Wishing For a Highlander (27 page)

He woke at dawn, bleary-eyed and even more tired than when he’d lain down. Sitting up to stretch his stiff neck, he found a refreshed and energetic-looking Gravois holding out a cup of tea. “I trust you slept well,
mon ami.
”

He snatched the cup with a harrumph. “What were those two women about? Did your auld fortune teller get what she was after?”

Gravois’s smile faltered. “I shall tell you what I can over eggs. Come. Eat.”

He followed the man to the fire, where Ferdinand spooned cooked eggs from a pan onto a trencher for him. Eyeing the curious dwarf, he shoveled in the offered nourishment while Gravois blathered some nonsense about the Rom being forbidden to reveal certain fortunes.

“It means naught to me” Darcy said. “I didna seek the fortune, so I dinna mind leaving without kenning it.” He rose to saddle Rand.

Gravois followed, wringing his hands. “But it is of grave importance,
mon ami
.”

“Tell me or no. I dinna care which. But speak quickly if you mean to tell it. I must return to Dornoch and my bonny wife.” He winked at his new friend, feeling more cheerful after breaking his fast and kenning he was but a day’s easy ride from holding Malina in his arms again.

As he slipped the bit into Rand’s mouth, Gravois made a sound of frustration he somehow managed to make elegant. “Madame Hilda saw your death, Monsieur Keith.”

He froze, hands about to give the girth a final tug. He faced Gravois, not kenning how to respond to such a statement. Would he die heroically? Would he die an honorable member of the Keith clan, or a forgotten fugitive? How many years would he live with the agony of separation from Malina?

“The Rom are strictly forbidden from speaking
le mort ne prophetiser
–death prophesies. At the risk of losing her sight and perhaps even her life, the
madame
would not tell me exactly what she saw. But Chi-Yuen saw. She will not speak of the fortune either, but after the
madame
went to sleep, she made you this potion.” Gravois extracted a vial of whitish liquid from an inner pocket in his jacket and held it out to him. “Keep it with you at all times, for Chi Yuen believes it may save you from whatever it is the
madame
saw.”

The liquid reminded him of the color of Hilda’s eyes when they’d clouded over. He shuddered and shook his head. “Nay. I want naught to do with potions. I will only use what magic I must to help my wife, and that I do at the peril of my soul.” He rolled his eyes heavenward. “If the Lord hasna already crossed my name off his list, he certainly will do so by the time I’ve found a way for her to return home.”

Gravois clucked his tongue. “Do you honestly believe magic is evil? After all you’ve witnessed? Knowing it brought you your wife. Knowing our gentle, pale friend carries it in his veins, and that it favors many in this camp? Do we strike you as evil,
mon ami
?”

He didn’t feel like having a philosophical discussion. “I only ken I was raised to revile aught that runs contrary to the natural way of things, as does the church. Though I’ve had reluctant dealings with magic and will deal with it further for my wife’s sake, I dinna do so lightly, and I dinna expect to escape punishment.”

“Am I in need of punishment? Is Madame Hilda? Master Timothy? Is it so difficult to believe magic might exist under the approving eye of the Almighty?”

He huffed in annoyance. Rand, sensing his mood, stomped an impatient hoof. “Gravois,” he warned. “I dinna have the patience for this debate. My clansmen hunt me, my wife is leagues away under the protection of a man I hardly ken, and I’ve had my fill of shocks in the last day.” He swung up into the saddle and gave the tinker a curt nod.

“Wait,” Gravois said urgently. “I forgot, I have a gift for your beloved wife. A moment,
mon ami
, and I will fetch it,” he said over his shoulder as he jogged toward the green cart.

He waited, though both he and Rand lusted to run.

Gravois returned a few minutes later with a package the size of a flintbox. ’Twas wrapped in canvas and tied with twine. “
S'il vous plait
, tell your wife that I wish her well, and that this gift is to be opened only–how do you say?–when the sheet hits the fan. It is very important you use those exact words,
mon ami
.”

He raised a brow at the odd phrase, but took the package.

“It was my immense pleasure to make your acquaintance.” Gravois stepped back from Rand and made a grand, graceful gesture.

Darcy couldn’t help his smile. He nodded toward where the car sat. “Unless you’d like to face another angry mob, I’d be ridding myself of that thing.” Guiding his eagerly prancing mount toward the bridge, he called back, “Take care of yourself, Gravois.”

After he crossed, he looked back to see nothing but a dilapidated ruin of a bridge and a barren rise of rocky hills.

Chapter 18

Melanie knelt beside Constance in Skibo’s terraced garden. Beneath them, the village of Dornoch bustled with activity. The sounds of rolling carts, haggling merchants, and laughing children drifted up to the castle on the gentlest of breezes. Mild sunshine warmed her shoulders, and freshly-turned loam cooled her knees through her apron-covered kirtle. The mingled scents of a hundred varieties of flowers and herbs christened the morning perfect.

She should be cheerful, darn it, but each stab of her trowel into the soil punctuated one of the many questions that had been sawing through her mind since yesterday morning. Had Darcy made it safely to Inverness? When would he be back? Was he thinking about her? Did he regret what they’d done the night before he left? How would she react if he returned claiming to know how to send her back to Charleston? Would she go so he could return to Ackergill, or would she expose her heart to him in the most irrevocable way and tell him she wanted to stay? He had told her he loved her, but what if he loved his home more?

“Honestly, dear. It’s like talking to a sheep.”

Constance’s voice brought her back from the brink of insanity at the same moment the tip of her trowel struck impacted earth. She’d dug far too deep for the young sprouts they were planting. She looked up to find her hostess’s gaze sympathetic, despite the annoyance in her tone.

She cocked her gloved hands on her hips and grumbled, “Did you hear a single thing I said about Agrimony?”

In the past two days, her hostess had tried everything to distract her from her sour mood. But no amount of being fitted for pretty dresses, going on scenic walks, gardening, or learning about the medicinal properties of various herbs, barks, and ointments could make her forget the raging pain of Darcy’s rejection.

Apparently, her heartache was having an adverse effect on her concentration. She chewed her lip and shook her head. “Is it the Scottish term for a terrible marriage?”

Constance chuckled. “No, but failing to use it for fresh breath might cause even the most devoted of spouses to run for the hills. It’s an astringent, dear, and can also be used in tea to help cure the common cold and diarrhea.” She frowned at the small grave Melanie had dug. “But if you plant it that deep, Skibo will suffer a plague of halitosis come winter.”

“Sorry.” She began filling in the hole, packing the cool loam tight with her trowel.

“It’s all right.” Constance patted her shoulder. “I know what it’s like to have your husband away. It never gets easier. But at least you know he hasn’t run off to a skirmish. He’s just gone thirty miles or so to Inverness to talk to a box maker.”

Melanie rocked back on her heels and used the back of her wrist to drag a lock of hair off her forehead. “But what if he runs into Steafan’s men on the way? What if he attracts the wrong kind of attention with his questions and winds up accused of witchcraft? What if he’s being burned at the stake as we speak and I never see him again?” Her chest tightened painfully at the thought.

“Yes, poor helpless Darcy,” Constance said. “Do you really think he’ll be unscrupulous with his words or that he can’t hold his own against Steafan’s men if it comes to that?”

“You’re right.” Her chest relaxed. Darcy was nothing if not scrupulous and capable. “I’m worrying about things that don’t even make sense.”

“It’s what we do,” her hostess said with a shrug. “We’re wives. But if we’re smart, we keep friends around us who don’t let us moon around when our hormones try to turn us into worthless, dithering lumps.” She winked, and Melanie realized with a rush of warm surprise that Constance was her friend.

She had a husband and a friend in sixteenth-century Scotland. And in just a few short months she’d have a baby, too. She hadn’t even been here a week yet and she was already starting to build a life. The idea of staying was growing less frightening by the hour.

“Speaking of hormones,” her new friend said. “Have you given any thought to whether you’ll plan your future pregnancies or just let things happen?”

Her heart swelled at the thought of carrying Darcy’s child. After a moment’s fantasy, she cocked an eyebrow at Constance. “Don’t women in this time just kind of let it happen? I mean, there’s no pill, and coitus-interruptus isn’t exactly reliable.”

“Well, Mother Nature is certainly a persistent bitch,” Constance said with a wry smile. “But there are a few things that can take her down a peg or two. Bradley was born when I was forty-five, but before him, I managed to use seeds of Queen Anne’s Lace and home-made suppositories as birth control for several years. Of course, they call it Wild Carrot since Queen Anne won’t sit the throne for nearly two hundred years. But it works just the same.”

She had met twelve-year-old Bradley and his seventeen-year-old brother, Marcus, at meal times. Constance and Wilhelm’s three oldest were married and lived in estates spread over Wilhelm’s territory, and the nineteen-year-old was at University in Edinburgh.

“I stopped bothering when I started ‘The Change.’” She dramatically deepened her voice. “But soon realized that just because you’re getting older and you miss two periods doesn’t mean your ovaries have given up the ghost.” She smiled wistfully as she stood and stretched her back. “Bradley’s was a hard delivery. An even harder recovery. But I don’t regret it. I don’t regret him. He’s wonderful. They’re all wonderful. But you do have to consider that there are no hospitals. No blood transfusions. No monitors to show when the baby is in distress. No perfectly-controlled little incubators for preemies.”

She sighed, and the sound was heavy with sadness. “I lost three over the years, two of them during delivery. One two weeks after. Two of them were girls, including the one that lived for those precious two weeks. Maryanne. She was a month early. Easiest delivery I’d ever had. Hardest loss.” Constance’s haunted eyes looked out over Skibo’s grounds.

“I’m so sorry,” she said inadequately.

Constance’s lips lifted in a small smile. “Still no regrets, though. If someone had given me the ability to go back and change my mind about staying, I wouldn’t have done it.

Come on.” She extended a hand to help Melanie up. “We’ll finish planting tomorrow. Let’s go to the storeroom. I’ll show you how to prepare seeds of Queen Anne’s Lace and make the suppositories so you can use them when you feel the need. You can also simply add quinine to scented oil. It works as a spermicide. But Wilhelm and I never liked using oils. Didn’t need them,” she added with a wink, and just like that, the mischievous joy of a sexually satisfied woman shoved away the shadows in her eyes.

Would thinking of Darcy bring her back from dark moods in thirty years? Yes. She was sure of it. And that certainty cemented her decision to stay.

She was his. He was hers. She wanted him for all time. If that meant he could never return to his home, then she’d make sure he felt at home wherever they went. Darcy was her home. She’d be his, too.

Regardless of what he would discover in Inverness, there was no way she’d let him send her back. Her decision was cast in the iron of her love. If only her stubborn Highlander were here so she could tell him.

* * * *

Darcy rocked in the saddle as he cantered Rand north toward Dornoch. He hadn’t found what he’d been looking for in Inverness, but then, it was a quarter century before the date on Malina’s box. He vaguely wondered whether a visit to Timothy at MacLeods in twenty-five years would find the lad matured not just in physical form but in his ability to control his bloodmagic as well. But in the next thought, he kent that even if Timothy could create the box in 1547, he’d sooner die than let her go after loving her for so long. He’d have to find another way. And soon.

Feeling like a failure for the time being, he considered taking the ten leagues between Inverness and Dornoch slower to put off disappointing his wife, but with Gil, Hamish and the others about looking for him, he thought it unwise to dally. Besides, Rand liked to run. If the gelding had his way, he’d be galloping full out, but Darcy didn’t want to spend him too soon. If he ran into Steafan’s men, he’d be needing Rand fresh.

Once they crossed onto Murray land, he thrilled at kenning Malina was so near. He forgot his hesitancy. Even if she was disappointed with him, ’twould still be heaven to hold and kiss her.

Sensing his master’s eagerness to reach Skibo, Rand pulled at the reins. They were close enough now, with only a league or two to go, that he gave the gelding his head and let him run as fast as he lusted. With his ears pricked forward and his stride long and joyful, Rand raced through the forest skirting the southern border of Wilhelm’s land.