When Eilidh and the others had not returned three hours later, the bell was rung in the castle, the Laird calling for a gathering in the Great Hall. Lydia, having given Mairead into the care of one of the castle maids, hurried down the great staircase. What on earth has happened to them? Sensing the tension all around, as she got closer she could see it in the tight shoulders and worried faces.
Ringing in her ears were the maid’s words just now. ‘Oh, Miss Lydia, what if their boat sank? What if they are drowned?’ She had reassured the girl, admonished her to be calm and counselled her to help prevent Mairead becoming distressed. Hopefully the young people were simply sheltering somewhere from the heavy rain. Yet she, like everyone else, it seemed, had to consider this terrible possibility.
Helplessly, she stood among the crowd while the Laird organised the search party. He was planning to lead it himself and there were nine or ten others, it seemed, going with him. They talked of where various boats were located that could be used and were putting together packs that included lanterns, ropes and whisky, all tied in large cloths that, Lydia realised, were actually kilts.
She bent to help with one of the packs and by the time she had stood again, the party was ready to leave. ‘Bring them home safe, a Thighearna!’ they exhorted. That was the Gaelic word for laird, and Alasdair was all laird just now. Grim-faced, clearly deeply concerned that some of his people were in trouble, leading the party that would find...whatever they found.
The next few hours ticked by slowly. So, so slowly. The day, already gloomy from the storm clouds overhead, gradually darkened into evening and still they did not return. Lydia spent some time with Mairead, reciting happy children’s tales to her and ensuring she was calm, before kissing her goodnight and returning downstairs. There was a hush about the conversations that contrasted terribly with the usual cheerful activity in the Great Hall, and the islanders’ worry was palpable. The rain was still beating down outside—one of the summer storms that came upon them unexpectedly at times—and Lydia could not stop thinking of everyone out in such inclement weather. No-one was speaking English tonight—over the months they had all gradually been using more Gaelic with Lydia anyway—but she was relieved to find that she could hold her own in the conversations. Prayers were said and occasionally someone would cry, but they kept repeating that the young ones would be safe, that the Laird would find them and bring them back. Their faith in him was impressive, yet Lydia, thinking about it from Alasdair’s perspective, began to understand the sense of responsibility that he must eternally carry.
It was almost two in the morning when shouts from the courtyard alerted them to arrivals outside. Lifting her head from the table, where exhaustion had finally overcome her, Lydia stood with the others, moving forward to greet the bedraggled party. The Laird was there and he was glancing all about—his eyes met hers and the relief of it made her sag momentarily against the table. Then two people stepped forward to relieve him of his burden and she realised he had been carrying a young woman. Eilidh!
As she moved closer, she realised it was not Eilidh, but one of the others who had gone on the ill-fated trip. Looking about, she recognised all of the search party had returned, but with only four of the young people. Four, not six.
A wail went up from the far side of the room. ‘No! Where is my Dòmhnall?’ It was Dòmhnall’s mother, Lydia recognised.
Maggie. Her name is Maggie.
‘And Eilidh? Where is Eilidh?’ Eilidh’s sister Mòrag, who was about fourteen, was rapidly becoming hysterical. Lydia saw Mrs MacLeod cross to her and wrap her arms around her, speaking quietly in the girl’s ear.
The Laird was kneeling on the floor beside the girl he had carried home, while a flock of women spoke to her and checked her. He looked exhausted. The girl was conscious and shivering, and a little blue about the lips. A couple of the women were now giving orders for her to be brought to her chamber, where a fire had already been lit. They would be able to strip her there of her wet clothing and begin the process of warming her up. All four of the young people were receiving similar treatment, with the exception that the young men were already being partially stripped as they were moved upstairs. Much as she was tempted to follow the staff upstairs to begin warming up the unfortunate young men and women, Lydia knew she had a more important task to complete. She stood motionless, waiting. Everyone had gone upstairs, leaving just her and the Laird. He had not risen from the floor.
Collapsing down beside him, she took his hand—his cold, wet hand—and looked directly into his eyes. What she saw there almost killed her.
‘We could not find them,’ he managed. ‘The boat crashed on the rocks. These four made it to shore. Dòmhnall and Eilidh—’ His face crumpled. ‘Lydia, I could not find them!’
‘Hush, now.’ She wrapped both arms around him and he clung to her in the semi-darkness of the Great Hall. She felt his pain—the helplessness and frustration, grief and loss. Oh, she could hardly bear it. All those days in his company, evenings building a friendship, nights thinking of him...would he trust her enough to take any comfort from her embrace?
‘I have failed them all.’ The words emerged as if pulled from his soul. Brokenness was in every syllable. The Laird of Ardmore, guarantor of his people’s safety. Oh, she knew him so well! And now he was giving her the gift of honesty. Of showing her his true face.
‘No! You have not! No-one could have done more, Alasdair!’ She pressed both hands to his face, desperate for him to hear her.
‘Lydia!’ he managed to say, his eyes locking with hers. Suddenly, something new was in the air, desperate desire crackling between them. Kiss me! she thought, then his mouth was on hers and the world spun wildly, as they each sought the connection they craved. Frantically they kissed and kissed again, bodies pressed close together, arms holding each other tightly.
Lydia was lost in a maelstrom of emotion. The need to care for him was uppermost in her mind, while her body revelled in the sensations he was causing within her, and her heart wondered at the miracle of being kissed by him. In the midst of anxiety and death, they sought solace in one another.
Finally they paused, both breathing harshly, forehead resting against forehead. His hands were still busy on her back, gently stroking, and she thought she might go mad from the simple beauty of it.
They kissed again, this time gently, tenderly, then separated a little to look into each other’s eyes. Was that wonder in his expression, or was it simply her own reflection? ‘Lydia,’ he breathed. ‘Lydia.’
Her name on his lips sent shivers through her. Was she dreaming?
Footsteps echoing on the great stair above brought them to their senses. By the time Mrs MacLeod appeared they were both standing, suitably distanced, and engaged in a quiet conversation about the search. ‘It will be light in three hours,’ he said. ‘I shall go out again.’
‘But you are drenched, Alasdair! And freezing!’ Lydia appealed to Mrs MacLeod. ‘How can he go out again so soon?’
‘Because he must,’ the housekeeper replied grimly. ‘He knows his duty.’
This felt like a reprimand. ‘Of course. But should he not first—?’
‘I have built up the fire in your room, sir, and laid out some towels and dry clothing. I shall meet you here in three hours to see you off again.’
He bowed. ‘I thank you, Mrs MacLeod.’ There was something strangely formal about their interaction. Whatever it was, it increased the lump in Lydia’s throat.
They all separated then, to go to their own rooms for whatever was left of the night. Lydia paced the floor, knowing she would never be able to sleep. Between the boating tragedy and kisses with the Laird, her mind and heart were reeling and she could barely think straight. She opened the shutters and watched the half-moon sailing slowly across the sky. By the time the first hints of dawn were paling the sky, she had made up her mind.
Alasdair could not think, could not rest, could not even pray. Eilidh and Dòmhnall had their whole lives ahead of them. They had to be alive! On the way to his chamber he had paused in Mairead’s room, bending to kiss the child’s cheek before tiptoeing out again. He could not imagine what Eilidh and Dòmhnall’s families were feeling right now. As laird, he was responsible for all of the people, just as though each one of them were his own child, or his brother, or his mother. He had to do what they could not. Lead. Co-ordinate. Think. Plan. Do.
Briefly, he allowed himself to remember kissing Lydia, his heart soaring and his body responding instantly. He had wanted to kiss her for the longest time. Yes, kisses, and more. Thinking of her by night and resisting her by day had been his life now for what seemed like an eternity. In the midst of worry and strain and...maybe death, he had reached for her as naturally as flowers turned to the sun. She was light and heart, and goodness, and with darkness all around, he had needed her warmth.
Just now, he could not regret allowing her to comfort him, nor could he regret the glory of their embraces. It would give him strength for the hours to come.
And what if it was Lydia who was missing? A knife-like pain stabbed through him, causing him to gasp and double over. She is safe, he told himself. And Mairead is safe. My attention must be focused on the task at hand. Slowly, deliberately, he locked away his feelings, hardened his heart, prepared himself for the tasks ahead. He strode across to the window and opened the shutters. The rain had stopped, but the necessary control within his heart was iron-cold. It was time.
Donning her stoutest boots and tying her overdress up tightly, Lydia put on her warmest cloak and whispered her way downstairs in the pre-dawn paling. They were already there and the Laird frowned as soon as he saw her. ‘What on earth do you think you are doing?’
She shrugged. ‘Is it not evident? I am coming with you.’
‘You are not!’ His dark brows beetled together. ‘I need you here, where you will be safe.’
She lifted her chin. ‘The storm has passed and Eilidh is my friend. I am going to look for her. And for Dòmhnall Mòr.’
He began to reply to this, but was interrupted by the housekeeper. ‘An excellent notion, Lydia.’ She turned to the Laird. ‘You, sir, are too stubborn for your own good. And too blind to see what is plain to everyone else.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘I mean that Lydia should go with you.’ She handed him the bundle she had prepared. ‘Now go, before I decide to accompany you as well!’
Grumbling, he stomped off, Lydia skipping to keep up with him as he marched through the courtyard in the pre-dawn light. Turning away from the castle slipway, he led Lydia across the moor, northwards then east, towards Rossinish. By the time they had walked for twenty minutes the sun was beginning to appear on the horizon before them and the Laird had thawed out a little, even to the extent of conversing with her briefly about the accident—although neither of them made reference to their embrace the night before. It had happened only a few hours ago, yet it might have been a hundred years, so closed off did he seem. It was as though last night there had been two different people, Lydia and Alasdair. Today they were back to being the Laird and the governess. The sullen laird and the governess.
His withdrawn, curt demeanour was, she supposed, perfectly understandable, given their task today. Lydia, too, was devastated by Eilidh and Dòmhnall’s absence and anxious about what lay ahead. It had taken all of her reserves of inner strength to prepare herself for what they might find today. Even so, she had felt compelled to accompany him. Quite simply, it was better for Alasdair that she was with him. Still, she prayed for a miracle—that somehow, the young people could be discovered alive.
They had passed the Oban Uaine—the Little Green Bay, Lydia translated in her head—and reached the southernmost edge of Rossinish. There, the Laird led her to a sturdy, flat-bedded rowing boat, tethered carefully at the head of one of the many inlets of the Little Minch. It was, he told her, near this inlet that the accident had occurred. Clambering aboard, Lydia remembered her trepidation that very first day, when she had feared sinking. And now the worst had happened and a similar craft had been lost yesterday, falling victim apparently to a shift in the wind which had pushed the small boat on to the rocks. The wind, the islanders had noted sagely, must have suddenly veered to the north-west in advance of the storm. It happened, sometimes. Lydia shivered at the apparent stoicism, then remembered their real distress. Knowing what might have happened did not make it any less troubling.
The boys, knowing their sweethearts would be hampered by their long skirts, had rushed to their aid, and two couples had made it safely ashore. No-one had seen Dòmhnall or Eilidh since the boat had capsized. So, apparently, Alasdair and the others had been told when they had found the four young people on the far side of the islet.
He had repeated this to Lydia in a flat tone and all she could do at the time was nod.
I hope I am some comfort to him. At least he is not alone.
He had given her no indication that he welcomed her presence, but he had at least accepted it. Now he was rowing along the inlet towards the sea, his head turning left and right, desperately searching. Averting her eyes from the bunching of the muscles in his arms as he rowed, Lydia knew that, finally, she had to face up to their task. It was highly likely that they were looking for bodies and entirely possible that the bodies might have been taken out to sea, never to be found. Taking a breath, she, too, began scanning the shore on each side, hoping to find something and also hoping she would not.
At first, she did not even recognise what she was seeing. She stiffened, peering to make sure. Wordlessly, she pointed and Alasdair’s head swung round to the right side. There, among the vegetation, was a large dark shape. As Alasdair rowed closer, his face pale and set, Lydia kept her eyes on it. Dark hair. Broad shoulders. Face down in the water, unmoving.
Dòmhnall!
Grimly, Alasdair brought the boat to shore, then helped Lydia out before pulling it safely up the bank a little. ‘Wait here,’ he said gruffly, taking a rope from his pack and stalking off in the direction where they had seen the body. Lydia, too much in shock to even cry, slumped to the ground, hugging her knees tightly for a few moments. Dòmhnall was dead. There could be no mistaking the matter.
How can this be? And what of Eilidh?
Rising, she returned to the shore, then set off further to the right, away from where they had found Dòmhnall’s body. Trying not to see in her mind’s eye the image of Dòmhnall as she had last seen him, she concentrated on each moment. Breathing in and out. Placing one foot in front of the other. Searching for Eilidh.
Even though she was looking, it came as a great surprise to suddenly see, on the bank before her, the shape of a young woman, laying on her back with most of her legs in the water. Breaking into a run, Lydia sped across the damp grass, then dropped to her knees beside Eilidh. Her eyes were closed, her face white, deathly white, yet—was that movement in her chest? Was she breathing yet? Tentatively, Lydia placed a hand on the girl’s ribs, at the same time bending down to feel if any breath was emerging from her nose.
Yes!
Eilidh is alive!
‘Alasdair!’ she rose, calling at the top of her lungs. ‘Alasdair!’ Moving to stand above the girl, she tried to get her hands under Eilidh’s shoulders to pull her up, but had not the strength. Taking a deep breath, she tried again. Eilidh remained unmoving. ‘Alasdair!’
Alasdair pulled Dòmhnall’s body another couple of feet up the bank, away from the lad’s watery grave. His heart was breaking. Such a grand, fine young lad, gone. He turned Dòmhnall on to his back, then closed the lad’s eyes, saying a quick prayer for his soul. Not that a boy such as Dòmhnall would be in need of any prayers. A civil, quiet fellow, he had harmed no-one in all his eighteen years.
Just eighteen, and gone.
Alasdair’s heart felt as though it might break at the very notion. Abruptly, he stilled, tilting his head.
‘Alasdair!’
There was no mistaking Lydia’s call. With one final tap on Dòmhnall’s shoulder and a promise that he would be brought home to Ardmore, he hurried off in the direction Lydia’s voice had come from. As he ran, he saw her then, kneeling down beside—
Lord, no! Not both of them!
‘She is alive!’ Lydia seemed to be trying ineffectually to pull Eilidh up the bank, her eyes bright with unshed tears. Rather randomly, it occurred to him that Hester would have been having strong hysterics by this point. Not that Hester would ever have dreamed of accompanying him on such a grim mission. ‘I cannot get her out of the water.’
Finally he reached them. Lydia gave way and he was able to pull Eilidh from the water with little effort. He picked her up and Lydia helped by gathering the girl’s full skirts and tucking them around her where they would not impede his ability to walk. Most of Eilidh’s weight, he suspected, was in her heavy, water-filled clothing. She was alive, yes, but could die yet, from the effects of being cold and wet for so many hours. Striding across the rain-damp seagrass, heedless to the lapping of the waves and the calling of the birds, nevertheless he was conscious of Lydia’s quiet company. It gave him comfort and strength, somehow, to have her near.
Once at the boat, Lydia managed to pull it down the bank and into the water’s edge. She clambered in first, and he gently placed Eilidh into her arms. The girl had not yet woken, but had stirred a little, and Alasdair’s heart clung to any sign of life. Jumping in, he reached for the oars, rowing smoothly down the inlet and back towards the land. ‘Better to go back directly to Ardmore by boat,’ he grunted, ‘with Eilidh to carry. The others will return for Dòmhnall.’
They were facing each other, he and Lydia. She was not looking at him, her attention being entirely focused on Eilidh. She had taken off her cloak and was now wrapping it around the girl, tucking it in as best she could and using a corner to dry Eilidh’s face. The compassion and concern in her expression and her actions was plain to see. She does not simply look like an angel, was the thought that flashed through his mind, she has all the goodness of an angel also.
After some time, she spoke. ‘How much longer?’ Those blue eyes were now locked with his and he found himself momentarily lost for words.
He glanced behind. ‘I turn at that headland, then the next inlet is the one that leads to Ardmore. How is she?’
She shook her head. ‘Very ill. We need to get her warm and dry as soon as we may.’
Though his muscles ached, arms and legs protesting, he gritted his teeth and rowed faster, harder, putting more effort into it than he had had to do for many a year. As he rowed towards the Ardmore slipway he heard shouts of welcome, and when he finally reached land there were strong hands there to pull the boat in and tether it. Two of the men jumped in, wordlessly taking Eilidh from Lydia’s arms and carrying her up towards the castle. The other two lingered as he and Lydia came ashore, one asking, ‘Dòmhnall?’
Alasdair shook his head. ‘We found his body.’ Briefly, he gave them Dòmhnall’s location. ‘I shall speak to Donaidh and Maggie now.’
They nodded grimly, one man crossing himself. As they walked up the slipway in silence, Alasdair glanced back. The men had already cast off and were moving along the water with purpose and speed.
He turned his attention back to Lydia. Her lovely face was rather pale and she was shivering, her gown damp from where she had been cradling Eilidh. He tutted and paused to remove his coat. ‘Here.’ He placed it on her shoulders, his hands lingering briefly, feeling how delicate she was. How delicate, and yet how fierce.
‘Thank you.’ She looked up at him and he saw in her eyes all the sorrow he was feeling. Wordlessly, she slipped her hand into his and he welcomed it. Just now, he needed an anchor and Lydia was it.
As they finally reached the top of the bank and the last, brief walk to the castle, they dropped their handclasp. It was necessary, yet he felt bereft. Some part of him was screaming a warning at allowing himself to feel close to her, but he could not listen. Not now. Not today.
Then they were in the courtyard and silence fell all around them as they passed through. Conversations stopped. People ceased in their work. The heaviness of the terrible news he was carrying to Dòmhnall’s parents walked with him and no-one would look him in the eye.
Mrs MacLeod and Iain Crawford were waiting in the Great Hall, as they should be.
‘Where are Donaidh and Maggie?’ His tone was clipped.
‘In the chapel.’ Iain looked grim.
Alasdair nodded, spun on his heel and walked towards the chapel. Duty called him and duty bound him. He had never knowingly shirked it, but if he could, he would have given anything to have different news to impart to Dòmhnall’s parents today.
Lydia watched him go, saw the nobility in the way he held himself, the way he contained his own sorrow. Coatless, he looked vulnerable somehow, as though his linen shirt were a soft skin that arrows could easily pierce.
‘You found him, then?’ Mrs MacLeod’s face was creased with grief and sympathy. Lydia nodded sadly, removing Alasdair’s coat and handing it to the housekeeper. She felt cold without it. Mrs MacLeod exhaled slowly. ‘At least that. We shall have a proper funeral—aye, and a wake, too. It will be of great help to all of us who will mourn the lad.’ She squared her shoulders. ‘I have work to do. We shall have a steady stream of visitors for the next few days.’
‘I, too,’ added Iain. ‘I shall begin to make the arrangements for the funeral.’ His eyes softened. ‘Thank you for going with the Laird.’
‘Oh, I—’ She could not find the right words. ‘I had to,’ she offered simply.
He bowed and Mrs MacLeod curtsied, and Lydia frowned at the strangeness of it. Why should they salute her? Slowly, she turned towards the staircase. She would change her clothes, check on Mairead, then find wherever they had taken Eilidh.