The Message in a Bottle Romance Collection

by Joanne Bischof

  Kate grabbed her wrist, halting her. “Look,” she whispered. Her friend’s finger pointed, following the outline of the ruins. “Listen.”

  Meg froze, straining to see and hear. And as she narrowed her eyes, she saw it: movement. Ever so slight, like the whole structure shivered. And with that shiver came a rustle, a whisper through the darkness.

  Meg’s imagination sparked a thousand different directions, sending her mind to chasms and dark corners better avoided. Part of her wanted to flee, and part anchored her here, thirsty for answers.

  “Birds,” Jimmy’s low voice said at last. A single word, but it lassoed the wiles of her imaginings and focused them in until indeed—she could see it. Little cobbled bumps atop the ruins, each one a bird. “‘Tis a good sign. Come.” They followed him to the tower, the single-roofed building. “They would not roost there if predators were about,” he said. “We’ll keep here for the night and cross the North Channel tomorrow.”

  Jimmy took a step, and as he did, a slick sound of mud sliding beneath his footfall gave way to a heavy thud as he hit the ground. Meg, Kate, and Duncan clambered to help him up.

  “Can’t a man blunder in peace?” he grumbled, shaking their hands away. He stood and struck a match, igniting a lantern he’d brought from the boat.

  Kate took it from him, the firelight showing the stubborn set of her mouth. She, whose hardheadedness matched even the indefatigable Jimmy’s. She knelt, examining his injured foot. “Sprained, at least,” she said of his ankle. “The only blunder ye’ll be making, Thistle Jimmy, is to put weight on that foot.” Kate planted her free hand on her hip. “Ye’ll let us help you, or ye’ll roost out here with the birds. Shouldna be a problem. There aren’t any predators about, as ye said.”

  “I’ve half a mind to. The company would be more peaceful.” But under the wrath of Kate’s raised brows, he nodded, letting Duncan come alongside him. The second Duncan put a hand under Jimmy’s elbow, though, Jimmy jerked it away. “I can still walk,” he said.

  The two men led the way inside the tower on the cliff’s edge, Duncan a few steps behind Jimmy all the way. Dripping water echoed down a spiraling staircase, and Meg forced her imagination not to conjure up images of what might await them at the top. Four pairs of footsteps echoed as they climbed. Finally they reached the opening to a single round room with nothing to boast but an open window to the sea.

  The breeze was sharp but calming and had kept the room free of creatures over time. The next moments blurred together as exhaustion set in. Meg and Kate were to sleep in here, it was decided, and Jimmy and Duncan would bed down on the landing outside the door opening.

  Meg skimmed the surface of sleep for what seemed like hours, but despite her fatigue, she could not enter that sweet promised land. She could hear Jimmy’s snoring, and she could see Kate’s steadily sleeping form, but perhaps Duncan was as awake as she.

  “Duncan,” Meg whispered.

  No response. Just the waves below. She breathed deep of the salt air, closing her eyes and leaning her head back against the wall between them. Was he doing the same? A warmth seemed to come from the other side. If he was asleep, there was no harm in saying what she’d meant to say, even if he did not hear.

  “Do you remember the nights on the loch,” she said, “when you would play your pipes on the hill at sunset?” It was done for the villagers, the sheepherders, the residents of Cumberave. A recognition of a day completed and the miracle of another on the way. It was an archaic tradition, but Father insisted that in times of darkness, such a reminder was lifeblood to them all. That each day held purpose yet, that each day was a gift worth celebrating.

  Duncan didn’t reply, but she thought she heard the steady breathing of deep rest. She did not wish to wake him. After a length of silence, she continued, quieter this time, for the tale of it somehow settled her own heart. “We would gather by the window, the four of us, and listen. Father would close his eyes, and it was as though all the battles and hungry stomachs and dwindling accounts of his tenants—the weight of it all vanished and for a moment in time, he had peace to renew his strength. Mother used to say if we listened hard enough, no matter how heavy the darkness, God would always give us a song in the night.” The very words in Jimmy’s scripture, she realized.

  The memory of her family made her ache with longing. But oh, the gift of it. After pushing away such thoughts for years, to let one slip into her heart was like someone lighting a small candle. She held it with grateful tenderness. ’Twas like coming inside after playing in the highland snow as a child. Hands so cold that the warmth of the fire stung fiercely…but soon, the stinging gave way to thaw, to movement, and she could unfurl her fingers again.

  She closed her eyes. The unfurling ache sent a tear down her cheek, brought Duncan’s song afresh to her mind. Time passed, she knew not how much, until she heard a quiet stirring in the corridor. She did not wish to wake the men, nor Kate, but she felt such a pull on her heart that something deep and true was happening within her. She made her way past Kate in the middle of the circular floor, who slept with arms splayed in exhausted abandon. Resting her own arms on the window, the song coiled inside of her.

  One by one, the haunting notes of Duncan’s tune made their way up through the cracks in her heart, past the burn in her throat, and into the spray of the midnight waves. The words, too, came. Slow but sure, like old friends.

  “All glory to our Lord and God…for love so deep, so high, so broad…”

  The moon was high as her song dropped among those waves, telling of a love that defeated darkness. Off in the sea, far beyond her view, their pursuers sailed on.

  And below, off to the right on the rocks rising from the shore, stood the figure of a man. Watching. Turning from the sea, facing her.

  She should have jumped straight out of her skin after the events of the night, but instead a settled peace wrapped around her. She could not see his face, but she knew his stance. The man who awaited her with such a broken expression atop the hill on her wedding day. The man who had stood watch, just so, a thousand times for her and her family. Duncan.

  And try as she might, though her song froze between them, she could not look away.

  It took all of his strength to rip his stare from the window. Duncan tromped over wet, black rocks, trying not to think of the way Meg’s face looked up there in the moonlight. He must find sleep again if he was to have strength for the morrow. He’d slumbered fitfully, upright against the wall in the corridor earlier. It was the sound of Meg’s voice whispering his name that awoke him—but surely he must have dreamed it. He hadn’t responded. But then her voice curled around the open doorway, recounting her tale about the evening song on the loch.

  He had not known she’d cared that much. Or even stopped to listen. It tied into knots all the strings inside of him holding the idea of Meg where he knew it should be: far from him. So when she’d gone silent from her tale, he’d snuck down the stairs. Away from her.

  Yet there she was at the window, tossing his own song out into a salt wind that delivered her notes straight to him. Clear, sure, true. Just like Meg. When she saw him, he forced himself to look away. At the rocks, the waves, the tower, the jagged ruins beyond—anything but her.

  But even as he trod silently back up the stairs and a thick wall of ancient rock stood between them, that fair face filled his dreams until he woke again to the first light of day. ’Twas high time she got to her brother. And away from him.

  Chapter Ten

  Arms afire, Meg pulled her oars through the river waters for what felt like the ten thousandth time. It was with a wash of mingled weariness and relief that the wee village of Gretna Green came into view. After a day of rowing across the channel, skirting the Isle of Man, muddling through the firth and up the river, they were ready for a good night’s rest.

  Jimmy had rowed along with Duncan as best he could for the first half of the day, gritting his teeth and pushing through what was clearly increasing pain, de
spite Meg and Kate’s protests. At last, they’d managed to get him to elevate his ankle and let the ladies take turns rowing from the stern. If Meg’s arms burned—and she only rowing a portion of the time—what must Duncan be feeling? She caught his eye as their oars slipped into the water in sync.

  They pulled the currach to land and walked in twilight into the wee town. The last Scottish ground they would tread, direct upon the border of England. Two simple, white-stoned buildings faced each other. A blacksmith’s shop to the right, and to the left, the small inn. In the distance where the road wended up a low rise, the glow of a campfire beckoned them. ‘Twould be the Tinkers’ camp, and a welcome sight it was. Mrs. MacGregor would be waiting for them with warm food and blankets, as was her way. But first, Meg must find out what she dreaded to know: whether they’d missed the London coach. And the inn, she hoped, would have the answer.

  “You go on ahead,” she offered to the others, noting how Jimmy looked toward the camp. “I’ll be only a moment here.”

  “Nay,” Jimmy said. “We leave none behind.”

  Meg smiled her gratitude. The black door was flanked by posts covered in fragrant red roses. The flickering noise of bush crickets welcomed her. Just as she raised her hand to knock, the door flew open with such force it seemed to fracture the whole evening. Meg’s hand tightened around the pillar as she gaped at the ruffle-clad shadow blocking the glow from within. A gown so wide it extended beyond the doorway, making the woman’s silhouette look otherworldly.

  “Well!” The voice was mature and amused in its polished British tongue. “If it isn’t a merry band of rogues!” She sounded utterly delighted. Meg’s eyes adjusted to the mix of fading evening light without and glowing lantern light within. The woman rubbed gloved hands together like a child on Christmas. She stepped onto the stoop, shifting to face Meg. Silvery ropes of hair crowned her. She looked slightly upward at Meg, but what she lacked in height she made up for in dominating presence. “Are you here for a room, poppet? Oh, I do hope they’ll put you next to mine, you poor drowned mouse. Lovely drowned mouse, mind you. I’ve smelling salts to help liven you back up. Come in, all of you! We shall dine on fine Scottish fare. There is nothing like it!”

  “I…” How was a lass to respond to being called a drowned rodent? And it had been said in such a way that somehow warmed Meg’s heart. “Thank ye, milady. But ye see, we only just—”

  The woman interrupted, chattering on without a breath. From the corner of her eye, Meg saw Kate dash away toward the boat and return, satchel in hand and eager look upon her face. Thistle Jimmy watched the older woman and straightened, tugging at his ragged shirt and transfixed with a sort of awed respect.

  “I was just going out for an evening carriage ride,” the woman said, “but now you’re arrived, just follow me and we’ll see what we can do.” She spoke as if she’d been waiting all evening for the lot of them. “Come, come! All of you, now.”

  “If ye please, Mrs…,” Meg said, taking a step back.

  “Eugenia Bettredge. What sorts of cheeses do you like best? We’ll see if we can talk some out of the kitchen. Mr. Bettredge preferrd the cheddar in his day, and I always toast his memory with a bit of it. You’ll join me of course.”

  “Your kindness is more a gift than I can say,” Meg said, “and I do believe my friends would be glad of refreshment.” She looked their way. Jimmy gave a solemn bow of affirmation. “But first, is the goodman of the house about?” She craned her neck, looking for the innkeeper. “I’m needin’ to inquire about the coach to London.”

  “That rattletrap?” Mrs. Bettredge gestured for them to follow her. “It passed through today at the noon hour.” Meg went cold. So it was as they’d feared. This would put them a week behind. “Chin up, my dear! Never say you meant to take that contraption. Oh, love, you’re lucky you missed it. Unless you enjoy being swallowed whole by piles of splinters masquerading as carriages.”

  She ushered them in, Kate, Meg, Duncan, and Jimmy, who paused at the threshold, bowed, and said resolutely, “Your servant, my lady.”

  His words released a peal of exclamations from Mrs. Bettredge about “an authentic highland gentleman!”

  They entered a dark-wooded parlor and sat as trays of boiled eggs, slices of bread, thick pats of butter, canisters of jam, and steaming pots of tea were brought up.

  “And my favorite.” Mrs. Bettredge leaned in, lifting the lid of a platter. “The food of kings!”

  Kate and Meg exchanged a glance. “Rumbledethumps?”

  “Ah! You see? Pure joy, even to utter it. Rumbledethumpsss,” she said with a flourish. Meg had never thought of the potato, onion, and cheese dish as royal by any stretch, but the savory smell was a welcome gift.

  They fairly inhaled the feast as Mrs. Bettredge talked on about her exploits traveling the lowlands. Once they’d eaten every last crumb, she ended her tales and looked at Meg.

  “Now. I know it isn’t as exciting as traveling in that forsaken coach, but I’ve been mulling over something.”

  How she’d had a chance to “mull” when she’d hardly paused for a breath, Meg could not imagine. She was a wonder. Or a whirlwind. Perhaps both.

  “I’ve a carriage and a driver, and I’m stuck by my lone self all the day long. Do tell me you’ll come with me to London-Town.” She twirled a hand in the air. “If you were of a mind to go there anyway…”

  Meg hopped to her feet, nearly dropping her teacup as she went. “You would do that?”

  “My dear. You would be rescuing me from unspeakable boredom.”

  Meg looked to Duncan. He nodded. Her glance skirted to Kate, who mouthed an enthusiastic yes! But when she looked to Thistle Jimmy, he rose slowly, steady eyes first on Meg, then on Mrs. Bettredge.

  “My lady,” he said. “I’m to rejoin the rest of our group here for the summer. ’Tis no small honor ye offer, but I’ve pearl fishin’ to do, ye see.”

  “Why, if it’s pearls you’re after, take these,” she fidgeted with a strand of pearls from her own neck and coiled them in her palm, holding it out to him. “Do come with us.”

  Thistle Jimmy stretched a good bit taller, as if a platform of quiet pride had risen from the ground beneath his feet. “Very kind of ye to say so, but these old fingers only know one way to get pearls. And wi’ respect, that’s to earn them. Pry them out of the shells myself.”

  The woman beheld him with a sort of wonder upon her face then clamped her fingers shut around her pearls. “Of course,” she said. “I could learn a thing or two from you, sir.” They made quite the picture, this woman in all her finery, standing in awe of this humble man of the river before her.

  He bowed once more and turned to Meg. “But ye go, lass. ’Tis the good Lord’s provision, sending such a generous soul to carry ye the rest of the way. Besides…” He leaned in closer to Meg. “I fear this old leg would slow ye down.” He winked, patting his bad leg.

  “Never, Jimmy,” Meg said. “But if ye do want to stay, and ye’re sure ’tis all right…”

  “It is.” He furrowed his brow. “Ye go, lass. Get to that brother of yours.”

  Joy washed through her. Deep and tinged with pain at the thought of leaving Jimmy, yet somehow that pain bolstered her courage.

  “Well, Mrs. Bettredge,” she said. “I think ye’ve got yourself a band of grateful travelers.”

  “Wonderful! We’ll leave first thing in the morning. Eleven o’clock agreeable?” Mrs. Bettredge said.

  Meg and Duncan exchanged a look to share delight over her concept of an early morning. But it was a look wrapped in astonishment, too, at this turn of events.

  “Eleven o’clock it is, Mrs. Bettredge.” Meg curtsied. “And we’ll do our best to not be too dull.”

  “I’ll hold you to that,” the woman said.

  Meg awoke before the sun the next morning. She slipped out of the tent she shared with Kate and Mrs. MacGregor, Jimmy’s bottle in hand. Across the low-rolling lands she went, away from the village and river, to whe
re the grasses reached high enough to tickle the palm of her open hand. Closing her eyes to drink in the pure air of the field, she twisted the cap of the bottle until she felt its notch click into the needed opening. She lifted the lid, tucking it into a fold in the earasaid she wore crisscrossed over the top of her dress.

  Just as she pulled the scroll from the bottle, a figure approached in the distance. Duncan. Her heart jumped at the sight of him. Instantaneously, a single word shot through her mind: Home.

  All the things of home she’d never dreamed of having again strode toward her in the form of Duncan Blair. Belonging. Knowing. Being known. Memories shared, schemes concocted, comfort, loyalty…and something more. Something she dared not put a name to.

  “I see I’m not the only one who could not wait until the early hour of eleven in the morning,” Duncan said. His smile, slightly crooked, warmed her.

  “Aye.” Meg laughed.

  Dawn crested the distant horizon with a reverent stillness. Meg hugged the bottle to herself.

  “‘Twas a braw thing Jimmy did, giving that to ye,” Duncan said.

  “More than we know, I think,” Meg said, unrolling the rolled record of scriptures. “I wonder sometimes what each of these words meant to him when he wrote them. Jimmy is a good man, but his life has been far from easy. This one.” She held the curling edges open to show his straight-etched letters, and Duncan read them aloud as if considering as he went:

  “‘If I take the wings of the morning, and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea; even there shall thy hand lead me.’”

  “He’s a man who holds his deepest stories closely,” Meg said. “But I would dare to say he knows the truth of God’s faithfulness in ‘the uttermost parts’ very well indeed.”

  “And you, Meg?” Duncan’s eyes in their deep gray were searching.

  “I begin to learn that truth, I think.” She paused. “I hope.” So many of the “uttermost parts”—places she’d felt alone and afraid—were of her own doing.