3
My heart is sore—I dare not tell, my heart is sore for somebody.
Robert Burns
The wind shifted south the next day, delaying departure, carrying the reek of seaweed and salt water. Rory lowered himself between two pieces of driftwood onto the sun-warmed sand, hat covering his eyes. At his back lay the sea town of Balliemore, the Thistle its only tavern, the few cottages of brown stone and slate sprinkled about the sole muddy, beleaguered street.
Beyond the sweep of harbor with its battered fishing boats was a huge rock leading to a high promontory, Kerrera Castle atop it. Once there had been a second castle, Gylen, the stronghold of Clan MacDougall. Now it was crumbled gray stone on the southwest tip of the island, besieged and burnt. All that remained were tall tales and one weather-beaten wall.
And Lark.
He never looked at the castle’s remains without thinking of Lark. ’Twas a favorite haunt of theirs in childhood, particularly hers, and he wondered anew if the stories were true. Her father had been a MacDougall, scion of a high and mighty clan, till time and misfortune turned them common. Yet somehow the tie between the MacDougalls and the MacLeishes remained. Enough for Rory to notice Lark’s few privileges, on account of the laird’s grandmother being kin to the MacDougalls. Or some such blether.
For years Lark had been schooled with the laird before he’d left for university in Edinburgh, neither of them much bigger than a wee haddock back then. She’d had her own mare in the stables. Been welcomed into the castle proper. Even the MacDougall croft lay in a secluded hollow leading to Kerrera Castle, a bit larger than those in the village but still earthy. Lark’s family had long been in service, be it the stillroom or nursery, though her mother’s people were naught but fisherfolk.
Rory was most interested in the missing Brooch of Lorn, which had been in possession of Lark’s clan when the castle burned. How he and Magnus and Lark had dug for it in the castle’s rubble once upon a time! Till dirt stained their knees and hands nearly beyond washing off, their expectations at fever pitch. He still tasted the fascination of it now. A hard history, those MacDougalls and the Covenanter Wars. The brooch was once the treasure of Robert the Bruce himself. He’d forfeited it when ambushed by the onerous MacDougalls, who’d pulled off his cloak and the brooch along with it. If only such a treasure could be found. If so, Rory’s free-trading days would end.
He slept, then was awakened by two boisterous lads digging nearby for sand eels. Rousing, he sat up, the rush of the tide smothering their childish voices. The Merry Lass lay at anchor, in the next cove, sails furled. Waiting. Wary.
Spirits had been high and talk plentiful at the Thistle, more about the laird’s losses than the threat of the excise men. News from the castle trickled down into the village like a waterfall from a loch.
Six bairns. Six heirs. The laird MacLeish was esteemed far and wide, even fishing and shepherding alongside the common folk through the seasons, though more oft atop his horse, his stallion a black streak across the sandy beach. Betimes he even graced the Thistle, though when he entered through the low door, nearly scraping his sooty head on the lintel, the drone of voices dwindled in respect and more than one hat was doffed.
Used to be that Rory thought all the laird touched turned to gold—fields and livestock and business dealings aplenty—though he seemed cursed personally. A sister and mother both dead of the pox within a fortnight’s reach. And his powerful father fallen in battle. And now a barren if bonny bride.
“Hoot! Why’s a ship’s captain, king o’ the largest haul the island’s e’er seen, lying low like a sand eel?”
Rory chuckled, putting on his hat to better see Jillian Brody through the sun’s glare. Bare of foot, she walked the beach, hands full of briny treasure.
“Yer half mermaid, ye are,” he told her.
She laughed, robust as a man, with none of Lark’s gentle graces. Jillian was a mere scullery maid, the envy of no one, and no doubt on her way to the castle.
“What have ye this morn?” he asked, eyeing her bulging pockets.
“Well, it ain’t the Brooch of Lorn,” she flung back at him, reminding him of what was said about her.
Jillian had the gift of second sight. Taking a peek into islanders’ minds. Smiling slyly, she produced a particularly loosome shell from her pocket for his admiration. The wind carried a whiff of her and he wanted to curl his nose. Instead, he simply studied her, emptying his mind of all ignoble thoughts.
“Where were ye last night when they had need of ye?” Of late there’d been a woeful shortage of tubmen to manage the hefty haul.
“Tidying the castle afore the coming tenants’ ball.”
He expelled a breath that was half epithet. That had been the buzz at the Thistle too. “Will yer da play his fiddle?”
“Oh aye,” she replied, bending to snag another shell from the sand. “What’s yer pleasure?”
“Lord Glynlyon’s Reel. Or Jacky Stewarts. But like as not I’ll be in Ireland.”
“A shame, truly. There’s no grander time to be at the castle than May.”
“Wheest! Ye make it sound fetching.” Tempted he was. Might he delay the next sailing given this landing had been so lucrative? Delay the danger? Outfox the Philistines? Indulge in a bit of dancing and such? Yet Ireland was like a siren’s call.
“Éire?” Jillian wrinkled her snub nose. “Who’s to dance with Lark if not ye?”
At this he wanted to throw back his head and laugh at the sheer lunacy of such. Lark never lacked for partners.
“Yer away too much, ye ken.” Jillian’s face fell. “What’s to keep a braw lad from stealin’ her away?”
“Let it be said I’m not inclined to settle down. The Merry Lass is my mistress.”
“And a cold, hard one, to be sure.” She snorted. “Yer a fool, Rory MacPherson. And her of noble birth. Word is Lark’s turned her back on free tradin’. Refuses to lend a fair hand any longer.”
He shrugged. “All the more reason to set my sights no higher.”
“Ye best stop dallying with the tavern wenches.”
He dug deep in his own pocket and extracted a gold guinea. “Yer in need of a new frock. For the ball.”
She took it, biting it in disbelief. “Yer no lowly sailor.”
“Just one wanting to spread cheer after a lean winter. And take a wash, aye? So some man can get downwind of ye?”
“No man be wantin’ a scullery maid.”
“If ye shine up, they just might.”
Her laugh was no less merry. “Yer a broad-hearted man, Captain, despite yer wandering ways.”
Lark lifted the trunk lid, smelling dust and dried lavender. ’Twas her mother’s dower chest, the contents so removed from croft life that they rarely saw the light of day. But Lark knew each intimately. And though she’d once vowed to save her mother’s marrying dress for her own marrying day, it now seemed naught but woolgathering.
“Och!” Granny said from behind her. “Yer messing with Rosemary’s heart things.”
Lark felt a qualm. “Does it make ye melancholy, Granny?”
“One step from heaven that I am, and seeing her again, nay.” With that she turned from their cramped bedchamber and put the kettle on for tea.
Gently Lark shook out the gown, which cried for a good ironing. A good airing. At least Mama had been twin to Lark in size on her wedding day.
Beneath the gown was a pair of silk hose and garters, yellowed with age. A scrimshawed fan with a trompe l’oeil design had captivated her since childhood. There was even a choker of freshwater pearls, not milky-hued but tinged pink like the climbing roses in the castle garden.
She sat back and hugged her knees, overcome with a burst of pleasure. Surely no castle was as magnificent as Kerrera lit up at night. Not even Edinburgh could boast anything grander, could it?
“Take thy tea, Lark,” Granny called as the kettle ceased singing.
Her thoughts veered to Magnus and Rory. Thanks to the captain, the entire croft smelt of the finest forbidden tea to be had, the same that graced royalty’s table, or so he said. Its fragrance seemed to elevate their humble surroundings, giving the cracked cups and horn spoons a special polish. She took a slightly less guilty sip, knowing half the tea in England was said to be smuggled.
“Enough tea to last till Hogmanay or better,” Granny crowed, eyeing the hearthstone beneath which their stash was buried. She took a drink from her saucer, declaring it divine.
Lark’s gaze wandered to the wrinkled gown spread across the bed. “I’m afraid to take a hot iron to such auld fabric. Suppose it melts before my very eyes?”
“Leave it to me. ’Twas I who ironed it on yer mother’s wedding day. And again on the day of yer christening.”
The subtle mention of babes shifted Lark’s thoughts again. “Have ye truly no memory of some remedy to help Lady Isla?”
Granny heaved a sigh, her silvery eyes clouded. “Like as not when I go up to help at the castle on the morrow, ’twill return to me.”
“’Twould be a gesture of goodwill to make a gift of such to the mistress before the ball.”
“Aye,” Granny said, relishing another long sip. “We’ll pray so.”