The Message in a Bottle Romance Collection

by Joanne Bischof

  Chapter Two

  Two Years Later

  Meg caught a snatch of motion from the corner of her eye—a small object falling. It splashed into the creek, causing droplets to spring past the white apron Meg was washing and into her face. Her heart leaped and she whirled, ankle-deep in the water, to face the woods behind her and see who the culprit was.

  “Very funny,” she said, forcing calm into her voice, though her senses stood on edge. It was a joke, no doubt. One of the summer walkers trying to startle her. But it was ill timed, to be sure. Two years it had been since she’d been back here to Argyllshire. Two years since the day that had turned a wedding march to a dirge in a matter of moments. And returning here now had every nerve on end, for what once was home was now Campbell territory. She must take care here, lest she be recognized by them.

  “Meg,” someone whispered. A tree rustled behind her, and her eyes darted across the tree line. ‘Tis only a trick. All the same, the jokes of the Ceàrdannan, family that they were to her now, spooked her betimes.

  Meg brushed her skirts, as if doing so could brush away the fear, and hung the apron on a reaching tree branch. “Who’s there?” She infused calm into her voice. A white-winged snow bunting released a trill, and Meg breathed easier. “Ye’re a fool, Meg MacNaughton,” she spoke aloud. “A silly fool. Jumpin’ at the sight of a wee bird.” She cocked her head at the bird above her. “Carry on,” she said. “’Tis a right winnin’ tune!”

  She knelt again to dunk the apron one last time, humming a few notes of her own, and skimmed her fingers through the water as it carried away the grime of the summer’s travels through the highlands. ’Twas peaceful here. She could almost forget the shadows that mangled her life’s story.

  One glimpse at her reflection in the currents showed her those shadows were written on her face, in the dark circles beneath her eyes and the wan countenance that changed her so. All the better, if she were to traverse this territory unrecognized with the Tinkers.

  “Meg!” The lilting voice of her friend Kate came, and Meg smiled at the hurried footsteps. From the moment Kate had wrapped the blanket about Meg’s shoulders that night long ago, they’d been fast friends. “Come! They’re waiting!”

  Kate splashed straight into the stream, yellow hair flying loose behind her, and snatched the apron away. Linking her arm through Meg’s, she tugged with a wiry strength. Meg would be alarmed at such urgency from anyone else, but this was Kate’s way. Everything an adventure that could not wait.

  She was breathless. “What a crowd this time, Meg. I swear it—your fame grows every day. Ye’ll soon be wantin’ to take leave of a rowdy bunch like us and take your stories to the courts of kings!”

  Meg plucked her wet apron right back, shaking herself loose of Kate’s hold with a smile. “Nonsense. They come for a glimpse of the famed beauty of bonny Kate, that’s what.”

  Kate placed her hands on her hips and drew back with a smirk. “See for yerself.” She pulled Meg into a run. Past the cluster of canvased bow tents and their domed roofs, rising from the ground like low boulders. Past the men gathered about the fire with hammers and anvils, smithing tin as was their way in the afternoons after a morning of pearl fishing. Snatches of conversation wafted her way—the gruff voice of Thistle Jimmy, their leader, saying something about the pearl fishing going nigh unto dry, hereabouts.

  Thistle Jimmy was a man who defied time. At times he seemed as old as the land itself, but most of the time, he had the energy of a young man. A whole lifetime on the road had made him weathered but strong, and it was with hard-earned wisdom that he led their small band of travelers with such care. Like a shepherd toward his flock.

  At last, they burst through a wall of willows, and Meg lurched to a stop. Humble farm folk filled the green meadow, eyes large against hard-worked, hungry faces. Their tattered clothing created a tapestry of muted reds, browns, and greens.

  “They’re here for you,” Kate whispered in her ear.

  “They canna be,” Meg said. What had she to offer? Would that she could pass around bannocks or fresh water—anything to quench the thirst behind their gazes. “And even if they are, I cannot appear. This close to home. I mean—this close to Cumberave. If there be Campbells in the crowd…”

  “Nae. Thistle Jimmy checked first thing after we made camp. Castle Cumberave is abandoned,” Kate spoke softly. Meg felt ill. For all that—the wedding, the attack, the death of her family—the Campbells had abandoned her family’s castle? She hardly knew whether to weep in relief or explode in anger. ’Twould still be their territory, and a place she had no speakable right to.

  “The Campbells are mostly away at Campbelton, for their laird is there before going to London. Something about a show of support for the king.”

  Meg felt behind her and found support by steadying her hand against a tree. The crowd of faces reflected so much of the pain she knew all too well. They, too, had lost much that day. And she had been nowhere in sight to help them. A wrong she would never be able to right.

  “They heard a story weaver was amongst us. They need hope, Meg.” All traces of jesting gone from Kate’s voice, Meg knew she spoke truth. Mother Aila’s words echoed in her mind. “Hold fast the clan words….”

  Meg stepped back. She wasn’t enough. She would disappoint them, surely.

  A rustle sounded, and the gathering of people turned, a pathway parting between them. From their midst, a wee girl of no more than six approached, large waifish eyes fixed on Meg. “If ye please, miss,” she said, “is it true what they say? Ye’ll tell a tale for a shilling?”

  At the edge of the gathering, the tall form of a man moved slowly, his face hidden behind the hood of a rustic brown cloak. Meg shivered and fought the urge to run. Instead, she knelt to take the girl’s hand. And with each feature she registered, the crowd around seemed to blur until all she saw was this creature—waves of auburn hair dingy but combed with care and tied back with a piece of twine. The sight of the longing in her eyes pulled Meg’s heart until it hurt. Such solemnity did not belong on the face of one so small.

  The girl clasped her hands in front of her and as she did, a dull ribbon bracelet dangled from her wrist. Two thin red ribbons intertwined, tied in a crooked bow. Meg narrowed her eyes, unable to look away from it.

  The girl caught her staring. “‘Twere a fine lady who give them us,” she said.

  Us. A thread of memory flew at Meg: two sunlit faces full as they thrust a bundle of white heather into her own nervous hands on her wedding day. Her stomach sank with the weight of realization.

  This one, a steady voice within told Meg. This was the one she was to speak for, today. Her spirit quickened, and she said a quick prayer for wisdom to spin a story to speak to hope to this girl’s heart.

  “Nary a shilling needed, lass.” She would be loath not to have anything to contribute to the coin jar come nightfall, but neither could she take money from the girl. “Just your name.”

  “Jemma, miss.” She bit her lip, which trembled as if she’d just given Meg all she had in the world.

  “Well, then”—she sat upon a low rock and guided Jemma beside her, vaguely aware of the lookers-on and their listening hush—“look around you, wee Jemma.” The girl sat with wide blue eyes and leaned in. “If you could choose one thing in this bonny glen to tuck into the pocket of your heart, and to carry with you all the days of your life, what would it be?”

  Delight nestled into the peasant girl’s expression as she looked from the blue July sky to the wild roses spilling around the edge of her rock.

  “Anything?” Her young voice was light on the breeze.

  “Anything. Be it the very wind”—Jemma’s brow wrinkled—“or the delicious oatcakes I smell from the camp.” Meg winked. The girl smiled as if she held a secret too precious to tell. She cast a glance at a woman standing just behind her, who returned an encouraging nod despite the sheen in her eyes.

  A boy elbowed his way through the perimeter. His face wa
s flushed with mischief beneath hair of the same red as Jemma’s, and Meg could sense his shenanigans before he said a word. Several rows behind him, the cloaked man watched on. A shiver traversed Meg’s spine, and she turned her attention back to the boy.

  “My sister’ll be wanting that shawl of yours.” The boy pointed at Meg’s threadbare earasaid. “To use as a blankie, like a bairn!”

  His laughter hit its mark, and Jemma slumped in her place.

  Meg leaned forward and whispered, “Never ye mind him, lass.” She gave a gentle touch to her shoulder. “Brothers grow up, and that teasing will turn into something rich and good as time goes on.” Meg knew this all too well. The truth of it sharpened the void her brother, Graeme, had left when he perished. Her very heart had lost its shape that day. “I hope ye’ll treasure each other long, indeed. Now, what will ye pick for the story, then?”

  Jemma looked timidly around until her gaze rested on a pair of butterflies.

  She pointed. “The dealan-dè,” she said.

  “That one?” Meg pointed at the one taking flight.

  “No,” the girl said. “Both, together.” Such resoluteness in her voice, more than her small frame seemed able to hold.

  Meg studied the white-winged creatures, both at rest now upon a sprig of yellow broom. Then she studied the girl and inclined her heart toward heaven. Give me Your sight, Lord. Help me to understand this young heart you created.

  The silence of the crowd pressed in upon the prayer, and she fought to forget them and what they might think. A quick glance around told her the dark-cloaked man was gone now, at least. She thought of the two girls, the smiles they shared when they’d delivered her heather.

  Meg’s breath caught, the way it did when understanding began to unfurl and a story took form. And so it began. “You know, of course,” she said, “about the two butterflies of the Great Glen of Inveraray.” Jemma shook her head back and forth quickly. “No? Well, then. Let me tell you. They were inseparable. They went everywhere together! Nary a day went by that they didn’t have the grandest adventures in all the land.”

  A fleeting smile crossed Jemma’s dimpled face. Meg’s voice rose and fell with the tale of a grand journey, of the brave way the butterflies spurred one another on until they reached the famed field of daffodils. “And now to the bravest part of all,” Meg said, her words swimming in the rapt silence of the crowd. So many of them battle scarred. “The day came that a giant of a wind carried one of the butterflies away.” Her voice dropped, thick with familiar grief and gentle with the handling of the girl’s heart. “The one left behind flitted and flew, searching everywhere for her friend. And when she could not find her, she flitted and flew once more, searching for how she was to continue on alone.”

  Meg paused. She had no easy answers to give the girl. Give me wisdom, Lord….

  Jemma leaned in.

  “Well. The butterfly gave up flying altogether one day. She could not figure it out, and so she rested upon a log until a cricket came along, singing a song and asking what troubled the lovely creature. She told him, and do you know what that cricket said?”

  Jemma shook her head.

  “Seems to me your wings were made to fly. Your heart was made to beat. The air about you was made to carry you. You will not be the same as before, and ye need not be…but ye can fly, and fly ye must,” she said. “Ye fly, sure and true, for that is what you were made to do. Ye never need forget your friend, but neither must the life ye shared disappear.”

  It took everything in Meg to end the tale with a smile. Help me believe that, Lord, she prayed. For to her, a quiet log in the forest looked much more appealing than all the flying in the world.

  “Thank ye, miss,” Jemma said in a near whisper. “‘Tis a brave butterfly.” And with that, she dashed away and wrapped her arms about her mother’s legs. The older woman met Meg’s gaze with a quick curtsy, eyes shining.

  “Well done,” Kate said, clasping Meg’s trembling hand and helping her up. Together they walked back through the trees, toward their camp. The peace that had wrapped her during the telling was gone, as was the scattering crowd. “And just as I said, no one recognized ye. Come,”—she dashed ahead—“the others will be achin’ to hear all about it.” She picked up her faded green-striped skirts and ran ahead, leaving Meg alone.

  With the crowd’s retreating footsteps to her left, the clink and murmur of the camp to her right, and the whisper of the creek ahead of her, Meg suddenly felt a hollow vulnerability at her back. The same unease she’d sensed earlier.

  She turned, and at the same moment a shadow moved from behind the trees. He stepped from shadows—the man in the cloak.

  Panic seized her, and a single thought overtook her consciousness: flee. But as she turned to run with all her might, a hand caught her wrist from behind.

  “Meg MacNaughton,” his low voice said. “Stay.”

  Chapter Three

  Meg’s pulse raced. At her back, sounds from the encampment, the metallic ring of meal preparations, stood like the assurance of an army. Help is near, the noises seemed to say. She let that knowledge embolden her.

  “Let me go.” She pulled in a breath. “I’ll scream.” She kicked, her foot colliding against the man’s shin. Pain exploded in her toes, but she pursed her lips, holding back a cry.

  “Ach,” the man uttered, shifting his weight to his other foot but maintaining his hold. He held her at a distance as she kicked again, harder this time, and with her heel. She hit only air and threw herself off balance. His hands flew to her shoulders, steadying her. “I mean ye no harm, lass.”

  His assurance bounced right from her. Something about being back in Argyll, a stone’s throw from the place she’d lost all trust—she wasn’t about to take the man at his word. Not when he’d been lurking in the shadows so. Meg shrugged free and stumbled backward. The man stayed still, letting the distance breathe between them.

  “Please. Just listen.” There was strength in his voice, its edges rounded by something gentle.

  But she would not be fooled by another false offering of peace. “I will not,” she said. The man could work for the Campbells—or worse, be one of them. She plucked a branch from the ground and held it back over her shoulder like a shinty stick, ready to strike. “Who are you?”

  He held up his hands and took a step back.

  A sick feeling hit her, remembering Jimmy’s warning as they arrived here yesterday. “Be on your guard, for the Campbells may yet be seeking ye.” Had the man come to retrieve her?

  “You’ll not take me,” she said. And neither would she run. It was a hard lesson, two years in coming. Fleeing was the worst of her failings. “Ye’ve done enough harm to my family.”

  The man froze, his stiff posture exuding guilt. So he was a Campbell, then.

  “Mark me,” she gritted her teeth. “I will never step foot outside this clearing with a Campbell.”

  He lifted his hands and removed his hood. Meg’s stick clattered to the earth. It could not be…

  “Please,” he repeated. His eyes pleaded, warm gray as the loamy earth. “Meg.” He let her name linger, seemed to sense she was already pulled asunder by shock. Indeed, he was as much a part of her home as her own brother, so faithfully had he marched with her family. “‘Tis only I,”—he seemed to struggle over the next words—“your piper.”

  A whirl of emotion cinched the breath straight out of her. “Duncan…Blair?” She could not keep the corners of her mouth from pulling into a smile. He, the only link in years to her life when it was whole.

  He stepped closer, brow furrowed. “Are ye well?” he said, voice curving the question downward as he beheld her earnestly.

  “Am I well?” The words felt distant as she repeated them. A simple enough question. But no simple answer could she find. In the distance a pot banged—a signal that the meal was nigh ready. “I’m meant to be helpin’ with the food,” she said reluctantly and turned to hide the flush of heat in her face. “Perhaps you’d
join us?”

  “Can ye not wait a small while? I’ve aught to tell ye,” he said. “News of home.”

  Please don’t. The words were on Meg’s tongue. She could not bear to hear again of the empty Cumberave.

  “Home is everywhere but here,” she said. But when she lifted her gaze to his, there was a longing there—something near desperate to be spoken.

  “Please, Meg. I did not mean to startle ye. Not now, nor earlier…”

  Earlier.

  “It was you in the woods?” Gooseflesh pricked her arms. It could have been anybody.

  “’Twas a…right winnin’ tune the bird sang, just as ye said,” he offered. Such a look of sheepish hope crossed his face, and in it she a glimpsed the subtle spunk she’d encountered in him when he’d first come to her family eight years before.

  And was not this the man who had saved her? Given her a chance at life, such as it was? He stood before her, asking something within her grasp to give, small as it was.

  “Will ye eat with us tonight?” She spread an arm toward the camp. “I will hear whatever ye have to tell.”

  The relief in his posture was fleeting, for a look of solemn concern soon took its place. “Thank you.”

  “’Tis nothing,” Meg said. Though she began to suspect it was much, much more.

  Duncan watched Meg slip through the trees, the last of the evening sunlight playing across the shadows. She looked slight enough to blow away on the wind, but he knew better. There was a strength in her like iron, and it had only grown in these years since the battle. To the point that there was a chill about her he hardly recognized, and she wore it like a cloak.

  “Coming?” she asked, holding a branch back for him to follow. He grasped the branch and stepped through the grove and into the camp. Low, rounded bow tents like canvas half barrels on their sides peppered the clearing, supper fires beside them. Jolly voices seasoned the air along with the salted scents of herring and tatties. A humble supper from land and sea.