Read The Adventurer Online

Authors: Jaclyn Reding

Tags: #Scotland

The Adventurer (22 page)

BOOK: The Adventurer
6.31Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

Realizing from his silence that he had not, she explained. “Baked inside the cake are three pieces of paper, each folded into a tiny square. On each note is written a wish. One is for wealth, another for health, and another for your heart’s desire. We must light the candle, and the smoke from it will take your wish up to the heavens. Then, whichever of the notes you find first will be the wish that is granted.” She smiled. “Or so the tradition goes.”

She took up one of the candlesticks that lined the length of the table and used it to light the one on the cake. She waited until a brilliant flame danced before him, then she said, “Now you must blow out the candle.”

Calum looked at her. “Isn’t this a bit ... foolish, lass? I’m a grown man of one-and-thirty years.”

“Two
and thirty,” she corrected. “Your friends are already gathered here. Can a pirate not celebrate his own birthday?”

This brought a round of encouragement from the others.

“Oy, come now, Calum! Make yer wish!”

“Aye, we’re waitin’ for a bite o’ that cake ...”

Calum finally bowed to the weight of popular opinion and quickly, and without ceremony, extinguished the light. Everyone around the table broke out in a cheer.

“Cut the cake no’,” called a voice that he recognized as M’Cuick’s. “See what will be your wish!”

More encouragement followed this suggestion until Calum had picked up his knife and sliced through the spongy pastry. He cut a wedge, pushed the cake open with his fork, and spotted what appeared to be a folded-up piece of paper nearly hidden amongst the crumbling layers. He looked at the lass.

“Take it. Open it, and read what it says,” she said, her eyes alight.

Calum took up the note.

He read it.

And then, without saying a word, he folded it back.

“What’s it say?” Hamish asked, thoroughly caught up in the reverie. “What’s your wish to be, Laird?”

“Oh, he cannot say,” Bella interrupted. “For if he does, then his wish will not come true.”

“Well, we wouldn’t want that,” Calum said, half smiling as he tucked the folded note inside his coat pocket.

He pushed his chair away from the table and stood.

“You’re leaving?” she asked.

“Aye, I’m afraid I am. I’ve work to do in my study, lass. But you stay, have some o’ the cake with the lads.” And then he lowered his voice to a near-whisper. “Thank you for this, lass.”

Calum turned before he could see the shadow of disappointment cross her face.

He’d had to. Because if he hadn’t, she, and every one of his men, would have seen how deeply her gesture had touched him.

 

It was sometime later, after the supper had all been eaten and most of the men had retired to their beds, that Isabella sat at the table in the hall with M’Cuick.

She had taken out her sketching book with a thought to show him the drawing she’d made earlier that day of the peculiar bird. The fire was burning sluggishly in the grate, throwing long, glowing shadows on the walls and in the rafters. The clock on the wall was ticking its way quickly past midnight, and at the opposite end of the table, Fergus, Mungo, and Hugh sat nursing their late-night whiskeys before heading off for bed.

“ ’Tis a capercaillie, lass,” M’Cuick said. “A rare bird it is to find, too. They’ve been hunted so much they’re believed extinct in many parts o’ the Highlands.”

He looked up from the sketch as the others got up from their chairs to leave. “Oy! Fergus, Mungo ... look at wha’ the lass drew. She’s quite a good hand, eh?”

Fergus glanced at the drawing with a scarce amount of interest as he headed for the door. “Aye, she does.”

“She’s made drawings of some of us, too,” M’Cuick went on, pulling out the other sketches in her book. “Look, ’ere’s Calum, Hamish, and e’en meself!”

The image of M’Cuick standing at his stewing pot by the kitchen hearth was placed on the table alongside the others.

Fergus stopped, picked up the drawing, then took a moment to glance through the various other sketches. He took up the drawing of Calum and was studying it closely. When he finally set it back, he glanced at Isabella without saying a word. Hugh was looking through the images she’d drawn while in Paris.

“Shinna you be gettin’ off to bed yoursel’, M’Cuick?” Mungo said.

“Aye. Just as soon as the lass and I finish our tea. Dinna worry yourself about it. Your breakfast will be ready when you get up.”

Isabella watched as the men turned and left, muttering farewells. She felt a shiver along the back of her neck and wondered if it had been the dying fire, or Fergus’s frigid stare, that had given it to her.

“Och, lass, ’tis a lovely thing, your drawing as you do. Nae matter where you go or wha’ you do, you’ll always have your sketches to look at, to remember things, auld times ...”

Memories.

M’Cuick’s expression had grown misty, and Isabella suspected he was thinking about his family. It gave her an idea.

She took up a blank page, removed a chalk from her bundle. “Tell me about Mary, Malcolm.”

He looked at her, startled that she’d read his thoughts so easily. “Wha’ do you mean?” He looked down at the blank page, her pencil poised above it. “Ye’re goin’ to try to draw her? But you’ve ne’er seen her.”

“Yes, but you have. So I want you to tell me. Draw me a picture of your own with your words. You can start by telling me what she looked like on the day you married her.”

M’Cuick blinked, and in that blink, his expression slowly changed. Though he was looking at Isabella, in his mind he was somewhere else, standing in a small village church, nervously awaiting his bride. “She had the blondest hair I’d ever afore seen ...”

For the next hour or more, M’Cuick told Isabella everything about his Mary, how he’d met her, standing at the market in Inverness. She’d been wearing a blue ribbon in her hair, and the moment he’d seen her, Malcolm had fallen completely and utterly in love with her. He told of their wedding, of the simple home they had made. He reminisced about dancing beneath the stars on Beltane, crying like a child when she told him she was expecting their first child.

He described the way she would shoo him out of her kitchen whenever he tried to steal one of her bannocks. He told Isabella everything, the births of their children, the disagreements they had had over the silliest things, and the fun they’d had later making up. He knew her down to the smattering of freckles that dusted her nose and the dimple she would get when she smiled. Isabella asked questions, details about her, and Malcolm answered. And all while he talked, Isabella sketched, sweeping the red chalk pencil across the page.

When he’d finished talking, M’Cuick looked up to see that Isabella was sitting with her chin resting on her hand, just watching him. The red chalk pencil lay on the table before her.

“You’re no’ drawing anymore?”

She smiled. “I finished a little while ago.”

He shook his head. “I dinna e’en notice.”

Isabella took up the drawing, holding it so that it faced away from his view. “Do you want to see it?”

He looked at her, took a breath. He nodded.

Isabella handed him the page.

She watched his face register an expression of pure and utter wonder. “ ’Tis her ... ’Tis my Mary.”

“I wasn’t sure if I had her nose just right, but that is why I drew it in the chalk. I can rub some of it out if need be, redraw it before I ink it over to make it permanent.”

“Nae, lass. Nae.” He shook his head. “ ’Tis perfect as it is. You’ve drawn her just as she was.” He looked at her. “You drew in the bairns, too, Tomas and wee Mary.”

He sniffed. “You e’en drew in Mary’s pigtails. How d’you do it, lass? How’d you make them look so real?”

“I just listened to you, Malcolm,” she said. “I just listened to your heart.”

His eyes glistened with emotion in the low light. “ ’Tis a wondrous gift you have, lass. Wondrous.” He set the drawing aside and reached for her, crushing her to him. “Thank you for it,” he said against her cheek. “ ’Tis the most precious gift I could e’er have received.”

Chapter Fourteen

It was late, more than just a couple of hours past midnight. The candlestick he read by had burned to a guttering stump, and Calum was still poring through Lord Belcourt’s “bibles.”

He’d been at it since leaving the hall earlier that night.

His hair was mussed from the countless number of times he had raked his hands through it in frustration. His eyes were heavy and stinging with fatigue as the names had begun blurring before him on the page.

MacLeans.

MacLachlans.

Clanranalds.

Camerons.

His countrymen. His brethren.

Now inmates in a foreign land.

So many had been taken away, countless many. Calum’s only consolation was that he had recognized a good many of the names on those pages as men whom he had freed.

Not all.

Not most.

But some.

And for Calum, even having saved one was a victory.

Mungo, M’Cuick, Hugh, Fergus—they, along with all of the others, had been entered into the ledger book like just another boll of meal or hogget of sugar on a market list, their intended fates checked off with sterile assiduousness:

Hanged.

Beheaded.

Transported.

Each one signed with the same four words:

At His Majesty’s Pleasure.

There were hundreds of names scribbled in each of the four books. Not only men, but women, even children who had been labeled rebels for merely wearing the white cockade. All Calum could think as he continued to read those words—
At His Majesty’s Pleasure
—time and time again was that “His Majesty,” the usurper George, must be quite pleased.

But there was one name he’d yet to find in the ledgers, the one name Calum sought more than any other.

Uilliam Bain.

He wouldn’t give up till he found him.

“You look tired.”

Calum’s eyes shot up with an alacrity that belied his fatigue. He’d been so concentrated upon his task, he hadn’t even heard her come in the room.

“Lass,” was all he said, and glanced wearily at the clock.

It was past three of the morn. Dawn would soon be breaking.

Was she a dream?

“I saw the firelight shining underneath the door. I didn’t want to disturb you, but I thought you might like a cup of tea and perhaps a taste of your birthday cake. It was a difficult thing, rescuing you a bit of it before the others devoured it all.”

While she spoke, she had emerged from the shadows of the doorway on bare feet, carrying a tray with a small teapot and two cups. A plate with a wedge of the cake stood beside it.

She wore a simple night chemise and had draped a length of tartan woolen around her shoulders to ward away the chill. Her hair was down, tumbling about her shoulders and neck. She looked like an angel sent to earth.

“Thank you,” he said as she set the tray on his desk, poured them each a cup of tea. He felt badly for having left the gathering earlier that evening, and so quickly on the heels of her bringing him his birthday wishes. He took the cup of tea she offered, and then took her hand. She looked at him.

“Thank you for the gift of the cake, lass.”

She stared at him and simply nodded. “ ’Twas no trouble. Everyone should make a wish on their birthday,” she said, and slowly pulled away to sit.

Calum sipped his tea, closed his eyes to savor it. It was just what he needed. It was warm and strong and it eased the weight of the fatigue that had settled over his shoulders during the past hours.

“The tea is good.”

He opened his eyes to see she had lowered into one of the chairs in front of his desk. She had her knees drawn up with her toes peeking out from beneath the hem of her chemise. She was cradling a cup of tea in her hand, sipping gingerly at the steaming brew.

“What keeps you awake at this hour?” he asked.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she said. “Would you mind if I were to just sit for a spell? I won’t bother you. It’s just that it’s rather ... cold in my room.”

“Cold? Why did you no’ say something sooner? I could have Hamish come in to stoke the—”

“Not cold in that way, Calum. Just lonely.”

He looked at her. “You’re welcome to sit for a while if you’d like, though I doubt I’ll be much in the way of company. I’m half asleep myself and I’ve these books to get through.”

He turned his attention back to the page in front of him and started scanning the next column. He tried very hard to concentrate, but he was consciously aware of the fact that she was sitting not five feet away from him, watching him.

“You’re welcome to look through the shelves for something to read,” he suggested.

He watched as she glanced behind him to where the wall was lined with books.

“Perhaps that would help you to sleep,” he added.

She nodded, set her cup on his desk, and got up. The ticking of the clock and the sound of her pulling books from the shelf was the only sound in the room for several minutes.

Calum turned a page in the ledger.

“Anything I can help you with?”

He turned his head to see her suddenly leaning very closely over his shoulder, looking down at the ledger that was opened before him.

They were so close his face nearly brushed hers. He could feel the warmth of her breath on his nose, could smell the scent of her. All he had to do was close his eyes and ...

“Nae,” he said, more to himself than to her. “Thank you, lass, but ’tis a task I must see to myself.”

“What is it?” She narrowed her eyes, peering at the page. “It looks like some sort of account book.”

Calum blinked at her, but didn’t immediately answer.

“Calum, I just want to help.” She frowned when he continued mute. “Why will you not trust me?”

“The question should be why
should
I trust you, lass?”

He tried to ignore her wounded look as he pressed on. “You arrived here knowing my name, knowing even my birth date. You want me to tell you everything, yet you won’t even reveal your true name.”

“I already told you. My name is—”

He held up a hand. “I’m not a suggestible lad like Hamish, lass. I know bluidy well you’re not any mermaid.”

BOOK: The Adventurer
6.31Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

Other books

Silence Is Golden by Mercuri, Laura
Saving All My Lovin' by Donna Hill
The Why of Things: A Novel by Elizabeth Hartley Winthrop
Suzy's Case: A Novel by Siegel, Andy
Loving the Wild Card by Theresa L. Henry
The Usurper's Crown by Sarah Zettel