging glances with his brother, who was not two feet below him.

“Nae,” the Highlanders answered in unison.

Will resumed his ascent, beginning to shiver from the cold and the dampness of the clouds that crept round the summit. Could it possibly be July when it felt more like October? Monday’s clear skies and bright sun had warmed the rocky slopes; they had no such advantage this forenoon. His breath came in steamy puffs, and the wind had picked up, smelling of the sea. Not a straight blow that would chase away their cloud cover, but a whirling, chilling wind that stirred the pebbles round his feet and whipped his hair into his eyes.

“Another hundred feet,” he hollered, not knowing if they could hear him or if the wind had carried his voice off to the mainland. He’d not remembered Monday’s ascent being so perilous; they must have
climbed on the right side of the ridge after all. They would surely come down that way, he and Sandy.