by Deborah Hale
“I…like ye fine, lass.” His tepid words belied the inferno that throbbed between them. “But I see now ye’re no more than a passing fancy to me.”
A blunt pain stabbed Jenny’s heart.
“There’s no reason in the world for us to be doing this.” He bent forward, catching her bottom lip between his and nuzzling it invitingly.
Just as she prepared to kiss him back, he abandoned her mouth and went to work elsewhere. “No reason except the moonlight,” he whispered. His warm breath filled her ear, gently ravishing it.
“And I’m a man…” Harris continued, his lips and his new growth of beard grazing her neck until Jenny feared she would crawl out of her own skin with searing need.
From her throat, suddenly parched again, came the words she tried to hold back. “And I’m a woman.”
“Aye.” She could sense his smile in the warmth of Harris’s murmur. “Ye’re every inch of that, lass.”
Their lips blundered over each other’s faces, driven by urges as old as humankind. As irresistible as the tug of the tides. As inexplicable as moonlight.
Just as their searching mouths homed in on each other, eager to devour and be devoured, Harris froze. “Listen!”
From downstream drifted the unmistakable drone of bagpipes.
Jenny heard herself gasp, as if smitten by two centuries of righteous prudery. This was no Eden and she was no Eve.
Harris pushed her toward the shore. “Get dressed, Jenny. We shouldn’t be doing this.”
In a daze of shame and unbearable frustration, she waded onto the riverbank and collected her clothes.
Chapter Fourteen
Harris scarcely dared look at Jenny as they made their way downriver a few hours after daybreak.
So much for Walter Scott and all his chivalrous ideals!
He hadn’t risked letting himself get close to her during the night, for fear he’d once again succumb to moon madness. It had taken every fiber of God-fearing decency in him to push her away when his whole being craved her.
This must be a sign he didn’t love her. Harris entertained the wishful thought. Surely that respectable, tender emotion could have nothing to do with the feral yearning that had possessed him last night. Had he mistaken the first stirrings of that unholy desire for a pure, romantic attachment?
“Mind where ye’re going, Harris!”
“What?” He looked down in time to see his boot land squarely in a pat of pungent cow dung.
He cursed under his breath, casting Jenny a black glare when she chuckled.
From nearby, an ox raised its broad, placid face and surveyed Harris with bovine indifference.
“What are ye looking so smug about?” Harris snapped at the big beast. He knew well enough. The muscle-bound gelding might be a mild, stupid plodder, but at least he was free from the tyranny of she-creatures. Completely indifferent to their charms. Unlike the fractious bull who was kept in a constant state of near-frenzy by his carnal instincts.
When Harris stole a look at Jenny, he found her watching him. Their eyes met for a single, searching instant, then she quickly diverted her attention elsewhere. He had to get this woman to Chatham, fast. Before his heart and his honor were totally compromised.
They entered an open glade, where another ox and half-a-dozen milch cows grazed. On the opposite side of the clearing a big man hacked away at the trunk of an ancient maple tree with his double-bitted ax. After four ringing strokes, he stopped to rest. By that time, Harris and Jenny had closed some of the distance between them, going slowly to avoid treading in any more manure.
The man spotted them.
Laying his ax aside, he drew out a handkerchief nearly the size of a tablecloth and began to wipe his brow. His wide, florid face radiated welcome.
“Failte!” he thundered. A thousand welcomes!
“Does everybody in this colony talk French, Harris?” Jenny sounded almost plaintive.
The man threw back his round, bald head and laughed.
Before Harris could answer, Jenny added, “Whatever they talk, folks here seem to take everything comical.”
“Not everything, ma’am,” replied the man, his chuckles subsiding.
“That wasn’t French,” Harris informed her. “It was Gaelic. These folks must be Highlanders.”
The ruddy giant held out one huge hand. “Alec McGregor, late of Rannoch, at yer service. And who might ye be, stranger, that ye can tell the difference between a Gaelic welcome and French one?”
“Harris…Chisholm, sir.” He fought to keep from wincing as McGregor wrung his hand. “Late…of Dalbeattie in Galloway.”
“Chisholm, ye say? That explains it, then. But what’s a good Highland name like Chisholm doing as far south as Galloway?”
“My grandfather had to make himself a bit scarce after The Forty-five.” Though Harris could not fathom the resemblance, this massive man put him in mind of his wizened, wiry grandfather. Perhaps it was the sibilant Celtic cadence of his rumbling voice.
Alec McGregor nodded sagely over Harris’s explanation. “I hear tell it was a hard time. Folks did what they had to and many went away. Twice a thousand welcomes, Harris Chisholm, to ye and yer bonny missus.”
Harris hesitated only an instant in his reply. Letting Levi Augustine’s people think Jenny belonged to him had been a show of wishful weakness.
“I’m not a married man, Mr. McGregor. This is Jenny Lennox, a neighbor of mine from Dalbeattie. We’re bound for Chatham.”
“We’ve come all the way from Richibucto—overland,” said Jenny with audible pride in their accomplishment.
A pair of grizzled brows shot to attention. “Have ye now? It’s not a journey I’d care to make. If ye’ve got this far all in one piece, though, ye can count yerselves as good as arrived. It’s not but five miles from here to Chatham, and a fair road for these parts, too. Except in spring and fall, ye can bring a wagon over it.”
It was as though the man had swung his ax and hacked Harris’s legs off at the knees. Only five miles of good road left between Jenny and Roderick Douglas. By moonrise tonight, she’d be gone from his life forever. Though he had spent the past several hours longing for this end to his torture, its coming left him curiously bereft.
“Thank ye for the information, Mr. McGregor.” Harris almost gagged on the words. “If ye’ll be kind enough to point out the road, we’ll be on our way.”
“Can ye not stay the day? Ye’ve come at such a grand time. The parson’s here from Pictou. We’re going to have a wedding.”
“It’s mighty hospitable of ye to ask.” Harris charged ahead with his answer. “But we have pressing—”
“It is kind of ye to invite us,” interrupted Jenny. “We’d love to stay, wouldn’t we, Harris? Who’s getting married?”
“Who isn’t?” The man laughed again—a hearty, infectious sound. “Most all the young folks. My daughter, Isabel. Two of my nephews. The wife’s youngest sister. They’ll be getting their wee one baptized at the same time.”
Evidently he intercepted the look that passed between Harris and Jenny, for he hastened to add, “It’s been more than two years since we’ve had a Free Kirk preacher come. Betwixt times when a man and his lass want to wed, they get their folks’ blessing and promise to do it proper at the next marrying day. If ye’ve a mind to tie the knot yerselves, I ken the preacher might wink at publishing banns.”
A furious blush suffused Harris’s face. “We do appreciate the offer, but Miss Lennox has a bridegroom waiting for her in Chatham. I’m just her escort.”
The man shrugged, as if to say suit yourself. “If ye’ve a mind to settle in these parts, Chisholm, ye’ll find some likely lasses here. Wedding day is always a fine time for courting.”
Indeed. That sounded like just the physic he needed to purge Jenny Lennox from his system before he died of her fever.
Alec McGregor spit on his palms and hoisted his ax once again. “Well, this tree won’t chop itself, more’s the pity. I don’t fanc
y leaving the job half-done, though. It’d be just as likely to fall and kill one of the cows. Go along and ye’ll soon come to my place. It’ll be humming like a beehive. Tell everyone who ye are and that ye’re staying for the wedding. I’ll be along by and by.”
With the crack of the ax sounding rhythmically behind them, Harris and Jenny followed the path Alec McGregor had pointed out.
Harris cleared his throat. While they were alone, there was something he needed to know.
“We could be in Chatham by tonight.” He couldn’t bring himself to phrase his question in plainer terms.
“Are ye that anxious to be rid of me?” asked Jenny.
“I’m only saying…we’re mighty close.”
“I don’t reckon another day will make much difference.”
Not to her, perhaps, thought Harris as a snug little house hove into view, aswarm with busy women. He, on the other hand, planned to make good use of every minute to fortify himself against the pain of their parting.
Not trusting himself to speak, he shrugged his shoulders as if to say suit yourself.
As they approached the homestead, a young woman came to meet them. Her sleeves were rolled up to the elbow and a few brown feathers still clung to her large, capable-looking hands. When she flashed a broad grin, the slight gap between her top teeth proclaimed her kinship to Alec McGregor.
“Failte!” she greeted them.
Harris replied with some unintelligible words Jenny took to be Gaelic. It must have been some ritual response to the thousand welcomes, for he quickly slipped back into English.
“We met Mr. McGregor back there and he invited us to stay for the wedding. I’m Harris Chisholm and this is Jenny Lennox. We’re on our way to Chatham where she’s to be wed.”
Evidently he didn’t want anyone else jumping to the conclusion that they were a married couple. Neither did Jenny, though she didn’t see the need to blurt out the truth so abruptly.
“I’m Alec’s daughter, Isabel McGregor. Ye’ve come to the right place to get ye in the wedding spirit, Miss Lennox.”
Jenny could only stare at the girl, with her bloodstained apron and dark disheveled curls. “But…but…aren’t ye the bride?”
“Aye, one of ’em.” Isabel McGregor swept a look of wry amusement over her hands and apron. “But if we’re to have a proper feast, somebody had to kill and pluck those fool roosters. I’d make a poor lady of the manor, Miss Lennox. I leave that up to my sister, Morag.”
Though the young woman didn’t seem insulted by her remark, Jenny still felt compelled to change the subject—quickly.
“Is yer sister getting married today, as well?”
All the merriment deserted Isabel McGregor’s rosy face. Jenny wondered what she’d said amiss this time.
“No.” The girl found her voice again, though it scarcely sounded like her own—flat and hollow. “Not today.”
Like Ivanhoe at Ashby, Harris rode to Jenny’s rescue. “If we’re to enjoy the fruits of yer feast, Miss McGregor, the least we can do is help ye ready it. Will ye put us to work?”
Isabel McGregor looked to welcome the diversion as much as Jenny did. She smiled again, albeit a rather shaky one.
“Aye, we’d be glad of two extra pairs of hands. Ye can stow yer gear in the house. Mr. Chisholm, if ye’ll go along that path behind the barn, ye’ll soon come to Ewan Menzies’s place. They’re roasting a sheep and the men are supposed to be catching us some fish. They’ll put ye to good use, I expect. Just between ye and me, I’d like ye to keep them from getting into Ewan’s brew until after the ceremony.”
“It’d take a braver man than I to come between a crowd of Highlanders and their usquebaugh,” quipped Harris. “But I’ll do what I can to oblige ye, ma’am, and to make myself useful.”
“Do ye want me to go along with him?” asked Jenny.
“Oh my, no!” Isabel McGregor protested cheerfully. “If my Murdock sees ye, he’s likely to throw me over before the wedding. Ye’re better off to stay here, Miss Lennox. Ye could help Grannie McPhee baking the oatcakes, if ye like. Her poor hands are awful crippled with the rheumatics, but nothing a body can say will keep her idle.”
The girl pointed to an outdoor oven some distance away. “Mind, she loves to gossip, so she’ll be after hearing yer whole life’s story.”
Harris spoke up, “We’ll get to work then, Miss McGregor.” He sounded anxious to be away.
“Just call me Isabel, both of ye, please. This is a small settlement and most everybody’s relations some way or other, so we don’t stand on ceremony.”
“Very well…Isabel. We’ll get to work and let ye get back to yers.”
First, they stowed Jenny’s bundle of clothes and Harris’s pack.
“I reckon I’ll see ye at the wedding,” said Harris as they parted company.
“Aye.” Try as she might, Jenny could not prevent a hint of wistfulness from creeping into her voice. Part of the reason she’d been eager to stay for the wedding was so she and Harris could have one last day together before…Chatham.
A day to make peace with their choices and their future. A day to say goodbye. He didn’t seem the least disposed to any of it. Just like a man to come over all practical and decide he’d better get on with his life. Not that she wanted him hanging about mooning over her, but…
“Mind ye don’t get into trouble over at Menzies’s.” She tried to sound as brusque as he.
Fortunately, Jenny found herself with little time for reflection or regrets. The next several hours flew by in a whirl of preparations for the feast. Eggs to beat. Dough to roll. Great wheels of oatcake to lift from the oven. Though she hesitated to admit it, even to herself, Jenny found herself enjoying the homely rhythm of these familiar chores.
Courtesy of Grannie McPhee, a stout little woman of garrulous but kindly disposition, Jenny’s tongue was soon working as busily as her hands.
“…I didn’t ken what was going on, but I could hear them rolling something heavy over the deck…”
“…I can’t begin to guess how many hours we stood in that cold water, waiting for dawn to come so we could see our way to shore.”
“…then the Indians took to laughing like a bunch of fools. I was that cross, for two bawbees I’d have brained the lot of ’em.”
When the last of the oatcakes finally came out of the oven, Jenny looked up to see that she’d gathered a large audience of girls and women.
“Ye tell a fine tale, lass!” chortled Grannie McPhee. “Puts me in mind of the stories my ma used to tell me about the Great Rising and the Bonny Prince. For all that, I’d rather listen to adventures than live them.”
“I’d love to have adventures,” breathed a tall girl on the verge of womanhood, “especially with a hero like yer Mr. Chisholm.”
“Harris—a hero?” Even as the laughter broke from her lips, Jenny could see several nods of agreement, and more than one dreamy smile. The kind of smile with which she’d once contemplated her own hero—Roderick Douglas.
A sly little voice in the back of Jenny’s mind told her to take advantage of all this feminine interest in Harris. Set a pack of admirers on him and he’d abandon any notion of her. Then she could wed Roderick happily, without a single qualm of guilt.
She opened her mouth to utter words of encouragement. Instead she heard herself saying, “The man’s no hero, believe me. Why he can be the most annoying, opinionated…”
Stimulating. Understanding. Generous. Jenny could not bring herself to stoke the fires of girlish fancy with the truth.
By their far-off looks and secret smiles, she could tell her admonitions had fallen on deaf ears.
And she didn’t like it a bit.
Harris frowned, looking from the well-trodden path at his feet to the fainter one veering left. The sound of masculine voices drifted from that direction, laughter and good-natured argument accompanied by the occasional splash. Which way had Isabel McGregor meant for him to take? Surely he must have the worst sense of direct
ion in the whole New Brunswick colony.
“Either way will get ye there,” came a woman’s voice, soft as a summer wind in the leaves, with a rich Celtic lilt.
Harris gawked around, trying to find its source.
Then he saw her.
She knelt in a nearby clearing, her green plaid dress and dark hair blending seamlessly into the forest shadows. For a moment, Harris wondered if she was real at all, or only a spirit of the woodlands.
The young woman paid him no mind at first, going about her business of plucking wild roses. Her hands had a tapered natural elegance and her long, unbound hair fell around her like a lustrous cloak. Harris had never seen a woman quite like her. Why, then, did she seem so hauntingly familiar?
“P-pardon me?” he stammered.
Rebecca. That was it. She looked exactly as he had always imagined Ivanhoe’s Rebecca.
Two wide, pale eyes raised to regard him.
“Either path will take ye to Menzies’s,” she repeated. “The less-traveled one is shorter, but ye’ll have to wade the brook.”
“Thank ye, ma’am. My name’s Harris Chisholm. Alec McGregor invited us to the wedding. Are ye one of the brides?”
She didn’t answer his question, or offer to introduce herself in return. “I thought ye might be the minister.”
It seemed high irony to Harris that anyone should mistake him for a man of the cloth, considering where he’d been and what he’d been doing last night when the sound of the pipes had brought him back to his senses. Bitten hard by the serpent was closer to the truth.
On the run from those unwelcome memories, Harris started down the left-hand path. He had only gone a step or two when the woman called out, “Tell Murdock Menzies, from me, that he’s to stay sober and not kill himself with any fool men’s antics before the wedding. I’ll not have him spoil Isabel’s day.”
Her warning rang with a tone of imperious command—like a lady of the manor, used to being heard and obliged.
Harris turned back. “Ye must be Morag McGregor, then. Isabel sent me over. On much the same errand, I suspect, though she put it a wee bit…”
