40

I love thee, I love but thee, with a love that shall not die, till the sun grows cold and the stars grow old.

Shakespeare

Larkin had taken his first steps—and his first spill, a pudding cap firmly in place, compliments of Mistress Flowerdew. All wondered about his birthday. Was he yet a year old? How long ago it seemed that she’d first set eyes on him in Glasgow. Now, with a flaxen-haired toddler to mimic, Larkin seemed determined to catch up with the Osbournes’ young son.

’Twas late April, the month made memorable with the Osbournes’ arrival. At first all was a flurry as trunks were unpacked and Royal Hundred adjusted to a family in residence. Would Magnus soon raise the dust on the driveway in their wake?

Haste ye back, my love.

Might he reappear in broad daylight when all was abloom and abuzz? Or in the gloaming with its sweetly scented shadows as night tiptoed in? Even her humblest task turned fanciful. Romantic. But little time was left for wondering. Lark was busy from sunup to sundown. Angelica Osbourne, Royal Hundred’s new mistress, wished to learn all aspects of plantation life alongside her husband, often peppering Lark with questions. Expecting again and a bit peely-wally, Angelica relied on the red raspberry leaves and gingerroot tea Lark gave her to quell any queasiness.

In the kitchen, Sally turned out an abundance of fine dishes alongside the French chef, while the British servants the Osbournes brought clashed with the American ones.

“Ain’t just yo’ bees stingin’,” Sally said, fanning her perspiring face with her apron. “Some o’ them high and mighty crumpet stuffers need to sail on home again.”

But the Osbournes were a respected family whom everyone seemed to want to please. Soon all settled. But not Lark’s emotions nor her ongoing anticipation. Would today be the day Magnus arrived? Never one to take pains with her appearance, she found herself peering into the cracked looking glass of her quarters far too often, retying her apron, repinning her pinner, and rereading his well-worn letter till she’d memorized every jot and tittle. She was in love. Totally, besottedly, unashamedly in love with the laird.

Lark fingered the MacLeish locket in her pocket as music from a pianoforte spilled from Royal Hundred’s refurbished parlor. The Osbournes had invited their closest friends and kin for a musical evening a sennight after their arrival. The Ramsays were there too, and Lark herself had been included but declined. She was not one of them nor ever would be, though she was glad of their kindness. She’d not seen Trevor but for church. He remained cordial but distant, as if waiting for her change of heart.

Listening to the lovely music but craving a quiet spot, she left the door to her quarters open to better hear Larkin if he awoke, and sought out the neglected bench along the outer stillroom wall. Half hidden by a hedge, she could still see servants hurrying to and fro between dependencies and the mansion. The May days stretched longer and longer, though they still held less daylight here than in Scotland at nearly eight o’clock.

Her own workday was done, though she’d yet to fulfill even a year of her three-year contract. Time ticked on, softening her harshest memories if not erasing them, blunting her homesickness and sharpening her hopes.

The fading sun weaving spokes of light through the hedge and warming her, she dozed, back to the wall, fingers folded around the locket in her pocket.

“Lark.”

’Twas a voice from another life. Another world. Spoken in the language of her heart.

“Is thu mannsachd.”

Thou art my most beloved.

Her eyes slowly opened. There, half hidden in the lengthening shadows, stood Magnus. Fireflies winked around him, akin to that first time when it was just the two of them locked in mutual wonderment on another warm Virginia eve. The flash of his smile was her complete undoing.

Joy surged through her. In the beat of a heart she stood. One hand clutched the beloved locket. She clasped it to her bodice, though what she wanted was him. Having stood too fast, she swayed. And then he gathered her up in his arms, her face pressed against the clean cloth of his shirt. She was held so tightly she melted into him, finding him much changed. Leaner and more muscled, no hint of the heather or sea about him. But his heart beat strong and sure beneath her cheek.

“Yer here,” she whispered. “I nearly stopped hoping.”

“Nay. Never stop hoping. ’Tis what keeps us.” He released her just enough to look down at her, gently tracing the oval of her face with a careful finger, gaze on her scarred chin. “A new beauty mark?”

“If ye say so.” She smiled. Nothing would mar the moment. “Pay it no mind.”

He nodded, eyes still questioning. His gaze fell to the locket entwined in her hand. Carefully he pried it free before circling behind her in the velvety darkness. Cool fingers brushed her neck. Without any bumbling, he encircled her throat with the MacLeish heirloom, securing the clasp at the nape of her neck.

“For my bonny bride-to-be.” His breath tickled her ear. “If ye’ll have me.”

If? Once again she faced him. His locket lay cool against her heated skin. His eyes darkened with desire. Years of unfulfilled longing charged the very air between them. Theirs had been a romance of restraint. Thwarted passion. Now, with choices before them, she could hardly breathe.

“Will ye have me, Lark?” His low question rent her heart.

In answer, she stood on tiptoe, pressing her mouth to his in a naïve kiss. His mouth smiled beneath her own. Though her eyes were closed, she could feel the curve of his lips as much as his hands when they took hers and placed them about his neck. Somehow he’d backed her against the warm stone wall, out of sight of any passersby. But they might have been back at Kerrera Castle, so lost was she in the nearness of him.

His own kiss laid to rest any questions. His mouth met hers softly and then thoroughly, so capably she didn’t want him to stop. Nor did he want to, clearly. Within the intimacy of those endless kisses came a melding of thoughts and desires, hopes and dreams. A oneness that bespoke a coming union that time and distance could not alter.

“Tomorrow,” he said, sounding a bit breathless. “I’ll move heaven and earth to make it happen.”

“The morrow canna come soon enough.” What more could she offer but a heartfelt prayer? “Amen.”

They stood in Royal Hundred’s small parlor the next evening, she and Magnus facing each other beneath a wide window overlooking the formal garden. Bruton Parish’s minister stood before them, The Book of Common Prayer in hand, seemingly unruffled by a hasty marriage license and wedding that had in fact been years in the making.

Behind them stood Mistress Flowerdew with Larkin, as well as Angelica, who’d insisted on a bouquet for Lark among May’s finest flowers. The fragrance of roses and the gaily hued peonies and poppies sweetened the occasion, the petals to be pressed and dried in the stillroom. Lark drank in the solemn moment. She’d been kept up by a mix of elation and excitement as the light from Osbourne’s study burned long into the night. He and Magnus had hammered out the details of a wedding, a covenant far more binding than indenture contracts.

“Almighty God, who at the beginning did create our first parents, Adam and Eve, and did sanctify and join them together in marriage, pour upon you the riches of His grace, sanctify and bless you, that ye may please Him both in body and soul, and live together in holy love unto your lives’ end. Amen.”

Holy and humbly wedded. Lark touched the locket about her neck as Magnus kissed her lightly, even teasingly. Flushed, she let him escort her into the dining room, where Sally and the French chef had conspired to make a remarkable wedding supper on short notice.

In the candlelight the white icing on both the bride’s and groom’s cakes shone. In Mistress Flowerdew’s arms, Larkin was pointing to the fruit and sweetmeat pyramids atop the damask tablecloth. Lark had wanted little fuss. But now, beside her groom, she was seated and partook gladly of the marzipan hedgehog and sweet potato pudding, the oysters and ham and fish.

Looking at Magnus over the rim of her punch cup, she could hardly believe he was here. His handsome features were deeply bronzed by the Jamaican sun, almost startlingly unfamiliar as they were wreathed in an unending smile. In her borrowed dress of yellow taffeta, Lark hardly felt herself. ’Twas like a dream, all of them making merry as the day dwindled.

Mistress Flowerdew took Larkin for the night, but not before Magnus had held him and tossed him in the air then prayed a blessing over him. Only then did Magnus lead Lark upstairs to his room on the mansion’s second floor.

She stood in the middle of the fine chamber fit for a laird, even a displaced one, and turned in a little circle atop the floral carpet to take in the box bed and fine Chippendale furnishings, the twin windows with Venetian blinds drawn. Outside the glass, a dove cooed a soft lament, waiting for its mate.

Magnus smiled down at her in the candlelight, hands busy untying his stock. “A far cry from the stillroom quarters. We can return there on the morrow with our wee lad if ye wish.”

“Oh, Magnus, I have so many questions.”

“And we have a lifetime together to answer them, aye?”

She sank onto a near loveseat, her skirts rustling. “Please tell me we shan’t be separated again.”

He got down on a knee, taking her hands in his, and kissed her slowly and tenderly. “Osbourne is a generous man. He asked me whose freedom I wanted as a wedding gift. It goes without saying whose I took.”

“Ye redeemed my contract, when ye might have freed yerself.”

“And now yer free to return to the West Indies with me. For the time left of my own two-year contract. Ye and Larkin.”

Stunned, she smoothed back a strand of his charcoal hair that had escaped his queue and caught in the whiskered growth stippling his jaw. “But if ye’d redeemed yerself, we might stay here. Surely Virginia is a kinder master than Jamaica.”

“Yet Jamaica is the greater need. The greater work. And I could not live with myself if I’d freed myself ahead of my bride.”

She listened, their gazes locked, too moved to speak.

“One day, mayhap, we’ll return home. To Scotland.” Reaching out, he snuffed the candle flame a-dance in a warm draft. “Tonight, we shall put away all thought of the morrow. God has given us this day, this hour, aye?”

She nodded through her tears. Tears of joy, not sorrow. Truly, there was nothing she could possibly ask for other than Magnus and this very hallowed moment.