Fen glanced up when Geddes came through the cottage door. She still found him incredibly handsome. He was still blond, tall, broad shouldered, and when he looked at her, something flipped in her stomach. Every time. Even after ten years.
He dropped his leather briefcase on the chair by the door, gave Ruby a scratch, then crossed the room and bent and kissed Fen. “Why is Ruby still here? Where’s Reggie?”
“I sent him out for a few supplies. He’ll take her back to the clinic when he returns, I promise.”
“Ah. What have you been up to today? Any patients?”
“Just one. Fifi.”
He arched a tawny eyebrow. “Ah, a French mademoiselle, oui?”
She stood and went into his arms. “Speak to me in French, my dear, and you’ll find yourself being dragged off to bed.”
He pulled her tight and answered, sounding wistful, “Too bad oui is the only word I remember.” He leaned away and looked down at her. “So was she French?”
“Hardly. A floppy-eared mongrel that had a briar in her ear.”
“Since when have you started treating animals? Other than that one,” he nodded toward the lamb.
“It isn’t the first time, but today it was just by chance.” She wondered how much she should divulge about her trip to Sheiling. “I went to visit the school.”
“What you mean, is that you went to have a good look at the mother of Duncan’s lad.”
“Of course I’d met her before. I thought it unusual that she rarely summoned me when there was a medical problem, but now I guess I can see why she wouldn’t.”
“And you saw the dog there?”
Fen nodded, still resting her head against her husband’s chest. “The little makeshift school has a new young teacher. Her name is Lily Varga, and she was the one with the pup.” She pulled away and looked up into Geddes’s face. “Something is eating at me.” She shook her head. “I can’t put my finger on it, but the girl reminds me of someone.”
“She looks like someone you know?”
Fen shook her head. “No, it’s not that she looks familiar. And she speaks like no Scot I’ve ever heard, but still, there’s something about her. I know it sounds weak, and maybe I’m just imagining it, but something makes me want to really like her and I don’t even know her.” She stepped out from the circle of Geddes’s arms and went to the kitchen to begin supper. Geddes followed her.
“I suppose I could go over and see what you’re worrying about. I am the advocate in the case of the cannery, and it should be perfectly innocent if I stop by to conduct a tour of my own. In the meantime, perhaps I can get a chance to speak with this young lady and see if anything joggles my memory.”
“You’re a love,” Fen said, and kissed him on the mouth. The kiss ignited a flame in her belly. “Supper can wait,” he said, drawing her with him toward the bedroom. “Ruby? Stay.”
Ruby stayed.
• • •
Two days later, after Duncan had spent time at the castle with his family, he rode toward Sheiling, and the sunshine seemed a good omen. He had convinced Isobel to meet with him to decide just how they would tell Ian the truth about his father. She hadn’t been terribly approachable, but the idea that she would see him at all was a small victory. Now he had to watch himself. Behave himself. Be a man she couldn’t refuse.
As he passed the wharf, he glanced at the boats moored there, noting how well kept they were, as was most of the town. There wasn’t much to Sheiling beyond the water, maybe three or four blocks of residences and shops and the pub, and today the water was blue and light bounced off it like brilliant raindrops.
The brothel loomed in the near distance. Blue peat smoke snaked from the chimney. He had learned on his first visit to the island that peat was plentiful, but it smoldered and didn’t truly burn like coal, therefore wasn’t terribly warming. Was everyone who lived in that eyesore freezing at night? He glanced up at the window of the room he had rented. He hadn’t spent much time there so far.
He dismounted, tossed the reins to a waiting boy, and went up to the front door. He was nervous. It was an odd feeling for him. Rarely was he under the kind of scrutiny he would be under today and from this day on.
Isobel had seen Ian and Hamish off once again, this time for a trip to the wharf where Hamish’s fishing boat was moored. Of course, this time it was planned. She checked herself in the mirror by the door. Her gown, an emerald green with sprigs of white flowers, was homemade, and the cameo at her neck had belonged to her mother; it was not expensive. She had tried to tame her hair but gave up and merely smoothed her chignon into place. What did it matter what she looked like? Duncan had seen her before. Heat rose into her cheeks. All of her. Now they were supposed to “hammer out a deal” (his words) for Ian’s care. Isobel’s stomach was in knots and earlier she’d almost lost her breakfast.
There was a knock on the door. She thought it odd that he would knock; he had a room on the third floor and could come and go as he pleased. She opened the door and thought, He looks almost contrite. She opened the door wider and stepped back so he could enter.
Duncan nodded. “Good morning, Isobel.”
She merely nodded, unsure of her voice, then took his western-style hat and his leather jacket and hung them on the coat tree near the door.
“So,” he started. “Where do you want to do this?”
Curt. Business-like. She appreciated that. She cleared her throat. “We can use the small room off the kitchen. No one should bother us there.”
She led him to the room, which held a small table and two chairs plus a sofa and a table with an oil lamp on it. A single window looked out onto the back garden. “I’m sorry I don’t have anything grander for you to sit on,” she said. “I’m sure you’re accustomed to quite a bit more luxury than this.”
“Isobel, Isobel, don’t be that way. I’ve lived comfortably in cabins and lean-tos. I’ve slept outside in all kinds of weather. I’ve slept in a hole I dug myself that filled with water, using two fence planks for a bed to keep from getting soaked. If you’re trying to make me feel guilty about being a MacNeil, you’re not succeeding.” He pulled out a chair and offered it to her. She sat and let him push her closer to the table. He was being such a gentleman; she almost let down her guard.
He sat across from her and neither spoke. She reflexively touched her scar.
“Don’t.”
She blinked and looked at him. “What?”
“Every time you’re nervous, you press your fingers to your scar.”
Indignant, she asked, “Is there something so terribly wrong with that?”
“I don’t want you to feel nervous when you’re with me,” he said softly.
She hadn’t been bothered by her scar for years. Not until he came back into her life. “I admit you make me nervous, but only because I don’t know what to expect from you.”
He leaned back in the chair, still handsome, still a bit roguish, and still the only man she had ever been with. How he would laugh at that! She might as well still be a virgin.
“I’ve been thinking a great deal about our situation,” he began.
Do tell, she thought. Who hasn’t? “And what’s your grand conclusion?” She frowned, unable to curb her wayward, sarcastic tongue.
He smiled easily, his dimple sucking her in, apparently not injured by her jab. “You’ll have to marry me.”
She sat there, stunned, unwilling to believe what he’d just said. “What?”
“We will get married.”
“But…but…but why?”
He leaned across the table and took her hand. Once again, she cringed at the state of her skin, foolishly wishing she was soft and delicate. Surely he could tell she was not gentry material.
“I’m the boy’s father. You’re his mother.”
“Ian,” she said softly, her heart on her sleeve when she spoke of him.
“What?”
She cleared her throat. “If you are going to speak of the lad, use his name. He has one, you know.”
His smile crinkled the skin at the corners of his big, brown eyes, and Isobel thought she might swoon.
“I know his name. Ian. It’s a good, strong name, Isobel.”
How could he sit there so calmly? He’d just asked her to marry him. Marry him. He must have been insane. How could he propose such a thing?
“What’s going through that pretty head of yours, Izzy?”
She expelled a huge sigh. “Don’t call me that.”
“What, Izzy?”
“That. And don’t call me pretty. I never have been, you know.”
“Why, because you have red hair and it’s supposed to be bad luck?”
“My hair is not red,” she said firmly. It still puzzled her that he would remember their conversation all those years ago.
“Ah, yes. Ginger, isn’t it?” He leaned back in the chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “I can still remember our little argument—”
“We didn’t argue,” she interrupted. “You tried to call it cinnamon and under my breath I called you a big oaf.”
He looked at her, eyebrows raised. “A big oaf? Really?”
“Aye, but that was before…”
He leaned forward. “Before what?”
“’Tisn’t important.”
“Oh, but it must be, or you wouldn’t mention it. That was before what, Izzy, before I kissed you?”
She was mortified. She gave him a slight nod, refusing to acknowledge the incident further.
“You seem to think I wouldn’t remember anything about you, Isobel. If you were to ask, I could recall for you much of what we did that night.”
She was overheating; she wanted to escape. Lord, why didn’t he just shut up?
“I told you I think we should get married. What’s your answer, Isobel?”
“You can’t expect me to give you an answer so quickly,” she cautioned, trying to keep from panicking. “I personally think you must be crazy to suggest such a thing.”
“Why is it so crazy? Ian is our son. We are his parents.” He cocked his head at her. “I’ve already lost nine years. I want to be a normal part of my son’s life, not some peripheral figure who sees him only occasionally. I wouldn’t like that, Isobel, not at all.”
She pressed her lips together. “You could take him away from me, couldn’t you?”
He raised his eyebrows, thinking. “That’s one solution, but I don’t want to do that.”
“Is there no other way we can agree on?”
“Is marriage to me so terribly unbearable, Isobel?”
How could she answer that? “It just never occurred to me that you would…I mean, why would you want to marry me?” What answer did she want from him?
“Marriage would legitimize Ian. Isn’t that something you want?”
“Of course.” It had always pained her that Ian was a bastard. That’s why she had concocted the story about his father’s death all those years ago.
“Then what’s stopping you?” he asked.
She looked at him, confusion on her face. “You’re a MacNeil.” As if that explained everything.
“So I am. So is Ian. You could be, too.”
She bristled. “It isn’t my dream in life to become a MacNeil.”
He actually laughed at that. “Our dreams change, Isobel. I know mine have.”
She felt befuddled. Married to Duncan MacNeil? Had she ever thought of such a thing? Oh, maybe ten years ago when she was a foolish, stupid girl, pining for a lad long gone from the island. But not now. Really? Really. She had more belief in Nessie, the Loch Ness monster.
“So? What are you thinking, Isobel?”
“What arrangements would have to be made?”
“Do you mean will we be married in name only, just to make Ian legitimate?”
She felt herself relax. “Aye, that would do.”
“Oh, no. That won’t do,” he said, his voice smooth as cream.
Her heart rate suddenly doubled. “No? Then what are you saying?”
“I will not force myself on you, Isobel, but we will live together as a couple who are raising a son.”
“Where?” If he dared tell her they would live at that damned castle, she would upend the table on him.
“Well, that’s the rub, I guess. Your building will be demolished, and the church will see to it that a new schoolmaster will be installed. They have also promised to do some work on the current schoolroom off the church.” His gaze rattled her. “You’ve done a remarkable job here, without any instruction. I should think you’d be relieved to have it come to an end.”
“I’m responsible for three other people, as you know.”
He studied her. “It’s not a problem that can’t be solved. Mrs. Beard, who runs the tea house, has rooms to let.”
“She certainly doesn’t have room for all of us,” Isobel protested.
His expression was patient. “You, Isobel, will be living with me and Ian, somewhere else. I don’t know just where yet.”
Oh, of course. If they were to wed. “I must know that all three of them have a place before I even think of a wedding,” she threatened. Suddenly she felt like she was being swallowed up by the landed gentry. They were coming at her from all sides, pulling her away from everything she was and had ever been.
“Then you will marry me?” His face lit up; she still wasn’t sure if he was teasing or not.
She held up her hands to fend him off. “I don’t know. You seem to have taken care of everything. Did you think me so docile that I’d swoon at your proposal because it would save me from ruin?”
“Isobel, you’re anything but docile.” His eyes twinkled with humor. “I’ve thrown everything at you too quickly, I can see that. But please, think about my offer. Where we live together as a family is not important to me. The castle isn’t my home, Isobel, I’ve told you that before. It’s Fletcher’s. We can build a place of our own. Just don’t say no before you think about it.”
He rose from the table. “I’d tell you to take your time, but I’m eager to become a father to my son.” With that, he left her there, sitting alone at the table, staring into space. She quickly followed him, stopping him at the door.
“I see no reason to pretend this won’t happen,” she said.
“So your answer is yes?”
With some reluctance, she replied, “Aye.”
He lifted her hands to his lips and kissed them; she still cringed, knowing they were red and rough. She watched him leave, wondering if she’d just made the biggest mistake in her life.
Delilah poked her head into the room. “I thought I saw Himself riding off. He sure don’t make much use of that room he rented, does he?”
Without preamble, Isobel said, “He asked me to marry him and I said yes. I could see no other choice.”
Delilah’s mouth hung open. Suddenly she dipped into a clumsy curtsey. “Nae, My Lady, ye have no other choice.” Delilah’s antic sent Isobel into a fit of giggles. She could hardly imagine becoming a titled lady. How far-fetched was that?
• • •
Duncan rode to the castle slowly, taking the long route that went around the cairns. So. He would be married. He had never believed that would happen, not to him. At one time, when he was fighting in the war, he thought he might die, half believing it, half hoping it wouldn’t be so.
Ponchatoula, Louisiana—November 1864
The Confederate sharpshooters stayed motionless among the thickets of young pines, up in the cypress trees, along the slick, damp, spongy grass of the bayous, waiting for their signal. The ring of dense cypress surrounding sluggish Lake Tickfaw shut out any breeze. Katydids, frogs, and crickets harmonized in the humid air, stopping abruptly when the enemy approached, tromping through the tangle of briar and brackish water like a herd of water buffalo, shouting orders. A bugle sounded the signal for double quick, and the enemy picked up their pace.
No stealth there, Duncan thought with a shake of his head, as he brought his Sharps rifle to his shoulder. Up high in a cypress tree, he waited for the signal. When he heard it he took aim and paused. Another signal, the Rebel cry, and he caught sight of a Yankee coming toward him. He took the shot, downing the enemy with one bullet. A cacophony of shots followed, and the enemy scattered.
Suddenly he felt a stinging pain in his shoulder, and then another, and the last thing he remembered was falling out of the tree onto the swampy ground.
It had been close; too close. But everything that had happened after that was etched into his mind; something he would never forget. And someone he could not save.