13

Proud people breed sad sorrows for themselves.

Emily Brontë

The cell was small, a bit of soiled straw on the floor. Never before had Lark been inside a gaol. Tolbooths were for thieves and vagrants and those deprived of their reason. ’Twas cold as winter here, a great many unsavory smells in the drafty air. The clank of the gaoler’s key as he locked her in knocked the edge off her disbelief. Two men gaped at her from behind bars across the way while a third slept, snoring. Two cells were empty but equally rank.

Panic turned her queasy. Her fingers curled into fists, sharp against her cold palms as she tried to piece together the little that had been told her.

“You are being held as accessory to the death of the laird’s wife.”

How was that possible when she had been at the other end of the island? Her jumbled thoughts veered to Catriona and the babe. She’d planned to visit them again on the morrow, excited to see their sonsie faces. By now all knew of her predicament. Except, perhaps, the captain, away as he’d been.

God in heaven, help Thou me.

The landing was near perfect. A moonless night. An easy glide into a secluded cove on Kerrera’s western shore. Rory’s crew was nearly crowing at the cargo’s quality. Silks and satins. Tobacco. Madeira. Salt and spices.

Rory stood on deck, elation and anxiety at war inside him. A bit weak-kneed from a fever that had kept him on the Isle of Man till now, he rested callused palms on the ship’s gunwale as the tubmen swarmed forward to land the cargo.

Reaching into a pocket, he fingered the prize he’d brought for Lark. Gotten from a silversmith in exchange for his finest cask of brandy. He hoped she wouldn’t ask about that. She disdained spirits, even whisky, except for medicinal use.

His gaze roved the craggy coastline, alert for any light or motion. All at once a flash of musket fire flared in the darkness, the ping of bullet lead after. He swore as his lead tubman pitched forward into the shallow water, dropping a cask.

“Enemy in sight!” someone shouted.

And then—utter mayhem. The orderly landing unraveled, cargo abandoned, men scattering like ship’s rats.

He looked up again at the cliff’s dark face, into the glare of a dozen torches and the stony expressions of the sheriff and his men.

With a step back, he turned and took the smooth deck at a run, then dived over the gunwale with a satisfying splash.

Every jangle of keys set her teeth on edge, her spirits rising in false expectation. Would Magnus come? He had such clout, was well respected. The few petty crimes on Kerrera had never made it to the mainland and were soon resolved with his influence.

But none carried the weight of this.

Shivering, feeling the trail of an insect across her bare arm, she sat upright on the bedstraw. A commotion—even a scuffle—was just outside the entry door. An angry shout swept the last of sleep’s cobwebs from her mind as much as the yellow slant of lantern light.

A shackled man was brought in, a hood covering his head much like that of a prisoner facing the gallows. Into the cell beside her he went, denying her another look at him, the slam of the cell door jolting.

She returned to her bedding, wide awake. Eventually the new prisoner settled. But the combined snores of the men rivaled her hunger pangs, keeping her awake. Her panic had faded to prayers, and now prayerlessness took hold. Was the Lord with her here, in the moldy dark? Her prayers seemed to rise no farther than the gaol ceiling.

Why couldn’t she recall how long she’d been here? The sameness of the cell robbed all recall. No window foretold daylight or dark. Her own internal clock was broken.

“Lark?” She was dreaming, surely. Jillian hovered beyond the iron bars, forehead scrunched in dismay, clad in a soiled frock and what appeared to be the captain’s hat.

Lark came upright, grappling for firm footing.

“I dinna ken who to talk to first,” Jillian said, gaze swinging from Lark’s cell to the one beside it.

“Quit talking in riddles,” came a recognizable, aggravated voice.

The captain?

Lark shut her eyes as their plight came clear.

“Who would ken the both of ye would land side by side in gaol?” Jillian uttered with a sly cackle. “’Twas meant for ye to be together, truly.”

A pause. “Lark, be ye here?”

“Sadly so,” she answered the captain. Such small words for the overarching terror she felt. Even now their plight knocked the wind from her and left her voice wheezy and wavering, her body drained by weariness.

He swore and she flinched, though she felt like swearing too. And sobbing. She merely bit her lip, worrying the sore spot she’d made there above the tooth that had been troubling her.

“What in the name of heaven brings ye here?” His voice was nearer now, as if he was at the adjoining wall of their cell. “Why are ye not on Kerrera?”

Lark leaned in, voice failing her as her throat smarted and her eyes stung.

Jillian’s whispered words carried the lingering shock of it. “She’s here because Isla flung herself off the castle cliff and her folks be wantin’ someone to blame.”

Lord, nay. So she was the scapegoat?

“Where is the laird?” the captain said, as calmly as if he believed Magnus’s appearing meant their cell door would swing open.

“Wearin’ sable,” Jillian said, frowning. “And playin’ host to her ladyship’s folks at the castle.”

Lark stiffened, imagining it. What a mournful task ’twould be to host Isla’s distraught kin. “How’s Granny?”

“She sent ye some bannocks, but the guard got them first. She says not to fear. The Almighty has all in hand.”

“What happened with the Merry Lass?” Lark asked the captain, crossing her arms to hug close what little warmth she could. “Why are ye here?”

“Seems the sheriff got wind of our landing.”

Never had the captain been caught. Some said he had an uncanny ability to avoid detection, eluding the law again and again. “I pray the court is lenient.”

“I’m most concerned about the Merry Lass.”

“Jings!” Jillian exclaimed. “Yer life is worth more than a floating tub.”

“She’s all I have,” the captain shot back. “Humble as it is.”

“Well, she’s been seized by the Philistines. ’Twill be quite a feat for the laird to free both ye and yer boat.”

“But not God,” the captain said in a rare burst of righteousness.

Lark listened, beset by the same needling questions. Could the captain count on the Almighty to help him and fellow free traders if what they were doing—dealing in smuggled goods—was ungodly? Was it wrong even when they, the people, were being crushed by corrupt taxes? Which was the lesser evil?

“As for ye,” Jillian said, glancing at the gaol door and then at Lark, “yer plight is not so simple. If the laird is to help ye, ’twould seem he’s betraying his own wife.”

Lark went numb. The truth of Jillian’s shrewd words cut to the quick.

“What’s more, there’s said to be both judge and jury brought in from Edinburgh.”

Lark looked hard at her. Hearsay?

“Amazing what a few bannocks can gain from gut-greedy guards,” Jillian continued with a smirk. “And the promise of more news besides.”

Lark sank down on her haunches, light-headed.

The captain scoffed. “Meaning the court’s been bought by Isla’s father, the high and mighty Lord Ordinary of the Court of Session.”

“Aye, something like that. Ye’ll not have long to wait till yer trial. The hawkers and peddlers will soon be screaming the news, selling broadsides for a ha’penny in Auld Reekie.”

Lark had read the more reputable Edinburgh Evening Courant while visiting the city, marveling at the wealth of news within. No doubt Isla’s demise would see print. Somehow it seemed to make the charge more binding. Her very name would be linked to so tragic a circumstance in bold, black ink.

“And they’re not sayin’ it’s self-harm neither on Isla’s part. Only that ye poisoned her to death—”

“Haud yer wheest!” The captain’s voice rose strong as a coastal wind. “Dinna come again unless ye bring more than ill news, aye?”

With a lift of her chin, Jillian turned on her heel and left them. Silence ensued, broken by a fellow prisoner’s racking cough.

“Here ye be, Lark.” The captain’s voice was a caress, though all she felt was a callused, sea-worn hand reaching through the bars.

Dangling from his fingers was a . . . necklace?

“Ye canna see them but they’re a warm, rich red shot through with pink. Coral, ye ken.” The pride in his tone shifted. “’Tis not the Brooch of Lorn—Braiste Lathurna—but quality nonetheless.”

She brought the gift nearer, holding the beads to her bodice next to her heart. He’d meant this for her in a calmer, more settled season, mayhap with a heartfelt declaration attached. Awe bloomed as she felt what might be a carved silver clasp, a far cry from the simple ribbon tie of her mother’s necklace.

“Bethankit, Rory.” ’Twas the only gift she could give him, to say his given name for the very first time, abandoning Captain altogether.

His voice grew hoarse. “Ye ken what’s said about coral. That it has properties to ward off sickness. Offer protection at sea.”

“Aye.” Coral was worn by both children and adults, though she’d never seen it in hand with its reds and pinks. Orange was far more common. Yet all coral was known to be fragile. Brittle. As fragile and brittle as she herself felt.

“Ye can wear it proud, like the MacDougall ye are.”

Wear them in gaol? To be taken by the bannock-greedy guards?

“To conquer or die, aye?” he insisted at her silence. Her clan’s motto, oft murmured by Granny, caused a deeper pang. In times of hunger or sickness, Granny spoke the words to strengthen them both, much as she did Scripture.

But Lark could not echo them now.

Once again cast in mourning, the castle would not grant him a moment’s respite. Everywhere he turned brought a blacker memory. First his kindred. Now his wife. When he opened his eyes of a morn, ’twas hard to grasp solid ground as one grief slid into the next, shadowing, almost stalking him.

Every death had been so different, thus the resulting sorrow different. And now Isla. What had brought her so low? One too many miscarriages? A fondness for opium? Both, no doubt, but by no hand except her own.

Not Lark’s.

What might he have done as a husband to stop the darkness from overtaking her? He’d seen it, felt it, as their fragile bond eroded. He’d been out riding, visiting a tenant who had not paid rent in more than a twelve-month. If he’d just stayed at the castle and not gone into the Thistle on his way home to inquire about some missing sheep . . . if he’d just returned home and not let Isla’s fits and starts keep him away . . . she might still be living.

He stared into the candlelight, fork idle in his hand. Cook had thoughtfully prepared his favorite dishes. Roast turkey stuffed with sausage. Neeps and tatties. His study desk served as a table. Beneath his chair was Nonesuch, head resting on her paws, alert to her master’s slightest movement or mood.

“Here ye be,” Magnus murmured, moving an untouched turkey leg from his plate to the stone floor.

Since Isla’s parents had come and gone their sorrowful way, he’d kept to the castle, mainly his study, sinking himself in Scripture, walling himself off from the world. A cluster of verses from Jeremiah soon lodged in his brain like a pebble in his boot, one foremost.

Stand ye in the ways, and see, and ask for the old paths, where is the good way, and walk therein, and ye shall find rest for your souls.

He felt driven to act, to take some course, some path. But which? His foremost concern was Lark.

Two nights prior he’d taken the muddy, meandering cliffside trail to the croft she shared with Granny to see how the old woman fared. She sat knitting by the fire much as she’d always done, yet she was such a lonesome spectacle his eyes watered. Lark’s absence was profound here in so small a place.

“Be ye in need of anything?” he’d asked from the doorway, hands fisted behind his back. “Anything at all?”

“Ye well ken what I’m in need of,” she returned calmly, motioning him inside out of the weather.

Mute, he took Lark’s seat at the table as there were few chairs in so tiny an abode.

“But ye canna bring me Lark. Yer in mourning,” Granny said, intent on her handwork. “And ye canna be traipsing to the mainland and meddling in legal matters involving yer wife, God rest her.”

“But I can do something.”

“Ye can pray.”

“That I’m doing.”

“Betimes ’tis enough.”

He looked to the peat fire smoking in the downpour. Would this strange summer’s rain never end? “Word is she’s being moved to Glasgow for trial.”

Granny regarded him now with something akin to suspicion. “Why Glasgow?”

“The procurator Fiscal has sent the case to Edinburgh’s Crown office and recommends prosecution there. This has moved beyond the local sheriff’s jurisdiction. She’s to be indicted for”—the words hung in his throat—“the crime of manslaughter.” He could see the legal details baffled Granny, so he tried plain speaking. “She’ll be examined by a judge and members of the jury. In felony cases there’s no defense barrister, none to speak in her behalf.”

The lack of a defense had always troubled him, but never so much as now. His chief worry was what Isla’s parents were doing behind the scenes, and that worry of a witness, Rhona. The fury he’d felt upon reading the latest copy of the Edinburgh Evening Courant, which he’d prayed to a simmer, now returned full boil.

Nary a word was said about Isla leaping to her death. Just that she’d been poisoned. All suspicion was cast on Lark. The broadside’s phrasing was blatantly misleading. Clearly Isla’s parents did not want their name besmirched by the death of a daughter from self-harm.

“What of the captain?” Granny asked, never ceasing her knitting.

“I’ve no word of him except he’s to be tried in Oban’s local court.”

“Better for him, aye?”

“Not necessarily,” he replied.

“I should like to go to Glasgow.”

“I’d advise against it.” He was sounding like the barrister he was. The trip to Edinburgh had gone hard on her. She’d come down with the ague on their return. Glasgow might well finish her.

“Then I’ll continue to pray that the Lord’s will be done,” she said, her wrinkled face touched with a resigned sorrow. “His ways are too mysterious to ken. Even for an auld woman who’s watched His workings for a lifetime.”

He went away, pondering it. What was the Lord’s will? Would the Almighty rescue and restore Lark to Kerrera?

He returned to the castle reluctantly under a moonless sky. When had it ceased to be a home, a haven, and become little more than a mausoleum instead?

As if sensing his disquiet, Nonesuch turned into the castle garden. At full flower in mid-July, its fragrance intensified at night. It bespoke neglect and begged harvesting. Lark was never so happy as in the midsummer blooming. And her bees—they seemed to sense her leaving. Or was it only his own sense of loss imposed on them? In the drenching rain they kept to their skeps, awaiting fair weather and Lark’s return.

The stillroom faced him. A sodden climbing rose framed the closed oak door. His right hand gripped the knob while his left fingered the stillroom key. A dozen different scents assailed him as the door swung open. Lavender. Hartshorn. Roses.

Lark.

Standing in the doorway he fought a gaping emptiness. For years Lark had adorned the stillroom, singing her simple songs, whispering to the bees, and making a dance of her work. Without her the place seemed . . . haunted. His melancholy widened to a blistering ache.

Setting his shoulder against the timbered door frame, he felt another lick of guilt.

Losing Isla was bearable.

Losing Lark was not.