Ailsa returned to the sickroom less than an hour later to find the housekeeper standing beside the bed and staring down at Logan. Her heart stopped.
‘Norry, tell me—is he...?’
The housekeeper looked up, her face pale and drawn.
‘No, no. There is no change, mistress. In fact, he has not moved at all since you left and I so hoped that he would. I beg your pardon, Ailsa, I did not mean for you to catch me thus. ’Tis just—’ she dragged in a long, shuddering breath ‘—he is such an active man, so very full of life, and it grieves me to see him lying like one dead.’ She wiped her eyes with the edge of her apron and turned to look at the servant who had followed Ailsa into the room. ‘What in the name of heaven is going on here?’
‘I asked William to bring up my clàrsach,’ said Ailsa, directing him to put the harp down beside the bed. She added, with more conviction than she felt, ‘I am going to play for the Laird.’
‘But...’ Norry paused, her kindly face creased with anxiety. She said gently, ‘Mistress, you have not played since you came to Ardvarrick. Oh, I know you have tried, time and again, I have heard you. Do you not think it will distress you, and the Laird, if you cannot...?’
Ailsa positioned her chair and sat down. ‘This time I must make sure I can.’ She had tuned the clàrsach in the privacy of the little parlour. That had been a success in itself, but to play here, for Logan, would be the real challenge. Heart beating, she met the housekeeper’s eyes defiantly. ‘And if I fail, mayhap the cacophony will rouse the Laird!’
Mrs Noranside had been watching her anxiously, but now she turned and flapped her hands at William, shooing him out of the door before her.
‘Off with you now, we must leave the mistress in peace!’
Ailsa waited until the sounds of their retreating footsteps had died away and silence had settled again. She turned back to the clàrsach, so familiar yet so frightening, as if it was some living thing that she must bend to her will. Could she do this? What if she should fail again? What if the tunes would not come? She closed her eyes, hearing Logan’s voice in her head.
Nothing matters save that I have you in my life.
And now it was not only her that Logan had in his life. There was the baby, his child. Her heart lifted. Their child.
Suddenly there were no more doubts. She flexed her fingers and placed them on the strings.
Logan was exhausted. As if he had been crawling up from the depths of some deep, dark place for ever. At first there had been much pain and confusion amid the darkness, but more recently he had been aware of gentle hands on his brow and soft voices.
And poetry. Someone reading poetry.
‘“Bid me to live, and I will live/Thy protestant to be/Or bid me love, and I will give/A loving heart to thee.”’
Robert Herrick. He recognised the lines, but who was speaking? The effort of thinking was too much. He was so tired, too fatigued even to make the effort to open his eyes. It was so much easier to give in and allow himself to sink into the blackness, the oblivion.
The darkness was beginning to lift again. This time he heard music. Lilting, angelic sounds. He had gone to heaven and his grandmother was playing for him, waiting to welcome him. Heaven. No more effort. No more pain. But something was nagging at him, worrying at his memory like a terrier with a bone. No longer was he struggling to crawl out of the darkness. Something, someone was pulling him out.
The fog in his head thinned a little more and he recognised the soft, clear, singing notes of the clàrsach.
‘Ailsa.’
It was the barest whisper, but Ailsa heard it and immediately her hands pressed on the strings, killing the music. She flew across to the bed, her heart leaping when she saw Logan’s eyelids flutter.
‘I am here, love.’ She took his hand. ‘I am here, my darling man.’
‘Ailsa.’
He was looking at her, blankly at first, then his eyes softened with recognition. His hand fluttered and she caught it in her own, pressing a kiss upon his fingers before emotion overwhelmed her and with a sob she buried her face in his shoulder and wept.
‘Do not cry, my love.’ His hand stroked her hair.
‘I am not c-crying.’ She raised her head, smiling through the tears that still coursed down her face. ‘I am j-just so happy that you have come back to us.’
His eyes shifted and he looked past her. ‘You were playing the clàrsach.’
‘Aye. I was playing for you.’
‘Your gift has returned.’
‘It never really left me.’ She held his hand against her cheek and smiled lovingly at him. ‘You were right all the time, Logan.’
‘I was right to take you for my wife.’ He touched her cheek. ‘My fine Highland lass.’
‘Oh, Logan!’ She turned her head to press a kiss into his palm. ‘I thought I’d lost you.’
‘I could never leave you, my love.’ His smile faded and she noted the fine crease on his brow. ‘I thought...did I dream it, or are you carrying our child? I thought someone said that, but perhaps it was merely something I wished to hear.’
She blushed. ‘If you wished it, then I am glad, because it is true, Logan.’
The frown faded, replaced by such a look of joy that her heart soared.
His grip on her hand tightened. He said, ‘Oh, my dear, dear love! But how—that is, are you sure, have I been unconscious for so long?’
‘No, no, a few days only, but I am sure. At least, all the signs tell me it is so and Norry agrees with me.’ She felt the blush stealing into her cheeks. ‘It must have happened the night you rescued me from Castle Creag, do you remember?’
‘How could I ever forget?’ His familiar, roguish twinkle made her blush even more.
‘Norry says that is why I have been feeling so sick. And why I have been so out of reason cross these past weeks. I did nothing but pick fault with you, my love. Can you ever forgive me?’
He put his fingers on her lips to silence her. ‘That is all forgotten, Ailsa, my dearest love. My lady.’
He sighed, closing his eyes, and immediately she was anxious and contrite.
‘I have tired you.’
‘No, no, but I am so damned weak.’
‘Then sleep, love.’
‘I would rather listen to you play. Will you?’
‘Aye, if you wish it.’
‘I do wish it. With all my heart. What was that piece you were playing when I woke?’
‘It is one I wrote after your first visit to Contullach. I call it “Ardvarrick’s Air”. Do you like it?’
‘Very much. Will you play it again for me now, my darling Highland lass?’
She smiled again, and bent to press another kiss on his lips.
‘I will indeed, my darling Highland Laird.’