With trembling hands Leana clasped the coins to her middle, praying her tears conveyed her thanks. I am coming home, Neda. Home!
“Return to the people you love, Leana.” Lydia Scott rested her head on her husbands shoulder. “And to the ones who love you.”
Eleven
If thou should kiss me, love,
Wha could espy thee?
If thou would be my love,
Jamie, come try me!
ROBERT BURNS
Rose gazed across the garden from beneath the wide brim of her bonnet, wondering if Jamie had spied her tiptoeing toward him. Ian was taking his afternoon nap, giving her a peaceful hour to seek her husband’s company. She’d bathed her hair in rose water and donned his favorite blue gown. Might he notice?
Jamie was sitting under the yew tree engrossed in a book, his long legs stretched before him, his broad back pressed against the purplish-brown bark. The yew, taller than the house and older by centuries, had sheltered many a soul seeking respite from the heat. After two days of incessant rain and mist, Rose rather liked the sun on her shoulders, though nothing warmed her like the sight of the man she loved.
“Jamie,” she called softly, not wanting to startle him. When he looked up with a hint of a smile on his face, her throat tightened. So handsome, this husband of hers! She ducked beneath the yew’s branches, glad to have Jamie to herself in a cozy bower. “Why aren’t you off counting your sheep,” she teased him, “instead of reading that dreary book?”
His smile broadened. “Rab, Davie, and some of the other herds will arrive Monday noon for the shearing. ’Til then my flocks have little need of me. And grim as the subject may be, I’m enjoying my book.” He held up Defoe’s The Journal of the Plague Year, borrowed from Reverend Gordon’s bookshelf. “Far more insightful than the Pepys account, eyewitness or not. Did you know a comet appeared in the London sky before the plague and another before the great fire?”
“Truly?” She reached for the slim volume, curious to see for herself. “I suppose ’twas a sign from the Almighty.”
“Many a Londoner thought so.”
When she scanned the page, several phrases caught her eye. “Doomed to be destroyed,” she read aloud, shivering at the thought. “ ‘A blazing star … A rushing, mighty noise, fierce and terrible.’ Oh!” She quickly closed the book, lest the pages singe her fingers. “Do you believe the Almighty speaks to his people in so kenspeckle a manner?”
“He spoke to me that way,” Jamie reminded her, slipping the book out of her hand and tucking it inside his vest. “You’ve heard me describe my vision of winged creatures and a voice that roared like the sea.”
The notion of Jamie’s dream frightened her still. Could it possibly be true? “I’ve awakened from many a strange story,” she confessed, “though I never imagined God as the author.”
“Nor had I, Rose. Not until that October night I slept under the stars. I heard a voice say, ‘Behold, I am with you wherever you go.’ ” Sincerity shone on Jamie’s face, nigh to convincing her. “It was no simple dream, for I sensed his presence and answered him as well.”
“I believe you,” she said, trying hard to do so. If Jamie truly heard his voice, perhaps it meant he was … well, devout.
He chuckled. “Are you thinking I’m a bit daft, Rose?”
“Not at all.” How did this man read her thoughts?
“Come.” Jamie circled her wrist in a firm grasp and pulled her down onto his lap. She landed with a soft gasp, her skirts dragging across a carpet of dried berries and leaves. “I’ll not have my young wife fearing her husband is brainwode.”
“Your mind is quite sound,” she assured him, thrilled when he drew her close. Soiled hems could be cleaned and wrinkled gowns ironed; only winning Jamie’s heart mattered. “I am glad you are mine, Mr. McKie.”
He gazed into her eyes for a moment, anticipation singing in the air like birdsong. “My sweet Rose,” he murmured, before fitting his mouth to hers.
She responded at once, wanting there to be no doubt of her affection. I love you, Jamie. What she dared not put into words, she breathed into her kisses. And what he could not bring himself to say, she pretended to hear in his low sigh. I love you. Rose.
It was many minutes before she noticed the sound of male voices in the steading and the dampness of the ground beginning to seep into her skirts. “Oh, me.” Flustered, she pushed back an abundance of wispy tendrils. “Jamie, perhaps we might … take a walk?”
“A worthy plan, dear wife.” He laughed with his eyes first and then low in his chest. “The rough bark of the yew has left an imprint on my back.” Jamie stood, then helped her to her feet and brushed the debris from their clothing. “Suppose we stroll round the gardens.”
He ran his hand lightly over her braid, then slipped his arm round her waist as together they emerged into the sunshine, greeted by the musical chi-chi-chi and bright plumage of a greenfinch on the wing. Above them shone a cloudless sky, painted a pale blue gray, like Ian’s eyes. Evidence of the recent rain was everywhere: The borders were as saturated as a sponge, creating puddles for them to dodge every few steps.
Jamie frowned at the unkempt rectangles of soil. “Auchengray’s gardens are not what they once were.”
“Eliza is too busy elsewhere.” Rose gestured at the rows of freshly turned earth still waiting for neeps, radishes, lettuce, and peas to be planted. “I fear we may not have many fresh vegetables this season. Meanwhile, Annabel is trying to learn how to spin wool, with limited success. Now that Leana is gone …” Rose silently chastised herself. She’d not intended to mention her sister, especially not to Jamie and especially not today. But Leana came to mind so often ’twas hard to avoid.
The entire household quietly mourned Leana’s absence—in the sewing room, the kitchen, the nursery, the stillroom, and in the gardens most of all. Weeds choked the beds where her gillyflowers grew, and her physic garden sorely needed tending. Leana’s chair in the dining room remained polished but seldom used. Her apron hung on a kitchen hook, gathering dust. Even Ian grew fretful at times, looking round as though he expected his mother to appear.
Last Tuesday Rose had run to the top of the stair, certain she’d heard Leana’s voice in the entrance hall. She’d been greatly disappointed—aye, and a tiny bit relieved—to discover a neighbor had come to call instead.
“Will she e’er return to Auchengray, Jamie?”
He did not answer her at once, but when he did, he sounded certain. “I do not believe she will. At least not until long after we’ve left for Glentrool.” A look of concern crossed his face. “You did write her, Rose, and tell her we would not be departing until Lammas?”
“My letter should arrive at her door by Monday.”
Jamie drew her to a stop at the edge of the rose beds, each shrub encircled with smooth rocks from Glensone Burn. Leana had doted on their mother’s roses—grinding bones for fertilizer, watering the roots when the rain did not, staking new plants in a well-sheltered corner where the wind could not reach them. Though Rose was named for her mother’s favorite flower, she did not care for their sharp thorns. Leana, however, loved every bloom: Maiden’s Blush, Rosa Mundi, and the white Musk climbing the stone wall.
And you, Rose. Aye, Leana had nurtured her most of all.
Jamie tightened his arm round her, as if he sensed her shifting mood. “Do you miss your sister?”
She ran her fingertip across a firmly wrapped rosebud. “All of Auchengray does. Especially your son.” A familiar ache crept into her throat. “I know so little about children, Jamie. I fear I may never be the mother Leana was nor the mother Ian deserves.”
“That’s not so,” he countered, sounding as though he meant it. “I saw the look of wonder on your face the night he was born. You’ve cherished the lad from the first.” When she only nodded, he bent closer. “After Hogmanay you will have a child of your own. Two bairns who need you.”
“And a husband who needs me as well?”
; Jamie kissed the hollow of her neck. “You can be sure of that.”
She leaned against his chest, so happy it made her lightheaded. “The sun is warm, and I’m feeling drowsy. Take me up the stair. Please?”
He escorted her withindoors, acknowledging the servants in passing. The house was quieter than usual; her father had departed for Edingham Farm after breakfast. “To inspect my future holdings,” Lachlan had said with a shrewd look in his eye. Rose was simply glad to have the man gone for the day.
A moment in the nursery confirmed that Ian was still fast asleep on his side, his legs folded, his arms curled round his head. Rose smoothed her hand across the lad’s round bottom. Could she possibly love any bairn more than her sweet Ian? Though he was not a child of her womb, he was surely a child of her heart.
The couple left the nursery as quietly as they had entered, stepped into the cool of the bedroom, and latched the door. “ ’Tis pleasant in here.” Rose walked across the room, wondering if his gaze followed her. She drew the curtains closed and lit a single taper, turning day into night. “Upon a bonny day in June, when wearing through the afternoon …”
“Enough of that plowman’s poetry,” Jamie protested lightly. “Duncan is ever singing the man’s songs.” When she returned to his side, he gathered her in a loose embrace; “Though he does have one fine tune. ‘She is a winsome wee thing, this sweet wee wife o’ mine.’ ”
“If you say so, Jamie.” She pulled her braid round, fiddling with the ribbon. His unexpected endearments took her aback. Might he love her after all? “I met Rabbie Burns, you know. In Dumfries.”
“You were on some dubious errand with a friend.”
“My dear Jane.” Her good friend from school, lost to her four months ago. Rose had survived her bout with croup, but Jane Grierson of Dunscore had not. “She compelled me to accompany her to the Globe Inn.”
Jamie feigned shock. “My heidie lass frequenting public houses.”
“One brief visit is hardly ‘frequent,’ ” Rose said, swatting his chin with the tail of her braid, “though I’ve been called headstrong before.”
“By me,” he reminded her, “on several occasions.”
Rose tightened the bow on her braid, mustering the courage to ask the question that nagged at her. “Do you mind awfully much, Jamie?” She studied the half smile on his face. “I am not my meek, bowsome sister.”
His smile held, but just. “You are not Leana. But you are my wife.”
“And you have … come to … accept this?” She bit her lip, wanting to ask more, afraid she’d asked too much.
“I have learned to be content,” he said simply.
Precious little comfort there. Apprehension, like a thick whorl of newly carded wool, lodged itself in her throat. “ ’Tis not what I’m asking, and you know it well.”
A shadow moved across his face, then was gone. “You are asking if I love you as I once loved you.”
“Nae, Jamie. I am asking if you love me as you once loved Leana. With all your heart, holding nothing back.”
He released her from his embrace, a faint stain on his cheeks. “ ’Tis not a fair question, Rose. You and your sister are very different women.”
Dejected, she turned away from him. “Not when it comes to whom we love.”
Twelve
Gather the Rose of love,
whilst yet is time.
EDMUND SPENSER
Och!” Jamie stamped about the straw-covered floor, disgusted with himself. Evening sunlight poured through the open barn doors, but his mind was elsewhere—namely, with his wife hours earlier. I have learned to be content. What sort of response was that? Rose—his darling, infuriating, adorable Rose—had bared her soul to him. And what had he done? “I quoted Scripture to her, Duncan. Scripture!”
The overseer nodded sagely, dragging the sharpening stone across the beveled blade of his shears in long, even strokes. “A guid source, the Buik. Fu’ o’ wisdom. Whan yer ain wirds canna say what ye mean, ’tis a fitting place tae turn.”
Jamie glowered at him. “And when a man cannot say what he should, ’tis a poor place to hide.”
Duncan held the shears closer to the lamplight, inspecting his work. “Aye, thar are some wha use the Buik like a shiel. Not tae hold back the enemy, mind ye, but tae fight the Almighty.”
Jamie dropped onto a tall wooden stool and jammed his boot heel onto one of the rungs. “It’s not the Lord I’m struggling against. Not this time.”
“So ye say.” Duncan wiped the blades clean with a rag, then hung the tool on a nearby peg, ready for Monday’s shearing. “I suppose ye think ’tis young Rose ye’re warslin then.”
Jamie shrugged rather than face a question he did not want to answer.
“Or mebbe ye’re warslin with Jamie McKie.” He folded his polishing rag and stored it on a rough-hewn shelf, then clasped Jamie’s arm, giving him a firm shake. “I’ve a notion ye’re needin’ tae fight a battle that ye can win. I ken the verra place for an evenin’ skirmish: the River Nith.”
In no mood for riddles, Jamie shrugged off Duncan’s friendly gesture. “What does the Nith have to do with me?”
Duncan’s piercing blue eyes pinned him to the spot. “Twa days o’ rain means the river’s in spate. Ideal for nicht anglin’. Sea trout from the Nith make a fine breakfast.”
“Are you suggesting we go fishing?”
“I’ve an extra rod and plenty o’ nets. If Rose doesna mind, ye’ll not be missed.” Duncan inclined his head. “Unless ye have nae skill wi’ rod and tackle—”
“I can manage.” Jamie was already ashamed of sparring with the man. Duncan was his ally, not his adversary. If he wanted a partner for angling, so be it. Jamie started for the mains, calling over his shoulder, “Allow me a moment with Rose.
“Ye’ll want tae change yer clothes,” Duncan called after him. “Dark colors so the fish willna spy ye.”
Jamie headed up the stair, certain he’d find Rose in the nursery. Their afternoon tryst had ended badly. ’Twas best set aright at once, or neither of them would sleep well. When he reached the landing, he heard her alto voice, slightly off-key, singing a cradlesong to his son.
Hush-a-ba, birdie, croon, croon,
Hush-a-ba, birdie, croon!
The sheep are gane to the silver wood,
And the coos are gane to the broom, broom.
His throat tightened at the familiar words from his Glentrool childhood, once sung by a woman with a voice much like Rose’s. Rowena McKie. Though his mother was demanding, she loved him completely. So did Rose.
Jamie continued up the stair, joining in the next verse, hoping his wife might hear him. And forgive him.
And it’s braw milkin’ the kye, kye,
It’s braw milkin’ the kye…
His words faded when he realized she had stopped singing. Disconcerted, he tapped on the nursery door before stepping into the room, lit by a single window.
Rose was sitting in the only chair, her head bowed. Ian lay curled in her arms, nigh to asleep, a linen blanket tucked beneath his chin. One small fist clasped the neckline of her gown. Her silence, so unlike his blithesome wife, unnerved him. Jamie dropped to one knee beside her. “What is it, Rose?”
She looked up, her eyes bright with tears. “Oh, Jamie. I thought …” Her voice broke, and she tried again. “When I asked you … this afternoon …” She turned her head away, though not before he saw the first tear fall.
“Rose, look at me. Please.” He placed one finger under her chin and gently angled it toward him, lowering his head until their eyes met. “You asked me a question no wife should have to ask her husband.”
She jerked away from his touch, her braid sweeping across her back. “My question was unfair, Jamie. When you left our bedroom and then were so quiet at supper, I thought …” Rose sagged across Ian, her cheek resting on the sleeping child. “I was afraid you were … angry with me.”
“I am only angry with myself,” he confessed, meaning it. H
ow could he have been so thoughtless to have punished her for speaking the truth? Jamie brushed his lips against her hair, still fragrant with rose water. My fair Rose. He kept his voice low, trying not to wake his child yet wanting to comfort his wife. “You have nothing to fear, Rose. Your sister is gone. And I am here.”
“Promise me …” He almost didn’t hear her, so soft was her voice. “Promise me you will … stay.”
“Always.” Jamie stilled, breathing in the heady scent of her, feeling the warmth of her beneath him, the silky softness of her hair against his mouth. Dearest Rose. Without plot or scheme, the charming lass had won his heart all over again.
He was not angry with her. He was in love with her.
Jamie closed his eyes, letting the truth sink in. After months of holding her at bay, surrender was sweeter than he could have imagined. A declaration of love waited on his lips. Only pride kept him from confessing it aloud.
Her head lifted ever so slightly. “Will you help me tuck Ian into bed?”
Jamie gathered the child in his arms, then stood and lowered Ian into his crib, careful not to wake him. Rose watched him from her low perch, drying her tears with her sleeve. “What a good father you are.”
“Would that I were a better husband.” His arms empty once more, he pulled Rose to her feet and into his embrace. “Forgive me, lass.”
“Only if you will forgive me.” She pressed her cheek against his chest. “For all of it.”
“ ’Tis behind us now, Rose.” He softly kissed her brow, then her cheeks, then her lips, hoping she might taste the words he could not quite say.
As they stood, wrapped in each other’s arms, Jamie dearly wished he’d not made plans for the evening. Yet he could not fail Duncan after all the man had done for him. Jamie vowed to make it up to her the minute he returned. “Rose …” He leaned back, wanting to be certain she saw the apology in his expression. “Duncan has invited me to join him for a spell of night angling on the Nith. We shan’t be gone but a few hours. Will you mind?”
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