“Speak to me, Leana.” His voice, his gaze, demanded obedience. “Though I ken you are not the one who stole your father’s gold.”
“I just learned the truth tonight,” she began, then realized she was protecting herself. And incriminating Rose. “But I’ve suspected … that is, I’ve known … for the last few days …”
“And said nothing to me.”
“Jamie, it wasn’t my place.”
“Your place?” He threw his arms in the air, clearly exasperated. “You are the mother of my son and the sister of my wife. I trust you with everything that matters to me.”
Everything that matters. Leana feared she was no longer included on that list.
His low voice bore a note of anger. “If you suspected … nae, if you even imagined for one moment that Rose had done such a preposterous thing, you should have come to me.” Jamie snatched the coins off the floor, crushing the bag in his fist. “You heard the vow I made to your father. If Lachlan had found this gold … if he had … if he …”
With an anguished cry, Jamie threw the bag of coins against the dresser, bursting the seams of the cotton. Gold and silver went everywhere.
“Jamie, please!” Leana flew to Rose’s side. Her sister was weeping, her face turned to the wall. “Have you forgotten that your wife is not well? Rose did not know that Father would follow us. Or that you would make such a … rash vow.”
“Rash?” Jamie groaned, lowering himself onto the edge of her bed. “But I was certain … so very certain …” His voice, taut with pain, finally broke. “Why, Rose?”
She struggled to lift her head from the sheet. “I wanted to … hurt my father. For what he did to you. And to me. And to my sister. I did not think … I did not … think.” Rose collapsed into sobs, her back rising and falling beneath Leana’s gentle stroking.
Leana took a breath to steady her nerves. Please, Father. Help him see the truth. Leaning forward, she lightly rested her hand on Jamie’s shoulder, praying he would not shrug it off or reject the plea she was about to make.
“Jamie, your …” She faltered, then began again. “Your brother willingly forgave you, even though you once stole something of great value to him. Might you extend mercy to my sister … for the same sin?”
Beneath her hands, Jamie and Rose both stilled. Leana held her breath, listening for a different sound. Not the crash of coins, but the sound of grace.
Rose’s voice, scant more than a whisper. “Please … forgive me.”
Jamie reached toward her. “Only if you will forgive my anger. I did not mean … I did not … Oh, my love.” He moaned, almost a keening.
A half turn, and Rose was in his arms.
Leana inched along the edge of the bed, giving them room, even as her heart burst its dam. Pain, relief, sorrow, joy poured through her soul like water. Drowning her. She loved them both. She did. But to see them like this … their hearts joined as one. It was too hard. It hurt too much.
“Please …” Leana stifled the word with her hands.
Neither of them looked up.
She slipped out of the room unnoticed and fled down the stair, one thought on her mind. Ian. The Lord had taken Jamie from her arms, but he had given her a son. And one day, a daughter. More than enough, Lord. More than enough.
She knocked on the maidservants’ door, ashamed of her tears, mortified by her need.
Eliza opened the door and ushered her in at once. She asked no questions nor needed direction. “Ian?” The maid lifted him from his crib, which took up half the tiny room. “Leuk wha’s hastened doon the stair tae see her boy. Guid ye’re still awake, eh?” Eliza poured him into his mother’s arms, his body warm and languid, his head nuzzling beneath her chin as Leana drew her son to her heart.
One embrace, and she was healed.
All the broken places were mended. All the empty corners were filled.
Leana offered her thanks, then stepped into the hall, so glad to have Ian she did not care if she had nowhere to go. It was a mild night. Perhaps she might step out of doors and drink in the freshening air.
She would remain near the inn rather than have the elders of the parish find her wandering the streets of the village. Monnigaff was her home parish now. It would not do to begin on the wrong foot. She had the testimonial letter from Reverend Gordon in her reticule and would take it to services in the morn, where she would meet Jamie’s parents and the Glentrool household.
“I am Ian McKie’s mother,” she would say when asked. A sufficient depiction of her role. A worthy title. The future heir of Glentrool. She would not say those words, but they did comfort her. To raise so blessed a child, was that not honor enough?
Without the moon’s lantern, the sky was black, awash with stars. She took a few steps away from the door, lest it fly open without warning, and simply stood there, basking in the beauty of the night and the peaceful sound of flowing water. Eliza had tucked a small blanket round Ian, though Leana prayed her body and her love were enough to keep him warm.
When the door did open, it was not with a bang but with a soft creak, followed by stealthy footsteps. “Leana?”
Startled, she spun round, guarding Ian with her arms. “Jamie?” His face was shrouded in darkness. She could see the knotted cord half-concealed beneath his shirt. “Whatever are you doing?”
“Getting rid of something.”
Bethankit. “Do you need my help?”
“Only as a witness that this unco thing has been buried. I will not allow anything so … evil, so fause beneath our roof again.” He strode forward, his hand pressed to the small of her back. “I ken the verra place to bury it.”
Leana knew as well. “Beneath an oak. ’Twas the first tree God made, some say. Strong. And safe.”
They did not have far to walk to reach the spreading branches of an oak, still green and thick with leaves. Jamie found a stout stick and dug as deep a grave for the cord as he could, loosening the dirt, chopping at the ground until his stick broke in two. Even in the black of night, the gold cord was visible, palpable.
Leana turned away, shielding Ian. Though he was fast asleep, she would not allow him to be sullied by its cantrip.
Jamie grasped the knotted cord with his shirttail and tossed it in the gaping hole between the roots of the oak. He filled in the dirt, scraping his new boots across the ground until the strange grave was filled, then he stamped on the loose soil, packing it down. “ ’Tis done.”
She could not see the relief on his face, but she heard it in his voice. “And the coins?”
“In the collection box for the poor come the morn.”
Rose’s wishes had prevailed. A fitting end to ill-gotten gain.
Jamie steered her back toward the inn, his eye on Ian. “Will you put him to bed now?”
“I am afraid he was in bed. But …” How could she explain herself? My heart was breaking. I needed to know my son loved me. Even if you no longer do. She could say none of those things. “I wanted to see Ian.” The truth, no more.
“We’ve had a most trying day, Leana. No wonder you wanted the solace of holding your son.” Jamie paused at the door, his gaze locked with hers. “I do understand, lass. More than you ken.” He started inside, then turned, as if remembering something. “I have ordered a hot bath brought to your room and another to mine. With all that has transpired and my family meeting us at kirk tomorrow, I thought that a stab at cleanliness might be in order.”
“A fine idea, Jamie.” She could already feel the warmth of the water and smell the fragrance of her lavender soap.
He knocked the dirt from his boots against the doorjamb. “You mentioned having some remedy to help me sleep. Might that offer still hold?”
Seventy-Two
But God to man doth speak in solitude.
JOHN STUART BLACKIE
His bath was steaming, the wooden tub and pails of water having been delivered by two inn servants who grunted rather than spoke and took the pennies Jamie offered them without a word o
f acknowledgment.
Now that he had the room to himself, Jamie longed to do away with his clothes and climb in, letting the hot water ease the throbbing pain in his thigh. But Leana assured him she would stop by his room the moment she got Rose settled, delivering an herb for his bath and another for his head wound. His only choice was to wait and hope the water did not grow cold.
Jamie ran his fingers across his brow, feeling for the nasty abrasion and the painful lump beneath it. The swelling had gone down considerably, but the skin had been scraped open and seemed in no hurry to heal. Leana would have to look upon his ugly wound long enough to dab it with one of her concoctions.
Leana. He was glad she had come, for myriad reasons. But it seemed she was anything but happy, forced to be with him and Rose round the clock. At Glentrool, he would see that she had a corner of the house all to herself. The second floor of the turret perhaps, allowing her to come and go down the spiral stair without constantly crossing paths with him. Would such solitude make her life easier? Or would it make yours easier, Jamie?
He heard her gentle tap at the door. The murmured syllables of his name.
Ushering her into the small room furnished with naught but bed and tub, he apologized again for their humble lodgings. “I do not even have a chair to offer you, Leana.”
“Nor do I need one.” She placed a teacup, covered with a saucer, on the floor by his tub, then propped her medicine box on the low bed, avoiding his gaze, her unbound hair swinging round her like a veil. “I’ll not be here a moment, for your bath awaits.”
At her bidding, he sat on the edge of the bed so she might treat his wound. He recognized the scent at once. “Lavender,” he said as she gingerly dabbed the open skin. “Will I smell like you, then?”
Her smile was faint. “The scent fades with time. As do most things.”
Not all things, Leana.
She pulled out one brown bottle, then put it back, still searching. “Rose is feeling much improved. Or so she assured me when I left her soaking.”
He was relieved to hear it, for Rose had not looked well earlier. And whose fault is that? His angry outburst was the last thing Rose needed. They’d forgiven each other, but such histrionics were not good for her health. “Will Rose be able to join us at kirk in the morn? To meet my family?”
“I believe so.” Leana sorted through the medicine box Duncan had fashioned for her long ago, then plucked out a small vial and held it up. “Ah.” She emptied half a dozen drops in his still-steaming bathwater. “Oil of thyme. The scent alone is said to give a man courage and strength.”
“I’ll need both, come the morning.” Jamie leaned over the water, breathing in the pleasant aroma. “It will help me sleep, you say?”
“The thyme in your bath is meant to improve your limp.” She bent down to reclaim the teacup, sliding the saucer beneath it. “For sleeping, I’ve brewed some dried leaves in tea. Medieval apothecaries considered thyme an infallible cure for that troublesome disorder …” She paused, handing him his hot drink. “The nightmare.”
He sipped it just to humor her. The taste was bitter, pungent, earthy.
“You’ll drink it all, aye?” Her hand was on the door latch, her honey-colored brows arched as she waited for an answer.
“I shall.” Jamie lifted his cup to her. “Sleep well, lass.”
Whether because of the heat of his bathwater or the herb that scented it, Jamie had crawled into bed and fallen asleep instantly, almost free of pain. But the thyme did not hold his frightening dreams at bay. At least not the dream he vividly remembered, the one that woke him long after the break of day.
A dense fog had crept across Galloway overnight, its damp tendrils curling beneath the inn doors and through the window cracks. The air was as gray withindoors as out. Jamie sat up, heart pounding, trying to remember the words that were spoken. That was all his dream was, a voice. Unquestionably divine. Speaking directly to him.
Your name is no longer James. Laird of Glentrool shall be your name.
“Nae!” he had argued. As if one might spar with God and emerge victorious.
But Jamie knew he could not be laird of Glentrool. Not yet.
The voice identified itself, quite clearly—I am God Almighty—leaving no room for doubt. And then the promise came that had filled Jamie with dread and awakened him with trepidation. The land that I once gave Archibald and Alec McKie, I give to you and to your seed.
Glentrool could not be his. Not unless his father was dead.
“Nae, I will see him at kirk.” Jamie threw aside his bedsheet, wishing he might do the same with his unsettling dream. Glentrool would be his someday. But, please God, not this day
He dressed in a fresh shirt and breeches, then brushed his coat clean, shaking his head in disbelief. “James McKie, heir of Glentrool, without valet or manservant,” he chided himself. “How are the mighty fallen!”
His heart stopped. David’s words at the death of Saul.
Jamie threw his few possessions into a leather traveling bag, then limped into the corridor and rapped on the door next to his, doing a poor job of curbing his anxiety. By his reckoning ’tas well past eight. The women took their time answering the door. He’d lifted his knuckles to knock a second time when the door opened no more than a handbreadth.
Leana gazed at him through the narrow space. “Rose is … not ready.”
He tried to look round her, but Leana was tall for a woman, and her hair was piled on her head beneath a feathery bonnet that matched her green gown. The color of his eyes, she’d once told him. “I see you are dressed for the day,” he said.
“And so is Rose.” Leana opened the door another inch. “But we are not certain … That is, it might be best …”
“Leana, for heaven’s sake. Let me see my wife.”
She opened the door at last, bidding him enter. Rose was indeed attired for kirk, wearing the same blue gown, the hem brushed clean, the lace collar pressed. Her hair, too, was neatly dressed—the maidservants had been busy that morning—and a small hat he’d forgotten she owned was perched atop her dark hair.
But her face was ashen. As gray as the fog that hovered outside the inn’s curtainless windows.
“Rose!” He stepped closer and pulled her into his arms. She came willingly, but he felt the weakness in her body. As if she were standing by sheer will. “Tell me, beloved. Have you … Is there …” He could not even bring himself to say the word. Blood.
Her nod confirmed his fears.
Jamie held her tighter still, as if his love might heal her, as if his strength might seep through her gown. Words tumbled out of his mouth, words that made little sense. “Leana, what can we … Isn’t there …something?”
When he saw her blue eyes pool with tears, he knew the answer.
“Rose …” He pressed his cheek to hers, praying she would understand. “Perhaps it would be best if you … waited here.”
Her back stiffened. “But, Jamie—”
“After the morning service, we shall see whether you are able to travel or if it would be better to remain—”
“Nae.” Rose stepped out of his embrace, her heidie nature in full force, even if her strength was not. “I want to go home, Jamie. I want to rest in our own bed until I am well.” She looked up at him, the shadows beneath her eyes stark against her skin. “The moment the service ends, come for me and take me home.”
“I shall.” He kissed her, sealing their bargain, then helped her stretch out on the bed. After loosening her collar and unpinning her hat, he hesitated, reluctant to leave her behind. “Rose, I fear we must go. My family should be arriving shortly, and I …” Nae, he would not burden her with his fears. Not now.
“I will be fine, Jamie.” She did sound better. “Rest is the best cure.”
“You are certain?” He waited until her eyes convinced him. “Annabel will keep you company. Send for us at once if you feel worse.”
“Go, Jamie. My sister is already halfway out the door.” Ro
se swatted him with the edge of her sheet, though not very hard. “Off with you, and let me sleep.”
Jamie left the room with misgivings, torn between wanting to stay with Rose, yet needing to see his father and mother and know that they were well. Leana descended the stair ahead of him, the feathers on her hat bobbing with each step. Her reticule disappeared in and out of the folds of her gown, the shape distorted by her father’s gold. The three of them had agreed that Leana, a stranger in Monnigaff, would be the best one to slip the coins in the poor box unnoticed.
Wrapped in fog thick as broth, Jamie waited outside the inn while Leana made arrangements with the maids. Before long she appeared with Eliza, who bore a fresh-scrubbed Ian in her arms.
Jamie smiled at his son and felt the tightness in his chest ease. His father could not help but be pleased at having another grandson. Especially one so healthy and bright eyed as this one. “If we can find the kirk in this weather, we’ll be there shortly.” Though the fog slowed their steps, they soon crossed the arched bridge over the burn and followed the curving road uphill to their destination.
Six centuries old with a yew tree older still, the medieval kirk stood high above the watery confluence of the Cree and the Penkill, overlooking their union like a minister presiding at a wedding ceremony. The rising mist from the river and burn swirled round the headstones—the oldest in Galloway, parishioners boasted.
Though Davie had stayed with the lambs, Jamie and the others found Rab among those who’d arrived early and were milling about the kirkyard. “Leuk, Mr. McKie!” He pointed to a gravestone faintly marked with the year 1416. “Maun be a relative o’ mine. ‘A. Murray,’ it says.”
Jamie acknowledged him, even as he leaned toward Leana. “Now is the time, lass. ’Twill be empty inside.” While she hastened away, bound for the kirk door, Jamie surveyed his neighbors from the hills and glens as they prepared for worship, anticipating the first bell.
Some peered at him, curious, as if they thought they knew him but were not certain. Others recognized him at once and rudely turned their backs. Will any in the parish receive me? John McMillan had avoided his question; now Jamie understood why. Things would not improve when the parish met his two cousins—nae, his two wives.
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