Their lodging was as plain as her apron and as colorless. Two bedsteads, two chairs, an unsteady table, and a washstand. But the room was clean, and the inn stood near the castle where they hoped to find Davina. MacDuff had said she played her fiddle for His Grace each evening. Surely she wasn’t residing at Brodick with all those men …
“Is there another inn nearby?” Will asked.
Mrs. McAllister’s expression hardened. “Doesna this suit ye, lad?”
“Oo aye,” he quickly said. “We’re to meet a certain lady and wondered where else she might be lodging.” He dared not give away their sister’s identity, not until they knew how things stood with her.
“Thar’s not anither proper inn for miles,” she said with a shrug. “I canna think whaur else the leddy would stay.”
“Is the parish manse far?”
“Aye, ’tis in Lamlash Bay, aboot five miles south o’ here.”
Will nodded, trying to piece things together. Davina wouldn’t make the long trek up the shore road to the castle every evening. Unless she had a horse. And a braisant Highlander to escort her.
“I’ll leave ye tae get settled.” Mrs. McAllister stepped back from the door. “Thar’ll be a plate o’ cock-a-leekie soup waitin’ for ye in the kitchen parlor. ’Twas hangin’ o’er the fire afore midnicht. I’ve not broken the Sabbath, ye ken.”
The moment she left, Will opened their portmanteau; his belongings were on one side, Sandy’s on the other. They’d packed in such haste he couldn’t remember what they’d brought, let alone determine what they’d forgotten. He looked up to find his brother gazing out the window as if Davina might wash in with the tide.
“We’ll find her, Sandy. And take her home.”
“But what will Father say when the three of us show up at Glentrool?”
“He doesn’t know what we know,” Will snapped, exhaustion and hunger sharpening his birsie mood. “Father didn’t overhear what this … this cur did to our sister.” He’d had nightmares about those bruises.
His brother turned round, pinning him with a hard gaze. “What should we do about the Highlander?”
Will had been asking himself the same question since they’d fled from Edinburgh. He knew what he wanted to do, what MacDonald deserved, what justice required. But ’twas an ill-deedie notion. And they’d brought no weapons, only their anger.
He finally told Sandy the truth. “I’ll know when I see Davina. When I see her eyes and can tell whether or not MacDonald has truly hurt her. And if he has—”
“We shall hurt him,” Sandy finished.
“Aye, won’t we just?”
After Mrs. McAllister delivered a pitcher of hot water to their room, the twins took turns at the washstand. Clean shirts and scraped chins made them more presentable but no less hungry and no less determined.
“If and when we meet this Highlander, we must not give our intentions away,” Will cautioned as they prepared to go down for supper. “Who knows what lies he employed to beguile our sister.”
“Are you asking me to be cordial to a man—”
“Nae, nae,” Will murmured as they started out the door. “I’m asking you to hold your tongue.”
The twins were halfway down the stair when Will froze, hearing voices in the kitchen parlor. One very familiar voice in particular. Father. He took the rest of the steps in a bound, Sandy close behind him.
When Will rounded the corner leading into the sunlit room, he stopped in his tracks as a red-headed lass turned in her chair.
“Davina!”
In an instant she was on her feet and in his arms, pressing her face into his neck, her tears wet against his skin.
“My bonny wee fairy.” Will fought for control, squeezing her tight. “How I’ve missed you.”
Mrs. McAllister stood with a plate of soup in each hand and a look of astonishment on her face. “D’ye ken ane anither?”
“Aye,” Sandy explained. “ ’Tis our father and sister.”
“Is that richt?” The innkeeper put down her soup plates. “Then tak yer time visitin’ while I tidy the rooms.” She grabbed her broom and was gone, leaving the four McKies to their unexpected reunion.
Will found it hard to let go of his sister, so ardent was his resolve. He will never hurt you again, lass. Never. When he finally released Davina so she might embrace Sandy, Will turned to their father, who did not look at all pleased to see them.
“Has Lammas come early this year?” Jamie McKie folded his arms across his chest. “Or did your professors decide you needed a holiday on Arran?”
Will caught Sandy’s eye over Davina’s bright hair. The truth? Or a fabrication yanked from the salt-tinged air? “Father, we are here to do what we’ve always done: protect Davina.”
“That is what brought me to Arran as well.” His father’s eyes narrowed. “But I was alerted to a particular situation by means of a letter from Reverend Stewart. I cannot think that he wrote to you as well.”
“Nae, Father, he did not.” Will pulled him aside and kept his voice low. “However, I suspect the … ah, situation is the same. ’Twas another man’s revelation that prompted us to come. A stranger in John Dowie’s tavern.”
“A stranger?” His father slowly unfolded his arms, as if he might have need of his fists. “Can you identify this man? At Dowie’s, I mean?”
“His name is Alastair MacDuff.”
Davina’s head snapped in his direction.
Will kept talking, though his gaze was now locked with his sister’s. “He’s a Fife man. Part of the duke’s fishing party at the castle. He left Arran early and found his way to Dowie’s.”
“And?” Jamie demanded.
Davina was as white as Mrs. McAllister’s linen sheets. Her lips moved, a single word. Nae.
Will took her hand and drew her close, wanting to assure her, wanting to help her. “And he made some … comments about the fiddler at Brodick castle. A bonny Lowland lass with red hair. He suggested she might be … in trouble.”
Davina’s eyes fluttered closed, and she collapsed in his arms.
Fifty-Eight
For, dark and despairing, my sight I may seal,
But man cannot cover what God would reveal.
THOMAS CAMPBELL
Miss McKie? Wull ye drink a wee sip o’ water noo?” Davina swallowed the cool water from the tin cup Mrs. McAllister pressed against her mouth, finding it hard to meet the gaze of anyone in the kitchen parlor. Her father looked stricken, her brothers distressed, and the innkeeper, though helpful, regarded her with a wary expression.
“Are ye the lass wha’s been playin’ her fiddle for the duke?” A thread of censure was woven through Mrs. McAllister’s voice. She’d heard the gossip, then, and not realized her female lodger’s identity. Until now, when Davina fainted in her kitchen and had to be revived.
Davina shuddered, remembering her brother’s words. She might be in trouble. What did Will know that Father did not? Too much, it seemed. She had Alastair MacDuff to thank for that.
“I believe we can take care of things here.” Jamie lifted the cup from the innkeeper’s hands. “If you’ll find your seats, lads, I’ll bless the meal so we can eat our soup while it’s still hot. That will be all, Mrs. McAllister.”
With a jerk of her treble chin, the woman retreated to the far end of the long kitchen, then pretended to stir the contents of her kettle while she kept a watchful eye on her lodgers.
The McKies ate their soup in silence and in haste, her father’s gaze often drifting toward the door. The moment their plates were empty and their stomachs full, he offered a blessing once more, as was the custom, then suggested a walk along the bay. “The sea air will do us all good,” he said rather loudly, aiming his voice toward the hearth.
While the men waited in the entrance hall, Davina stopped by her room to collect her sketchbook, knowing she would have need of it. Nervous about the discussion to come, she tarried at the washstand�
��scrubbing her face and hands, shaking the dust from her riding habit—until Will knocked on the door. She could not keep them waiting any longer.
“Here’s our lass.” Her father’s greeting belied the creases in his brow. “I’ve nicked a blanket from the bed, thinking we might find a dry place where we could sit. ’Twould make it easier to write out your thoughts for us, aye?”
Aye. But whatever would she write, except the truth? I must marry, and soon.
They set out for the coastline four abreast, with Will and Father flanking her and Sandy dutifully carrying her sketchbook. Not far from the inn they found a grassy expanse sheltered from the prevailing winds by a copse of trees.
Once they were settled on the wool blanket, Jamie wasted no time getting to the heart of the matter. “Davina, ’tis clear something happened here of which I am not aware. You alone know what that is.” He glanced at Will and Sandy, then looked at her, his expression as gray and stony as the mountains rising behind him. “If you are in trouble, as Will said, then we must know what that trouble is.” He took her sketchbook and pencil from Sandy and pressed them into her hands. “Please write for us.”
Davina had never opened her book more slowly nor turned the pages with greater care, pinching two together to hide her May Day sketch of Somerled. She paused to show them a few of her Arran drawings with the names written below each one. Holy Isle on this page and Standing Stone on that one. When she turned to the carving of Fir God, her father gently laid his hand on hers. “Forgive me, Davina, but this is not why we’ve come.” He slipped his finger between the remaining pages and turned them over, revealing a blank one. “Why not start by telling us what happened on Midsummer Eve?”
Her hand trembled as she pressed the charcoal tip to the paper.
I played my fiddle for the Duke of Hamilton at Kilmichael. Somerled MacDonald, my dinner escort, surprised me by accompanying me on the violoncello.
She looked up and tried to smile. See? she wanted to say to them. ’Tis not so bad as you think.
“Davina, we already know that.” Will grimaced. “MacDuff said as much.”
Jamie moved closer, reading over her shoulder. “Reverend Stewart’s initial concern was the unrestrained nature of your playing. Davina, we’ve seen you nigh to dancing with your fiddle. Was that all it was that night at Kilmichael? Our wee fiddler being exuberant?”
Nae, that was not all it was. Davina could not bring herself to tell even one McKie man the truth, let alone three of them looking at her with such concern, such trust—her brothers, with their dark eyes, and her father, with his moss-colored ones, waiting for an answer.
She finally wrote what she could. We kissed by the burn.
“He kissed you that night?” Jamie frowned at the page. “What sort of chaperon permitted that?”
She gripped her pencil so hard that her fingers ached. We were not far from the house. No one was with us.
His scowl darkened. “Your mother and I made it very clear; you are never to walk anywhere with a gentleman unchaperoned.”
Knowing full well she was dodging his reproof, Davina nodded at her brothers, then wrote, Will and Sandy were always my chaperons.
“Exactly!” Will banged on the ground with both fists. “None of this would have happened if we’d been here. Or if you’d been here, Father. Don’t you see? Davina is not to blame. We are.”
Her father groaned. “We’ve had this argument before, Will. ’Tis not the point of this evening’s discussion.”
“I thought the point was to help Davina.”
“So it is.” Jamie lowered his voice when a fisherman and his children ambled by. “What you lads do not ken is that Somerled MacDonald has asked for your sister’s hand in marriage.”
“Marriage?” Will cried, a look of horror on his face. “Father, you cannot allow it.”
Please, my brother! Davina leaned toward him, imploring him with her eyes. Do not interfere.
“Why would you protest his suit?” Jamie demanded to know. “Because he is a Highlander?”
“Nae, Father. Because he is a—”
Please, Will! Davina muffled his words with her hand, then scrawled on the page. Rumors. Not the truth.
“I’ve heard those rumors,” Jamie was quick to say. “Reverend Stewart accused MacDonald of being—in his words—‘a lecher.’ ”
Will threw up his hands. “Well, there you are! Father, how can you possibly approve—”
“Aye, aye.” Jamie brushed away his concerns. “I, too, feared the worst. But when I met MacDonald, and he assured me of his genuine regard for Davina and his desire to marry her, I saw no evidence of lechery. Infatuation, to be sure. Impatience. But nothing unseemly.”
Davina’s pencil slipped from her fingers, so great was her relief. She did not need to defend Somerled; her own father would.
“Few gentlemen come to the bride stool without apology,” Jamie cautioned his sons. “MacDonald is ashamed of his past actions and freely confessed them to me.” He spread out his hands. “I am a man who has been forgiven much. So must I forgive others.”
“Oh, must you?” Will’s face was a storm cloud. “Well, you have chosen the wrong man to forgive.” He was on his feet in an instant and striding toward Cladach, not looking back even when their father called after him.
“Och,” Jamie groaned, then took off in the same direction. He caught up with Will and matched his stride as they continued walking, both shaking their heads and talking with their hands.
She watched them for a moment, with Sandy by her side, quieter than usual. Finally he spoke. “Davina …” His neck began to redden. “Do you know why Will is so upset at the thought of you marrying MacDonald?”
She tapped the word on her page. Rumors.
“Aye, but the truth is more ill-kindit than anything Father mentioned. MacDuff told us … well, he told his friend, but we overheard it …”
Davina felt a chill move over her—not a salty breeze from the bay or a fresh wind from the west, but an icy sense of foreboding. She retrieved her pencil and forced herself to write on the page. What did Mr. MacDuff say?
Sandy was a long time answering. “He said that you and Somerled MacDonald played a duet of sorts. For the horses.” He swallowed. “In the stables.”
Her sketchbook slid from her lap.
“Forgive me, Davina.” Sandy’s voice was low, urgent. “I am not saying it is true. You could never do such a thing.”
I could. I did.
“MacDuff also said …” Sandy was beside himself, thrusting his hand through his unruly hair. “Oh, dear sister, he intimated that … well, according to your maid …”
Davina was on her feet before he finished, leaving her sketchbook behind, lifting her skirts above the grass. Running after her father and brother, running from the truth.
Please, Will. Please don’t tell Father!
Fifty-Nine
Alas! how easily things go wrong!
GEORGE MACDONALD
Will turned round just before Davina reached him. He could hardly have missed her panic-stricken approach. “What is it, lass? Did you fear we’d left you?”
Nae. She fell against him, breathless. I feared you’d betrayed me.
“Your brother believes he knows what is best for you,” Jamie said. “And I believe it’s time we returned to the inn.” Judging by the dogged look on their father’s face, nothing convincing had been said. He motioned impatiently to Sandy, who’d already gathered up the blanket and her sketchbook and was heading their direction, looking even more agitated than before.
Davina stepped into his path, holding out her hands, knowing she could not stop his movement, praying she might stop his mouth. Don’t, Sandy. Please don’t tell him.
He frowned at her, shaking his head, before addressing their father. “Has Will persuaded you that our sister must not marry this Highlander?”
“He has not, nor will he.” Jamie’s voice brooked
no argument. “Nothing will be decided until I’ve met with the MacDonalds tomorrow.”
“But MacDuff said …”
“Who is this MacDuff to you? A reliable companion? Nae, a stranger in a tavern, who had no business discussing your sister.” Father took the blanket from him and shook it hard, sending bits of grass flying. “I’ve heard quite enough meanspirited gossip since I arrived on this island. The only person we can trust on this matter is your sister.”
Oh, Father. Though his words eased her fear, guilt rushed in to take its place.
Jamie folded the blanket over his arm, looking at her all the while. “If your sister believes Somerled MacDonald is a worthy husband, and we find no evidence to the contrary—factual evidence, mind you, not hearsay—then I will be forced to consider his proposal of marriage.”
Sandy persisted, “But her maid at Kilmichael—”
“Och! You’ll not find a more ill-fashioned excuse for a servant in all of Scotland. Five minutes in her presence and you’d see for yourselves what a contemptuous gaze and slandering tongue the woman possesses.” Their father’s voice lost its strident note. “Davina has shared with me a few of her abuses. I’d not give that maid’s blether any credence whatsoever.”
“But, Father—”
“That is enough, Sandy.” Jamie started for the inn, pulling them along in his wake. “This is a decision Somerled’s father and I shall make. Not you, nor Will. You may both join me at tomorrow’s meeting only if you agree to behave like gentlemen.”
“Oh, we’ll be there,” Will promised him, “for we’ll not abandon our sister again.”
Davina walked between them, her emotions in turmoil. Was withholding the truth the same as telling a lie? Would her father’s trust, his support—aye, even his love for her—be shattered if he learned what had truly happened? And what of the twins, who’d come to rescue her, armed with facts she dared not affirm, even knowing them to be true. Would they ever forgive her disloyalty?
Mrs. McAllister was waiting for them in the entrance hall, a sealed letter in her hand and a gleam in her eye. “A certain Hieland laddie was jist here. He left this for ye.” She handed the letter to Jamie. “In trowth! I thocht he might greet whan he learned ye were not here, miss.”
Grace in Thine Eyes Page 30
