The Adventurer (20 page)

“Calum!”

Her animated call had him turning, jogging to join her where she was bent at the waist, fishing in the surf with both hands. Whatever she’d spied had apparently taken her mind off keeping her skirts dry, for the hem now dragged heedlessly in the water, swirling about her legs.

“Look!”

She fished a hand beneath the water’s surface and then pulled it back, holding up a single gold coin.

She was grinning as Calum took it. He looked at it closely. “ ’Tis Spanish.”

“A Spanish coin? Here?”

“Aye, lass. ’Tis from a shipwreck. There’s countless many of them in this bay. The sailing up on the cape can be difficult, especially to those who aren’t familiar with the waters. Many a vessel has been lost. After time, they drift down here where they bury themselves in the seabed.” He pointed outward. “If you look, you can see some of the masts yet sticking up from the surface.”

She shaded her eyes against the sun, eyes that were the very blue of the water before them. “Oh, yes. I do see.” She turned back to face him, her eyes alight and her face as lovely as a thing should ever be. “Thank you for bringing me, Calum. This is a special place.”

Calum’s voice had grown heavy in his throat. “Aye, lass, it is.”

And she was a special lass.

There was something about her when she’d turned, her hair pulled loose by the wind, her face kissed with color from the wind. Whether it was the place, or the lass, or the mixture of the two he did not know. All Calum knew was he couldn’t resist himself as he pulled her against him, tipped back her head, and lowered his mouth to hers for a kiss.

She didn’t deny him. She sighed softly and melted into him.

It was the only persuading he needed.

Calum lifted his hands to her face, fanned his fingers against her neck and jaw, and deepened the kiss, kissed her as if it were the last time he ever would.

Because he knew it very well could be.

His belly clenched and he molded his mouth to hers, losing himself, kissing her with long and passionate strokes, relentlessly tangling his tongue with hers.
Dia,
but it was incredible. She gave every bit as much as she took, sliding her hands up against his chest and splaying them against the linen of his shirt. He wondered if she could feel how fast and how hard his heart was beating.

He pulled his mouth away, but only long enough to drag it along the curve of her jaw to the hollow of her slender neck. He heard her suck in her breath as his fingers slid back to cradle her as she dropped back her head, moaning softly in her throat. He sought out her warmth, wanted to steal her breath, he wanted to take her, make her his, and he knew she would let him until—

Calum was taken by a sharp and sudden shove. It instantly broke them apart, had him staggering, staggering headfirst into the surf.

He landed, sprawled flat, with a resounding splash.

When got to his feet, and the red flash of his anger and dripping of his hair had cleared from his vision, he saw Bella looking at him. She had a giggle in her eyes and a grin on her lips. The same lips he had moments before been kissing.

She was grinning because beside her stood the lagging tongue and grizzled dim-witted face of Fergus’s deerhound, Fingal.

He’d been named for the famed Scottish giant, an appropriate name given that when the beast stood on hind legs, the dog was taller than M’Cuick.

And then Calum peered beyond the dog and the lass, and spotted Fergus standing on the bluff overlooking the bay. Standing and looking none-too-pleased at what he’d undoubtedly seen.

“Bluidy
cù
...” Calum muttered to the dog as he dragged himself out of the water, his shirt soaked and clinging to his skin, and his trews dripping a trail behind him.

The drenching had served to do one thing. It had certainly doused the fervor that had seized him.

And somehow, as he looked at him standing up on that bluff, Calum suspected it had been Fergus’s intention all along.

A quiet wind drifted in off the isolated shore, causing the thick tufts of marram grass to whisper and sigh. The sun was veiled, lost behind a murky haze of slumbering clouds, and the sea seemed not to move, not even to ripple. The air was damp with morning’s mist, the hour early. And it was silent, so silent in fact, even the birds weren’t calling.

A perfect day for sitting amongst the dead.

Isabella had spotted the tiny burial ground when she’d been out riding with Calum the day before. He had called it Balnakeil, which meant, he’d told her, Bay of the Church. Indeed, the scattering of headstones and their picturesque sanctuary lay on the curve of a quiet little bay, inland from the sea above a wide stretch of sand that was so white it glittered. There had been a church at the site for over a millennium, he’d said, since 722 when St. Maelrubha had first founded it. The church building itself was in ruins, its roof partially missing, its stone walls crumbling in some places, seemingly held together in others by only the drape of rich green ivy that covered it like a shroud.

Graveyards had always held a fascination for Isabella. Some people saw them as dark and depressing, but Isabella looked on them as she looked on a museum, with the stones as the works of art. She could spend hours gazing at them, trying to interpret the meaning of the symbols and the words carved upon them. She would wonder at the lives that had been led and then had ended—who they had been, how they had lived. She would pull away the weeds that threatened to eclipse them and smooth away the debris, as if to somehow assure them they hadn’t been forgotten.

When she’d seen the place the day before, and had learned of its ancient history, she had taken note of where they’d been and had woken that morning with the sole aim of returning there. Calum had gone off at dawn, Hamish had told her, though the lad didn’t know where or when his laird would return. So she’d gathered her sketching tools and papers, and had set out just as the sun was climbing over the moor.

The outing also gave her the opportunity to practice her riding skills. It was a daunting step for her. Calum could never know what he’d done when he’d swept her up onto the back of that stallion, ignoring her protests against it. When she’d been a child, eight perhaps nine years old, Isabella had not been reluctant to ride at all. She had ridden most every day and she had loved it, surrounded by the scents and sounds of the seasons.

But much as she loved it, she hadn’t been the rider Elizabeth was.

Reckless, wild Elizabeth was a born horsewoman. Where Isabella rode for leisure, to soak in the countryside and reflect on the day, Elizabeth had ridden at one speed—a breakneck gallop over the rolling Northumbrian hills around Drayton Hall each day. As was her nature, Elizabeth had one day challenged her younger sister to a race; and for once, not wanting to be left behind, Isabella had accepted.

They’d crossed the first field neck-to-neck, hooves flying as they laughed into the wind, their pert riding hats swept from their heads to flutter behind them. They were heading for the second field when Elizabeth veered her horse, a spirited young stallion, toward a low dry-stone wall. It was as if danger called her name. She’d cleared it easily.

Isabella was hesitant, but unwilling to concede without even trying—after all, she was still a Drayton and had her pride. She pushed Clover to follow, but the mare had neither the strength nor the experience of the other horse. Her back hooves clipped the wall and the two of them went tumbling into the ditch that awaited on the opposite side.

Isabella was thrown clear, but Clover was left with a broken foreleg.

The duke had had no choice but to put Clover down. Isabella would never forget watching the poor animal’s suffering as it lay, helpless and twisted in that ditch, its eyes rolled back in its head in shock. Nor would she forget the echo of the musketfire that had ended her life. It had been the last time Isabella had ever ridden.

Until yesterday.

The sheer power of the stallion had been a frightening thing, but somehow, with Calum at the reins, her fears had quickly melted and she’d begun to remember how much she had loved the feel of the wind against her face, the thunder of galloping hooves pounding in time to her racing heartbeat. It was as close as a person could get to flying and she’d reveled in it. So when she’d woken that morning, Isabella had summoned up the courage to ask Hamish to saddle her a biddable mount. She would take it a step at a time.

The small sweet garron pony Hamish had selected plodded her way happily over hill and moor; she almost seemed to sense Isabella’s nervousness and kept to an easy pace. She was a dun-colored mare with a body much more compact than that of the stallion, lower to the ground and sure of foot across the rugged Highland terrain. Hamish had told Isabella the horse’s name, but it had been in Gaelic and sounded in English rather like he had just insulted her, so Bella simply called her “girl.”

It was a little odd at first, taking to the saddle, for Isabella rode astride; the sidesaddle wasn’t a thing commonly found in the Highlands. But she’d managed to hitch her skirts through her legs breeches-style in a manner Elizabeth had often done (away from the eyes of the duke and duchess, of course) whenever she’d wanted to ride particularly recklessly.

Along with her sketching tools, Isabella had taken a basket from M’Cuick. He was planning a new dish for supper that evening with a roast of beef and mutton collops and had asked if she would gather him some primrose and purslane to spice it with. She had agreed, though she would see to the task later. Right now, however, she was far more interested in the study of the headstones that surrounded her.

There were tall Celtic crosses, standing stones weathered by the sea, and huge granite slabs carved in Latin.

Some displayed winged angels with cherubic faces, others had chilling images of stark skeletons holding the hourglass of time. Many showed the occupations of the deceased through symbols of their trade, blacksmiths, farmers, and mariners especially. They were ancient and beautiful, the carvings upon them telling the life story of the departed soul through intricate symbols with decorative intertwining plaits and knots.

Even now her drawing pencils and chalks were scattered on a cloth beside her as she bent her head close to the pages of her sketching book, slowly, painstakingly copying the ornate designs.

She was so engrossed in her task, she didn’t even notice when she was no longer alone in the graveyard.

She simply looked up, seeking the next design.

And she saw him.

It was Calum.

He was weaving his way through the headstones and crosses with a destination obviously in mind. He hadn’t seen her. He had passed where she was hunched behind one of the larger crosses and had kept on walking, no doubt never expecting there would be anyone else there that early in the morn.

Isabella remained as she was, motionless, watching as he stopped at a stone that stood on the very edge of the graveyard, closest to the sea. He crossed himself, bowed his head, and closed his eyes reverently. Everything seemed suddenly to still. Isabella herself scarcely dared to breathe. Until the wind softly ruffled his hair, and he reached out slowly, gently placing a hand against the weathered stone. The obvious emotion that came with that one small gesture nearly brought her to tears.

He turned and she saw his face in profile. His expression was stark, hollow, and filled with a terrible grief.

Isabella felt she should leave, felt an intruder on this obviously private moment. But leaving would only alert him to her presence. He’d obviously wanted to be alone; why else would he not have told Hamish where he was going? It would be better, she decided, to simply wait until he’d gone. So she remained where she was, although she glanced away as if to allow him his privacy.

She waited. When she chanced a look back, he had lifted his hand and she saw that he held a single flower, a wild rose, white and lovely, in his fingers. He hunkered down, gently placed the flower at the base of the stone, stared at the stone a moment more, then stood to leave.

Isabella remained hidden among the stones until he turned, walked away, and had been gone for several minutes.

She hadn’t seen him much since they’d returned from their ride the day before. All along the ride back to the castle, he had been quiet, his mood remote. Somehow she had sensed it was more than just having been plunged into the sea by Fergus’s dog, even though that had been the definite turning point of what had been a most wonderful day.

She’d asked Calum, but he’d just shaken his head, telling her it was time for them to get back to the castle. She’d heard later from M’Cuick that Calum and Fergus had exchanged words, heated words behind the door of Calum’s study. Had it been because Fergus had found them together? It only seemed to support the feeling she sometimes got that Fergus wasn’t pleased at having her there, even though it was he who had brought her.

Stepping quietly through the graveyard, Isabella went to the stone over which Calum had prayed. The flower he’d left had blown from where he had laid it into the weeds below and Isabella bent to retrieve it. It was a simple stone, gray and weathered from the sea, with the carvings of a double heart and a flower that looked very much like the wild rose Calum had brought.

As she placed the bud back upon the base of the stone, she read the words that were carved in Latin upon it:

Here lieth the mortal body of Moira,
wife of Artair Ros Mackay of Wrath,
the great Jacobite lately fallen at Sheriffmuir.
She joineth him in eternal slumber
the 2nd of June 1716.

There was more carved underneath it, obscured by the overgrowth. Isabella knelt closer, pushed away the tall grass and read:

Taken this day a wife ever true,
And a mother for naught more than a moment.

The words left Isabella with a chill that had nothing at all to do with the weather.

This was Calum’s mother’s grave. And she had died giving birth to him.