10

 

Cailin and Avondale spent a happy hour reading the Bible together and discussing the various passages before going to bed.

Once the single candle he permitted was doused, he held her in his strong arms. His full, warm lips pressed sweet love onto her neck and lips. “I fear so for the child, my bride. I would not put his life into any danger. Having a son is not to be taken lightly.” He stroked her hair and cradled her against his muscle-ridged chest.

She heard the rock-solid beat of his heart. “But I’m a strong, healthy woman. We should have no fear—”

“You look as delicate as a fine china cup.” Avondale’s eyes, shining in the moonlight, held shadows that darkened them to onyx. “You are my treasure, and I will not risk putting you or our child in the slightest danger.”

For the next several nights she contented herself with enjoying his presence and explaining the meaning of various passages in Scripture. One passage in Colossians seemed to particularly attract his attention.

Who hath delivered us from the power of darkness and hath translated us into the kingdom of his dear Son: In Whom we have redemption through his blood, even the forgiveness of sins.

Yet, each morning his side of the bed was empty.

After taking breakfast with the family, Cailin found herself walking in the garden savoring the freshness of the morning, listening to the songs of birds, and inhaling the scent of roses.

More often than not, Brody measured footsteps with her.

“Where is Megan?”

“Ach. She seems taken with some of the English gentry. I think yer ma has given me wife the chore of entertaining the ladies.” He walked, hands clasped behind his broad back, a frown between his straight brows.

“I see.” Cailin avoided brushing her morning dress on the roses thrusting their thorny branches over the paved path.

They walked together in silence, each trapped inside their own thoughts until they reached the sty over the hedgerow that marked the end of the garden. He reached out a huge hand and helped her over, though she’d easily scampered over the sty since she was a child.

“I wrote a new tune for Megan. Would ye hear me before I play it for her?”

Perhaps if she went with him, she would dredge up the courage to ask him what he thought about Avondale’s odd behavior. “You have your bagpipes hidden?”

Of course he did. The English forbade the playing of bagpipes and confiscated any they found, imprisoning the owner inside the Tower of London.

“Aye. They are hidden inside the mews. If ye have the time we could trot over there and I could play for ye. Ye could tell me if ye thought Megan would like her song.”

Already their feet were pointed in that direction.

“And do ye think that His Grace will turn me in to the Duke of Cumberland?”

And so it went, each day falling into a pattern.

She, asking simple questions which might help her form a picture of why her husband acted so strange that he needed a bodyguard, and Brody looking lost while the woman he loved with all his heart spent her days with others.

 

****

 

Aunty Moira shared the drawing room with Cailin and the one or two wedding guests who seemed to have decided to set up residence inside the castle.

Ian often stopped in for tea as well. He seldom spoke, but his adoring looks and hovering tenderness, so at odds with his large stature and clumsy feet, proclaimed to even the most jaded English lady that the two were very much in love.

Aunty Moira blossomed in his presence, her hazel eyes shining, and her complexion glowing like a lass’s. They sat close, knees touching, on the settee facing the low table holding the tea things.

One glance at Ian’s proud face and Cailin guessed their secret.

“You are in the family way, are you now?” She wagged a buttered cake at her aunt.

A becoming pink flushed Moira’s face. Her lips tilted at the corners. “Whatever makes you think so?”

“You have that almost holy look of expectation.” Cailin touched her own rounding stomach.

A grin split Ian’s homely face. “That we are,” he burst out, his chest swelling and his blue eyes alight.

Several of the ladies covered their mouths. One choked.

Cailin leaned forward and took Moira’s hand. “I’m so very happy for the two of you.”

Moira tilted her head and smiled. “I did catch your bridal bouquet.”

“Good heavens! Surely you don’t believe that superstition.” Aunt Aley shifted her portly body on the sofa. She had grown grumpier each day in proportion to Aunty Moira’s happiness.

“No, of course not. But I do believe in God’s abundant blessing.” Moira gazed around the clusters of people taking tea and cakes. “The Scriptures say there is no difference between Jew and Greek—the same Lord is Lord of all, and richly blesses all who call on Him.”

Cailin nodded. Yes. Scot or English. Fugitive or gentry.

God was no respecter of persons. He doled out blessings for all.

Still, she would be happier if Avondale sat beside her in this cozy room rather than being out somewhere attending to whatever business kept him away so often.

His demons seemed tamed. But for how long?