Page 115 of The Scot Who Loved Me
Her presence healed him. She’d asked him once what hurt more: the loss of Scotland? Or the loss of her?
It took years to find the answer. Anne was Scotland. Scotland was Anne. If a man cut a star in two, he’d find the same glorious shine on oneside as the other. Anne was mysterious, strong, the song in his heart, the passion in his veins.
She was his life.
Anne nestled into her favorite place under his arm against his rib. It was the perfect spot for the widow to cuff him should he need it (and he was man enough to admit there were times he did). It was the perfect spot for his wife-to-be to tickle his secret places should he need that too. It was the perfect spot because Anne was there, her heart beating near his.
They stood thus, the water glassy in places, the blue pale with mystery and hope. A breeze lifted Anne’s hair but she didn’t catch it and tie it back. She was as awed as he was at the notion of going home. Three days they’d held each other on the narrow bed allotted them on the sloop. Their talk wandered aimlessly as dreams put to words do. There’d be days of wonder and dreams, words, and actions. Little by little, they’d build their life.
Once they were settled, he’d write a long letter to his father. It would be an honest letter from a son who fought a war and lost. He’d tell his father everything in hopes his father would come back to Scotland. It might be for naught, but a son had to try. His father was the final wound that needed healing. Anne sensed it in quiet moments when she held him late at night.
He was sure she sensed it now. She cozied up to him, warm and affectionate.
“Mr. Gunderson is a little troubled at your choice of clothes today,” she said, a touch of humor in her voice.
“We’re in the middle of a loch near our home,and Mr. Gunderson has been paid to look the other way.” Will’s voice lost its smooth quality onhome.He couldn’t say or think the word without a dry lump rising in his throat.
“Mr. Gunderson’s late wife was a Chisolm,” she murmured. “He understands.”
“For this one day, when I walk back home, Iwillwear my kilt.”
“As you should, my love. As you should.”
Raw emotion entwined them. It was on the breeze batting his mended kilt and the water tapping the ship. Last night’s sleep had been deep but he couldn’t eat much. Butterflies dancing in his stomach made food impossible, though he had no doubt his appetite would return, once they were ashore. Once he clasped hands with his clan chief, he would breathe.
Mr. Gunderson approached, his hands clasped at his back. He stopped to admire the horizon with them. He was captain ofTheMarietta, the sloop taking them home for a substantial sum.
“Fine morning,” Mr. Gunderson said, bouncing on his toes. “We’ll lower a boat soon and take you ashore. A few minutes, I think. Are you ready?”
“We are, Mr. Gunderson. We’ve been waiting for this for a very long time.”
They’d marshalled their things to be ready for this moment. Her satchel (bulging a little), Will’s satchel (bulging hardly at all), and an oddly heavy Mermaid Brewery barrel as high as Anne’s waist. It clinked loudly when moved, which took two men to accomplish.
The captain took a bracing breath. “I’ll see to it then.”
Mr. Gunderson was a wee bit nervous around Will. Their first meet at the White Lamb was not so cordial.
Anne rubbed her cheek against his well-worn velvet coat. “We’ll write to your father.”
She did know.
Will’s chest heaved a worthy sigh. “Yes, you and I, together. We’ll write to him.”
“And ask him to come back.”
Will squeezed her tight. He was dammed-up emotions, threatening to spill. There were only a few things he wanted to bring with him: Anne, his kilt, and his velvet coat. Late at night, the first evening at sea, he finally shared why the coat was dear.
After his release from the prison hulk, he had little more than rags covering his body. A rag and bone man gave the coat to Will. That man’s kindness had saved Will’s soul. Desperate, alone, no kin to speak of in London, he’d walked its streets, a lost man. It was the kindness of one person who helped him recover, one day to next. A sort of talisman.
In time, he broke free of his chains. Kindness and love saved him, from others yes, from Anne, most of all.
Raven-haired Anne...
His weakness.
He couldn’t say what made that true, but he’d have the rest of his life to find out why.
