by Karen Brooks
Sensing her ambivalence, the captain continued quickly. ‘I should probably tell you there’s not much I haven’t seen, what with being at war and tending wounded soldiers and civilians — women and bairns as well. Seeing them maimed and worse, all the times I carried one of my men back from a tavern and saw them to bed. Then, there’s the help I gave as a lad with calving and lambing back on Skye. And that’s before I blether ’bout my sisters. Och, the stories I could tell you about those two and my ma and me bathing and dressing those wee grubs…’
His tone was solemn, but also teasing, temperate, as he helped her divest herself of her shirt. As she tried to tug her shift over her head, her arms wouldn’t co-operate as it clung to her body. She had to rely on him to peel it over her head. The entire time she was being undressed, he talked.
Standing before him naked, aware of how thin, bruised and scarred she was, she nevertheless held her head high. Captain Ross had not once looked away from her face.
Falling silent, he took her by the hand and helped her step over the lip of the tub, holding her steady as she lowered herself into the steaming waters.
Shutting her eyes as the level rose around her, relishing the feel of the scented liquid lapping her flesh, the sting as it touched her wounds, she sank deeper and rested her head against the edge, releasing a long, contented sigh.
Uncaring that he saw her at her most vulnerable, bore witness to the cruelty that had been inflicted upon her physically, she opened her eyes and brazenly watched him as he knelt beside her, sleeves rolled up, a cloth in one hand, soap in the other. For all the world as if he was his ma and she one of his sisters. He kept his eyes fixed on the body part he was administering to, being careful not to let his shock at her state, the numerous wounds, the still-healing scars, show in his expression. He’d a task to perform and he would do it. As he worked upon her body, he distracted them both by humming a tune, a wild, sweet refrain. It made her think of grass blowing in the wind, seagulls bobbing on the water, and the way the clouds would sometimes dance across the sky. Any nervousness or anxiety fled. At one level, she’d lost all sense of humiliation in the Tolbooth, but at another, she’d found the strength to demand what she wanted.
She wanted a bath, aye, to be clean and thus cleansed. But, as the captain carefully lifted her other arm and began to soap it in gentle circles, rinsing and then repeating before moving to another part of her body, she knew deep in her heart, she wanted this man too.
THIRTY
My Lord, this is not the tenth part of what may be said upon this subject…
— A Letter from a Gentleman in Fife to his Friend in Edinburgh, 1705
When Sorcha woke the next morning, she was at first confused. What was she lying on? What was that sweet smell? The quiet but steady breathing? She was so warm, so comfortable… Not daring to move lest she disrupt the dream, she lay still, her fingers resting against the sheets. Sheets! Slowly, her memories of the previous day returned.
She was in her cottage in Marygate. She was free of the Tolbooth. She was clean. Never again would she have to endure the pain and suffering of the last months. Her thoughts flew to the others, to Nettie, Isobel and Nicolas. How were they faring? And what of Lillie, Margaret, and poor, poor Janet? Her heart flipped as she thought of Janet Cornfoot, exchanging places with Beatrix in the cold dampness of St Fillan’s Cave; for some reason, she’d been selected to pay for all their sins. Beatrix had survived. In what condition she was yet to learn. Hopefully, Janet would as well.
Then she recalled last evening.
Turning her head slowly, she studied the man sleeping beside her.
After bathing her yesterday, a bath that saw three changes of water before Sorcha was satisfied, he’d given her a cloth for her teeth, then helped her dress before serving a rich meal of mutton, fresh bread, kale and neeps. Unable to eat much, she nonetheless downed what she could, slowly fighting her stomach’s urge to rebel. Understanding she was struggling with eating and talking, the captain filled the silence with quiet conversation, telling her more about his life until, about an hour after the meal was finished and they were seated by the fire and she’d enjoyed her first dram, she begged him to tell her about what had happened while they were locked up. What happened when he went to Edinburgh all those times. How he’d finally succeeded in getting the Privy Council to order their release.
‘I didn’t do much, Mrs McIntyre,’ he said.
‘I think, captain, the time for you to address me as Mrs McIntyre has passed, don’t you?’
Colour flooded his cheeks. ‘Aye.’ He cleared his throat. ‘In that case, please, call me Aidan.’
The sun had set and Aidan lit a couple of candles. Not because they needed them, but because after being denied something as simple as candlelight for so long, Sorcha wanted it. Seated in her parents’ old chairs, Sorcha wondered what her da, her mor, would make of Aidan Ross, an incomer, and couldn’t help but think they’d approve.
‘I couldn’t do as much as I would have liked,’ he added, bringing her back to the present.
‘But what you did — the letters, the representations — they made a difference. Camron MacGille overheard the bailies saying as much. Sometimes we could hear bits of what the men in the room above were saying and would try to make sense of them. It was evident your involvement changed things. Not only did it mean the authorities couldn’t ignore what was happening here, it had us released.’
‘I think I played a small part. Once my commanding officers reminded the advocate and the Privy Council that by law, witches — sorry, lass —’
Sorcha dismissed his words. Apologies weren’t necessary from this man.
‘— are not meant to be tried by locals or in the jurisdiction where they live, they understood something had to be done. There have been too many tragic outcomes in the past to tolerate it any longer.’
‘You’re thinking of Bargarran and Christian Shaw.’ Sorcha repressed a shudder. To think they could have suffered the fate of those accused.
‘Aye, and others. Once I managed to reach my colonel and remind him of this, he spoke to his cousin, the Earl of Rothes, and that’s when things really started to happen.’
Though he had powerful connections, Sorcha had no doubt the captain was underplaying his role. She knew it was because of him, and those in the village who’d never ceased in their support and agitation for the women’s dispensation, that this had happened.
Yet what of the reverend and his followers? A spark of fear seared her ribs, made her heartsore and uneasy.
‘It’s not over yet though, is it?’ she asked.
The captain poured her another dram and then topped up his own quaich.
‘I’m not going to lie to you, lass. Nae. It’s not. You’ll have to appear in Edinburgh. They’ve ordered a trial and that’s what they’ll insist upon. The good news is they’ll not allow those they see as legally untrained and thus ignorant to pass sentence upon you — that means your bailies and minister. The Pittenweem council. Reverend Cowper will do all he can to overturn the order and have you tried here in the Weem and by himself and the bailies — he’s said as much and not just to me. He’ll go looking for more evidence to prove the charges against you all and thus bind the lawyers in Edinburgh into an agreement — one where he sets the terms.’
Her eyes slid from the captain’s face as she thought of Peter Morton. She hadn’t even asked after him, the lad whose sudden illness had started this in the first place.
‘What do you think will happen to Janet Cornfoot? Will you be able to appeal to your colonel for her release too?’
Captain Ross shrugged. ‘I’ll alert the colonel to her situation and pray that he in turn will let his cousin know.’ He hesitated. ‘It’s my belief the reverend’s punishing her because she recanted before the Queen’s Advocate who, you understand, still seeks to try you. When the rest of you followed her lead and did the same, you humiliated him before his betters. Worse, before his peers and the town. Despi
te what Cowper says, he’d no real choice but to set you free for the time being. He can’t hold each of you, but he can Mrs Cornfoot — for all your sins.’
‘Has he not done enough?’ asked Sorcha sadly.
Stretching out his long legs, the captain sighed then gave a short, sharp laugh.
‘What? What’s so funny?’
‘I was just thinking. The reverend isn’t going to have it all his own way.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Unbeknowst to him, young Peter Morton is about to be summoned to Edinburgh to appear before the Privy Council.’
‘But…’ Sorcha sat up, alarm writ on her features. ‘If they see how afflicted he is…’ Images flashed before her. Peter writhing on the ground, his hands spraying blood as they struck the stones, his distended stomach, bulging eyes. His emaciated body.
‘For some time now Peter Morton has shown no signs of bewitchment. Something the gentlemen who interviewed you weeks ago noticed as well.’ The captain swirled his whisky then tossed it back, smacking his lips in appreciation. ‘Aye, the reverend may have coached the boy while he was… sick, but if he does it again, it will do naught but arouse suspicion. I’ve a feeling the Morton lad’s days of conning the townsfolk are over.’
Relaxing into her chair, Sorcha sighed wistfully. ‘I hope you’re right, Aidan, I really do. I just wish I knew why Peter did it in the first place. What did he hope to gain?’
Aidan shrugged. ‘Notoriety? Approval? Sympathy? Who knows why people do such wicked things.’
Sorcha dwelled upon the captain’s words. Would the lad dare to perform for an Edinburgh audience?
As she stared at the captain now lying beside her on the bed, his head on the pillow, she thought how young he looked with his eyes shut, his face in repose. It was a strong face, all angles and planes with a dark growth along the jawline and upper lip. His lips were full; his mouth upturned. Tearing her eyes away and quashing the thoughts that rose unbidden, she resisted the urge to push a stray lock from his forehead. What a gentleman he’d been last night. Not only had he bathed her with measured thoroughness and helped her dress, he’d fed, entertained and reassured her and then, when he helped her to bed, acceded to her wish that he remain alongside her — on the mattress.
‘Not for any other reason than the security of your company, Aidan,’ said Sorcha, though she wasn’t sure why. It was clear he neither found her attractive nor much of a woman. Who could blame him? She was like a scarecrow that had hung all season, barely withstanding flocks of crows, pecked, bitten, pulled, weathered and beaten.
Running a hand down her hip, she marvelled at how thin she’d become. She thought back to how Isobel looked upon the Tolbooth stoop, how Nettie appeared. Seeing them back in the community, outdoors with light and rain striking them, it was as if she saw them with transformed eyes. No doubt others observed her the same way. No wonder there was so much anger directed towards the reverend. It was easy to believe they were witches deserving of dire punishment when they were locked away, out of sight, a bunch of stubborn, evil women who wouldn’t confess their sins. A danger to all of Pittenweem.
In broad daylight it was a different story. They were exposed for what they were — ordinary women, wives, daughters, sisters, friends, and, above all, victims of the reverend and the council’s superstitions and panic.
Holding back a sigh, she studied the captain once more. Last night, as they lay side by side unable to sleep, they’d whispered in the dark. He, about his sister, Bridie, who’d died when she was but four years old, trampled by a horse on the road that wound to the town of Portree. She’d insisted on accompanying him when he went to buy stores, and had demanded to be set down from the cart so she might pick some flowers in a nearby field. Paused by the side of the road, Aidan had taken the chance to adjust the horse’s harness and, believing his sister still occupied, didn’t think to caution her as a rider fast approached. Excited by the blooms she’d gathered, Bridie had run across the road, failing to heed the galloping horse until it was too late. Her last words were Aidan’s name… The memory was painful, his voice broke more than once. No wonder he’d never spoken of her before. She was part of the reason he’d left Skye as soon as he was able, his father purchasing a commission for him in the Queen’s army. Sorcha had reached for his hand and twined her fingers through his; she’d felt him squeeze them ever-so-gently in return.
Was it the darkness or his sharing of such a terrible loss that prompted her to tell him about Davan? She was uncertain. All she knew was that as she told him about her son, her wee boy who never breathed, never saw his broken-hearted mother, she felt altered. The grief was still there, but it wasn’t like an archer living in her chest releasing quiver after quiver into her heart. Nor was it an anchor ready to weight her with blackness. It was simply there. A part of her that would help shape who she was becoming.
But what was that?
A survivor. A woman who’d lost her entire family, but lived to remember them. A fishwife who had been accused of witchcraft, shamed, shunned, pricked, tortured, threatened and lived to tell the tale. Death had knocked on her door, and she’d barred it against him. Partly because of this man. This magnificent man who still shed tears in memory of his little sister…
His face was so close to hers, if she leaned forward just a wee bit, she could kiss those shapely lips, feel them against her own. God, it had been so long since she’d felt a man’s mouth, a loving, desired touch. Never again did she want to experience the kind Mr Bollard or the guards bestowed. Nor the illicit kind of Kennocht, or the rather perfunctory kisses and clumsy groping of Andy.
Her body, her starved, wounded, aching body wanted to know another type; even in this wretched state, it, she, wanted something more…
Inching closer, her mind whispering she was almost denied this chance, who knew if circumstances might snatch it away, if death would come for her next time, her lips connected with his. She closed her eyes, melting into his warmth and softness, pressing closer. The beauty of such sweet contact made her insides burn so hot, she moaned.
The sound made her jerk back in horror. What had she done?
A pair of sable eyes gazed into hers. ‘Good morning, Sorcha,’ growled the captain, touching the corner of his mouth. ‘Do you oft wake your guests in such a charming way?’
Even in the dim light of the bedroom, his devil-eyes twinkled.
‘I don’t know what came over me. I’m sorry. So sorry.’ She buried her head in her hands momentarily, before moving them away. She would confront what she’d done. Face him. ‘I don’t know what I was thinking…’
With barely any effort, he drew her into his arms. She didn’t resist. ‘Och, lass, I think you do.’ He pushed his nose into her cheek and then ran it down the side of her neck. She shivered as she felt his warm breath upon her skin. His mouth trawled across her jawline, hovering above her lips. ‘And just so you ken, I’m thinking the exact same thing.’
Before she could protest, he kissed her.
Gentle at first, as she opened her mouth in response to his liquid tongue, pushing herself into him, his lips became firmer, wilder. One of his hands cupped her face, the other held the back of her head. Daringly, she twined her arms around him, tugging his shirt from his breeches so she could stroke his skin.
It was smooth, warm, and he shuddered beneath her touch, groaning into her mouth. In a single move, he rolled her onto her back. She hissed with pain. He lifted himself onto his elbows, pulling away slightly. ‘Are you all right, Sorcha? I didn’t mean to —’
With a click of annoyance, she reached for him and arched her back to keep the link with his body, to feel his strength, his hardness against her. Pushing aside her discomfort, she focussed on her need.
‘Are you sure you want this? You’ll not regret it after?’ he asked softly.
Sorcha pushed her fingers into the thickness of his jet black hair, and clenched it tightly. ‘I’ll only regret it if we don’t. But what about you,
Aidan? Will you regret it?’
‘Regret what I’ve dreamed of since I first saw you? I don’t think so.’
Sorcha smoothed his hair from his face. ‘Ah, but I’m a very different woman from that one.’
‘Not to me,’ said the captain. ‘To me, you’re more beautiful than ever.’ He began to pluck at her shift, tugging it up over her legs, her stomach, exposing her torso.
He bent his head and dropped long, slow kisses on her breasts, travelling down her body, using his mouth and tongue to explore her flesh, every single cut, scar and bruise.
It was all Sorcha could do to lie still. The pain, the pleasure. Little fires were being lit all over her body, stoked until she became a furnace.
Parting her legs, he ignored her light objection and ran his nose and cheek up the insides of her thighs, speaking words that singed her flesh, sent a trail of goosebumps from her centre to her throat. She tossed her head to one side and back again. Helpless, yet powerful, too, Sorcha trembled all over.
She reached down and scrambled at his breeches, meeting his busy fingers as she rid him of the last of his clothes. She could feel and see his hardness. Dear God, he was the beautiful one. And he wanted her.
Sorcha held his head, felt his tongue, his mouth against her centre, molten, then firm. Waves of glorious pleasure overrode any pain as she lost herself in a place of starlight, moonbeams and the crashing of the ocean.
When she cried out, her body stiffening before releasing, he didn’t stop, but held her as she shuddered against him again and again. Tears streamed from the corners of her eyes, down her neck. Tears of joy and utter wonder.
This, she thought, this was how love feels.
