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“What?” My exclamation coincided with Lydia’s piercing cry. Her mouth opened, and pained wailing filled the kirkyard at the same time she soaked the front of Ian’s shirt.
He added his own oath as he held her quickly away, though it was too late. A foul, pasty yellow mess stained them both.
“How does a bairn so small make such a mess as that?” His wrinkled nose would have evoked laughter under other circumstances, but I felt too close to tears already.
“Hand her to me,” I said, my hands outstretched.
Ian shook his head. “It’s all right. No need for both of us to smell this bad. I’ll take her in and get Bridget to help. Stay and visit your mother’s grave. I’ll return as soon as I can.”
I gave a terse nod. I stood and turned away from Ian, rubbing my arms briskly.
Cold. So cold. Not Collin— here? Where? What happened? I kissed Ian.
I felt dirty, as if I had done much more than that. He still stood behind me, I sensed. “If not here, where is Collin? Who is in that grave?”
“The half-dead man the English tossed into that burning barn rests there,” Ian said. “I need more than a minute to answer the rest of those questions. Will you wait for me to return?”
Lydia continued her wailing, but my instincts to care for her grew numb.
“Just go,” I said, her incessant crying only increasing my agitation.
“I’ll be right back. Stay in the kirkyard,” Ian warned. “If you decide to leave before I return, ask Earnan to walk you to the castle.”
“Fine.” Don’t tell me what to do.
The sound of Ian’s feet crunching over leaves faded. I followed him as far as the rowan, then crumpled to the ground once more, a mess of tears and confusion. I had promised to listen. I would. But what could he say to fix this? What reason could there be for his deception?
I pounded my fist on the ground in frustration and struck something much harder than dirt. With a cry, I clutched my hand to my chest, rubbing it in attempt to make the throbbing stop. The edge of a stone peeked out from the grass in front of me. I reached down, parting more, to reveal a narrow stone pressed deep into the ground.
Per Mare Per Terras
By sea or by land. There was no name or date, not that the stone was big enough to include those. It was certainly too close to the tree for anyone to be buried here. By sea... A chill passed through me, as cold as if a ghost had. My painting? Could there be a connection? I flattened the grass over the top once more and stood, looking around uneasily.
No longer quite as comfortable as I had always been in this place, I hurried over to my grandfather’s stone. Not surprisingly, it was the largest in the yard. I knelt before it, pressing my fingers first to my lips and then to his name. “Help me, Grandfather,” I whispered. “I’m so confused about what I am to do and feel.”
Only silence answered my plea. Silence, then a whistle I’d heard once before. Donaid? If it was him, who or what was he watching out for this time?
The double doors leading to the kirk swung open, and Father Rey exited, only a slight limp to his walk, the lingering reminder of Ian’s previous warning.
Had he seen me and come to lecture? Not today. I was already kneeling, but instinctively ducked, so as to be completely blocked from his view.
He was joined a few minutes later by Donaid. The two began speaking with much animation, leading me to believe their conversation was of some importance.
I relaxed a little, trusting Donaid would rescue me from a lengthy sermon if Father Rey chanced to see me. Word that Ian had pushed the priest into the grave had traveled quickly among the Campbells. To my pleasant surprise, most had applauded Ian’s action. It seemed the good father was rather unpopular.
It was starting to sprinkle, and I considered my options— make myself known and endure at least a brief confrontation with the priest, or remain hidden and hope they left soon before I became too wet.
Their steps and conversation drifted closer.
“...insisted Collin is not dead,” Donaid said. “Or not of three weeks ago, at least, when they put him on the Ulysses, bound for the Colonies.”
I gasped. Both men turned their heads my direction.
Collin— alive? Was that what Ian had been about to tell me? And I kissed him! If Ian knew his brother was alive, what kind of new beginning had he believed this might be for us? There would be no us if Collin still lived and breathed. Anywhere. Even an ocean away.
My impulse was to make myself known and demand that Donaid tell me what he knew. Common sense kept me in place, tense and waiting until their conversation had resumed. Why is Donaid telling this to Father Rey instead of to me?
“You’re certain that is what the Redcoat captain said?” Father Rey asked.
“Aye,” Donaid insisted. “They put Collin aboard with other fugitives near three weeks ago. The MacDonald had escaped earlier and was quite severely wounded when recaptured. But he was successfully retrieved and had been convalescing in prison until deemed healthy enough to sail. He was quite a bit of trouble, apparently, but still worth the price he fetched. The captain was not pleased to learn the usual lot of prisoners from us was to be indefinitely delayed.”
“Nothing we can do about that at present,” Father Rey said. “The captain is positive the man was Collin? Those soldiers aren’t always the smartest,” Father Rey intoned.
“I inquired to that,” Donaid said. “They assured me it was the same man. Collin had a scar earned from the captain’s claymore the day after they took him from here. Ran across the top of his head. Had to have nearly killed him.”
Ian’s scar? What were the odds both brothers had the same injury? My mind spun. What could this possibly mean? Ian was here, and Collin was— Alive? Alive. My heart gave a jolt as if it had just restarted after a very long time. Tears mingled with the rain on my cheeks. Besieged with emotion, I slumped against my grandfather’s stone. Collin. Alive.
“Who have we here, then?” Father Rey nudged Collin’s gravestone with his toe. “It was blasphemous enough to bury a MacDonald here. But now who knows what we’ve put in our hallowed ground. We’ll have to dig it up.”
“That’s not the body I’m concerned with,” Donaid said. “But the MacDonald at the castle. What are we to do with him?”
I was going to wretch. Donaid. This whole time. Covering my mouth with my hand, I bent over, parallel to the ground, praying they would go away. Collin. Alive. On a ship to the Colonies, but alive. Ian— in danger. And Donaid, the traitor who’d schemed with Brann and Malcom to take me from Collin on our journey from England.
The answer to my prayer came as the clouds broke loose, increasing the drizzle to a steady downpour in a matter of minutes. Donaid and Father Rey returned to the kirk. I dug my fingers into the wet grass, hanging on, waiting for the world to right itself. When they had been gone several minutes I staggered to my feet, hurrying the opposite direction. Earnan met me at the gate, white-faced and tight-lipped. “You weren’t supposed to leave the yard.”
“I didn’t. I promise.” I looked at him so he could see the truth in my eyes. If Ian was right, and I could not lie, Earnan should see as much as well. “I was kneeling at my grandfather’s grave when Father Rey came. I hid because I didn’t want him to see me. He lectures so.”
“Aye, that he does.” The tension eased from Earnan’s face. “Just the same, next time I’ll accompany you.”
“Of course.” I didn’t think there would be a next time. I didn’t want to come here again, but I did need to warn Ian that I had ferreted out at least one of our enemies. Or was Donaid only my enemy? Ian had known Collin was not in that grave. He knew he wasn’t dead and lied to me. Was it possible Donaid and Ian were somehow connected, though the conversation I’d just overheard made it appear the opposite? My head ached with the effort of trying to figure it out, and I shivered beneath my wet cloak.
“We had best get you inside before you catch your death of cold.” Earnan offered his arm. “What was the laird thinking, to have you out in this weather? In the kirkyard, no less?”
“I’m sure I don’t know.” What was Ian thinking? What are his plans?
I felt the oddest mix of confusion, disappointment, hope, and anger. If what Donaid had said was true, Collin was alive, while the man I had begun to trust, and even care for, had lied to me in the most grievous manner. My heart felt broken all over again, as hope for the life I had planned with Ian seemed all but lost.
But Collin, the husband I had worked to forget, might yet be mine.