Megan Denby
Page 37
I glanced to the other end of the dock where passengers were disembarking from the other ship. I squinted and felt a rise in my belly. Following the suddenly familiar lines of the ship I found the painted letters of the ship’s name.
Ghillie Dhu.
I stood, and framed my eyes with my hand, scanning the throngs of people on the dock. A straggling group stood alone, their dirty, rumpled clothing announcing to all they were the indentured servants. My heart went out to the sorry lot but I quickly looked away, searching the crowd for Captain Duff.
My glance bounced from one unfamiliar face to the next. Then for some reason my eyes were pulled back and I settled my stare on the back of one man’s head.
He sat in a chair, a strange contraption with large wooden wheels. I stared at the man’s head, just visible above the back of the chair. Something about the shape of his head and the wave of his hair held my stare. As I watched, the man reached out and grasped one wheel. He pulled on the wheel and the chair slowly turned. My breath caught as I stared at the hand. Then it was gone.
The space in the crowd closed and I lost sight. Standing, I craned my neck, inexplicably anxious for another glimpse. I held my breath as I stepped this way and that, my eyes trained on the spot.
I took a few steps away from our luggage and found him again.
He had turned his chair so that now he sat sideways to me. Still, I could not see his face. It was partially hidden by a white bundle that he clasped to his chest. He held his head down, his face resting on the bundle.
The hammer of my heart drowned out the sound of my gasps. White puffs of air surged from my parted lips. I took a step toward the man, drawn to him and his strange chair, as though being pulled by an invisible rope.
He ran his hand gently up and down the bundle and I could not take my eyes from his fingers.
People brushed by and jostled me but I took no notice as I hesitantly stepped forward. The wind picked up again, drove my hair into my face. I shoved it aside as the man’s hand reached down for the wheel once more. I could not look away from his hair as the wind blew his curls about. Maneuvering the wheel, the chair turned away from me once more, as the man sought shelter from the winter wind.
I stood still and watched. Blood coursed through my head as my lungs fought against the rapid breaths I forced into them. The crowd closed against me once more, obscured my vision. This time I stood and waited. But what I waited for had not yet taken shape in my mind.
When the wall of people parted a few minutes later, I stood and stared through a shimmering film of angry tears. I bit my lip and slowly shook my head.
God, how can You be so cruel? How can You do this to me again? I asked silently.
I stared grimly ahead, my feet planted. A tall man stood by the chair, his back to me. He bent slightly, spoke to the seated man. His dark shaggy hair brushed his collar. His long legs were spread wide, his hand resting on the back of the chair.
Why do You keep taunting me? Why?
Then the man bent further forward and carefully lifted the bundle into his arms. As I watched, he settled it against his shoulder and patted it with the other hand.
A gust of wind hit me full in the face, drove the hot tears across my cheeks. I blinked rapidly. The wind continued its assault and as I watched, the bundle suddenly moved in the man’s arms. A small fist shot out.
It was a bairn, a bairn wrapped in a white blanket. A bairn.
The small fingers jerked about and pushed at the blanket.
And then his face was clear to me. I stood no more than ten feet from the man and the child. And I did not know when I had moved so close.
I stared into the child’s face and he stared solemnly back at me with unblinking eyes; moss-green eyes. Dark curls waved slowly about his face as we silently stared at one another.
“Heath.” The name escaped my lips, wrenched from my chest, rescued whole from the recesses of my shattered heart.
Slowly, the man turned and I pressed my trembling hand to my lips.
“Duncan,” I whispered between my fingers.
His vulnerable eyes found mine and we stared at one another. He reached out and I felt the heat of his skin as he pushed a strand of hair from my lips with his finger. His blue eyes were earnest, older somehow and they sparkled with tears as my name came out on a sob, “Meara.”
Then I was in his arms, in my husband’s arms, the weight of them pressing down, Heath’s warm body wriggling between us. Duncan pulled his face away and stared down at me as though I was a ghost. “Meara?”
I nodded, grinning, laughing through my tears, “Aye, aye, Duncan, it’s me!”
“Meara,” he repeated in a ragged voice that was different. Then he turned the bundle and passed our bairn into my arms; my baby, my wee Heath. Duncan encircled us both in his safe embrace and his lips touched my forehead as I stared down into the face of my son.
Heath looked up at me, his wide eyes curiously searching mine. I felt his warm fingers touch my cheek. His pink lips turned up in a toothless grin; a slightly crooked grin.
I looked into Duncan’s eyes. He brought his hand up and ran his finger along the curve of my jaw, his thumb reaching up to brush away my tears. Then he held me again, tightly, gently, my face pressed to the rough of his plaid.
“Meara,” he said again, my name escaping on a breath of wonder.
“But the letter... Angus?” I asked in a voice that was not mine.
“Nay, lassie. Lies. All lies. They made Angus do it.”
I turned my face and pushed it into his hand then breathed the soft curls of my son.
After some time, Heath squirmed, and I raised my head, smiling down at him. As I gazed back up at Duncan, my eyes were drawn just beyond Duncan’s shoulder.
My knees went weak as I stared at the quiet man in the wheelchair, at the hand that rested on the wheel.
“Da?”
TWENTY-SEVEN
Isle of Skye, Scotland, June 1810
Hearts and Home
His arm lay on my chest. The weight of it felt good. He lay sprawled on his stomach beside me and I listened to his breath, slow and steady. Streamers of early sunlight tanned the walls of our chamber. I couldn’t help but smile as my mind travelled back over the last several months.
I had been stunned that day, last winter, to find Duncan and Heath at the docks in Pictou; stunned and overjoyed. I had been afraid to close my eyes lest they disappear, plunging me back into my nightmare. But they had been real. Like the Scottish moor in springtime, they had filled up my senses; the heavy of Duncan’s arms as he held me, the lean of his frame and the comfort of his smell. Heath’s essence brought me in from the cold; warm and alive, his wriggling body finding a home in my arms.
And then I had noticed the man watching us from the wheelchair, unobtrusive in his solitude. Consumption, captivity and guilt had ravaged the father I had once revered. Fear and shame muddied his green eyes and hunched his sharp-boned shoulders. But I felt no reproach for the pitiful man who looked up at me. Mother and Hannah were lost to me. But Da was alive; a gift I would not forsake. His arms had been hesitant at first, as I knelt before him, but then he had crushed me to his chest, the depth of his sorrow and regret shuddering through our bodies.
The ship had been ready to sail and we had made a quick decision to instead winter in Yarmouth at the Carleton’s house. Da was frail and I did not want him to chance another crossing right away. Rabbie had been torn but his yearning for family and home won out. Duncan’s handshake with Rabbie had turned into an emotional clutch between the two men. “Ye did good, lad,” Duncan had managed and Rabbie, his voice rough with tears, had answered, “And I’d do it agin in a minute.” I had held Rabbie fast to my heart, not wanting to let him go. “Ye be safe now, my laddie. I need ye there when I come home.” He had been my friend, my rescuer and I loved him. We were bound together forever. He was my brother.
Duncan had purchased milk, bread and cheese in Pictou then we had travelled throu
gh the night and next day to reach Yarmouth the following evening. We had baths all round before Nessie and Johnny had crawled into their beds. After settling Da into a room and Heath into a bassinette by our bed, I had turned to Duncan, shy with the time that had passed. He had held his hand out to me and said simply, “Come lass, come let me love ye agin.”
We discovered each other once more. And it was beautiful and new and filled with remembered promise. He held his breath but didn’t flinch as I traced the contours of his body, the smooth of his skin and the tight ridges of his scars. My lips followed my fingers and I kissed the damage of his leg. We talked through the night. He told me of the war, of Ranald being shot; of a man named Arthur Keith and his promise to find the man’s family. I told him of Hannah, of our voyage to Nova Scotia, of my love for Vanessa and Johnny. He told me of his stay in an English hospital, of Da’s escape and of Deirdre; the tragedy of her past. I told him of Heath’s birth and he told me about our son. We brought Heath into our bed and we slept, touching one another.
Da and I remembered Mother and Hannah and hearts began to heal. Nessie and Johnny grew to trust us all and Nessie especially was drawn to Da, who treasured her quiet affection.
In April, a letter arrived from Rabbie. He was well and good in the arms of his family.
In May, we sailed for home. Da walked the decks with a cane in one hand and Nessie’s small hand cradled in the other. Heath learned to walk aboard the Ghillie Dhu and trundled unsteadily in the riotous wake of young Johnny, his dark curls buffeted by the sea breeze. My eyes rarely left the horizon as I waited for the green of Scotland’s shores. Duncan never left my side, the feel of his hand on my shoulder swelling my chest with love.
When at last I felt the Isle of Skye beneath my feet and inhaled the spice of ripe heather, my joy was precluded only by Daisy’s rough tongue, the cinnamon embrace of Mary and the tearful kisses of Janet, whose belly was round once more. Angus, leaning heavily on his cane, cupped my face in his hand, words not needed. And Rabbie, dear, dear Rabbie, a young man of eighteen now, held me until Duncan had cleared his throat loudly and said with a crooked grin, “That’ll do lad, that’ll do.”
And now, as the sun filled our chambers, I peered sideways at my husband. Duncan stared at me, his gold-flecked eyes heavy with sleep. With a single finger, he pushed the hair from my face then lightly smoothed my brow until my breath caught. I reached out and traced his lips with my own finger. He groaned and caught my hand. Then he rolled onto his side and dipped his head, his lips finding mine then moving lower to close around the tip of my breast until I forgot to breathe. He teased with his tongue, while his hand slipped down between my legs. He lifted his head, his lazy eyes finding mine. “Lord, lass, yer wet already! What have I done to ye?”
I pulled his hand away and shoved on his chest, pushing him onto his back. I rolled on top of him and watched his grin widen, his teeth white in his tanned face. Then my hair fell forward as I dipped my head and gently licked his nipple, feeling his belly tighten beneath my hand. As I closed my teeth around the tip, I felt him rise, hard and ready, against my belly. I peered at him through the curtain of my hair and ran my tongue slowly over my lower lip, “Lord, lad, what have I done to ye?” I mimicked as I closed my hand around him.
His dimple cut deep as he answered, “Do ye ken how much I love ye, lassie?”
“Aye, Duncan, and I you,” I smiled.
I was home.
******
Deirdre had grown accustomed to the gaols. She had grown accustomed to the daily routine. And she had grown accustomed to what she must do. Her mind skittered away into the shadows as she performed another favour for the guard. When she was done, he tossed the precious blanket she had asked for to the floor. She scrabbled forward on her knees and snatched up the threadbare square of cloth. She could not let her bairn catch cold. Deirdre wiped her mouth on her sleeve and scurried backwards into the corner.
As the guard adjusted his breeches and buckled his belt, he peered sideways at the woman. With manic precision, she folded up the empty blanket. He shook his head. Surely, she was touched in the head.
The prison door clanged shut but Deirdre didn’t notice. She wrapped her son in the blanket, cuddled him close and hummed a lullaby, a delicate smile quivering upon her lips.
~A Final Word From The Author~
Thank you so much for reading A Thistle in the Mist and I hope you enjoyed it! I would love to hear your thoughts and comments and if you feel so inclined to leave me a review on Amazon, I would appreciate it.
http://www.amazon.com/A-Thistle-Mist-ebook/product-reviews/B00B2XML88
My second book in this series, Lost to the Mist, again features Meara and those she loves and loathes. As Meara settles in to her idyllic life with her family on the Isle of Skye, she has no idea that her world is about to be shattered. Again. Lost to the Mist is due out in 2014. Join me on Facebook https://www.facebook.com/AuthorMegan
or follow my blog http://notyouraveragelassie.blogspot.ca/ to see what your favourite characters are up to.
Would you like to be notified when book two, Lost to the Mist is released? Please visit my website and join my mailing list at www.megandenby.com or feel free to drop me a line at
writeherewaiting@gmail.com
All My Best
~Megan~
~About the Author~
Megan Denby is an award-winning novelist who grew up on a farm with two older sisters and a younger brother. Once she discovered the world of books, she was lost, often reading to the wee hours of the morning. Her world is her family, friends and writing.
Megan has been writing for over thirty years. Her debut novel, "A Thistle in the Mist" was described by one agent as having a "hypnotic, fairy-tale-like quality" and was inspired by the turbulent life of her feisty, Scottish great-grandmother.
A former ball player, Megan, is an avid dragon boater and a goalie in the local women’s ice hockey league. When able to escape, she draws inspiration from the tranquility of her secluded cottage in Northern Ontario.
A Canadian girl, she lives in the enchanting, lakeside community of Port Perry, Ontario, with her family and pets and is working on the disturbing sequel, "Lost to the Mist".
Table of Contents
Dedication
ONE August 1807 Duntulm Castle, Stronghold of the Clan MacDonald Collapse of the Castle of Cards
TWO The Undoing of Da
THREE August 1808 Duncan
FOUR Hope for Hannah
FIVE The Wedding
SIX A Dubious Alibi
SEVEN October 1808 Missing Duncan
EIGHT The Prisoner
NINE November 1808 All is Revealed
TEN February 1809 Hannah
ELEVEN As If By Chance... The Letters
TWELVE May 2 1809 The Bairn Will Arrive When It’s Ready
THIRTEEN May 2 1809 England An Unwilling Patient
FOURTEEN May 3 1809 Duntulm
FIFTEEN May 4 1809
SIXTEEN June 1809 Rude Awakening
SEVENTEEN June 3 1809 The End of the Irish
EIGHTEEN June 1809 An Angel Comes
NINETEEN June 25 1809 The New World
TWENTY Indenturement Begins
TWENTY-ONE September 11, 1809
TWENTY-TWO Life in a Nova Scotia
TWENTY-THREE September 14th 1809 Home
TWENTY-FOUR September 15 1809 And the Truth Shall Be Told
TWENTY-FIVE November 13 1809 All Secrets Shall Come to Light
TWENTY-SIX November 21 1809 Going Home
TWENTY-SEVEN Isle of Skye, Scotland, June 1810 Hearts and Home
About the Author
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