Page 38 of The Scot Who Loved Me
His ferocity startled her. A sconce candle died, its smoke trailing thinly beside Will. In the gloom, he was no more than a beastly scowl with hair askew and the white of his shirt showing. She braced a hand on the table. Fresh beeswax glossed the surface, buttery smooth, supportive and friendly, if furniture could be that.
“It was the nineteenth of August. The day the war started.”
“I know,” he ground out. “I was there. Waiting for you.”
She saw Will as he was then. The windblown highlander, kilt swinging, long hair buffeting his back, a flintlock tucked in his belt. He belonged to Scotland and Scotland belonged to him.
Her finger found a tiny bump of excess beeswax. She rolled it between thumb and forefinger, the past coming forth in brilliant color. The grass a rich green skirt around Castle Tioram, the skin of Loch Moidart a restful blue. The tides were out and the sun full. Will had boldly gone to gather the cache of weapons and ammunition in daylight, weapons he’d stored in the castle’s ruins. The Uprising was upon them, and her desperate need to be with Will outweighed distant voices. Her family in Edinburgh, the man she was to marry yet had never met... all vanished when she found the highlands. Her first nineteen years had been as nothing. A wisp of memories, not full-bodied life.
She’d been adrift and Will became her anchor.
But passing into life with Will wasn’t all a pleasant dream.
“I was packing my things when Morag stopped me,” she said, strength growing in her voice.
Morag was the innkeeper who’d hosted them while they waited in the village near Castle Tioram for instructions to journey to Skye, as originally planned, or to journey instead to Arisaig. Her betrothed, Angus MacDonald, had gone missing. Apparently, he was no more interested in marriage to her than she to him.
Tarrying near the castle ruins was no hardship. More time with Will, more summer-blessed freedom. From the moment they’d left Edinburgh,she rode a horse alongside him every day. By Linlithgow, they’d kissed. By Stirling, they’d fallen in love. By Drummond Castle, she’d given herself body and soul to the landless golden-eyed highlander.
Will had shared enticing plans—if she’d go with him.
She was not noble blooded. Her father was a merchant, increasing his circumstances. Her marriage had been about gaining purchase in Western Isles trade. Her rebellious choice to run off and marry Will was brazen enough, never mind that it would happen during a war.
The Uprising had been an argument of principle which faded quickly under the fair skies of young love. Will was a cocksure rebel. He’d been equally sure of persuading the MacDonald of Clanranald to make him a tacksman, to secure rent for the clan chief. The chief, he’d boasted, had already offered him land on the Isle of South Uist. Land he had no reason to take until her. Will had spoken of them being together forever, and she drank it in as a maid of nineteen would.
There was no going back.
Until Morag stopped her.
The pebble-sized wax forgotten, she hugged herself, comfort for what was about to come. Will watched her intently, curious, frustrated, his nostrils flaring as if he’d rattle the truth out of her. Her heart beat strong and true. She was no delicate lady to be rescued. She was hardy enough to follow the drum, but that August day, her eyes had been opened. Others did need rescuing—theweak and the innocent, those who couldn’t speak for themselves.
“Morag told me it is the duty of the strong to look after the weak and fragile.”
Will was a thunderstorm. He couldn’t know a stony lump was rising inside her, so dark and hard yet formless.
“Morag had brought water for me to wash with. She’d seen blue veins on my breasts,” she explained with astonishing quiet.
“Blue veins?” His face twisted in confusion. “What the devil does that mean?”
She swallowed hard. Her secret was fighting for a path to her tongue.
“I was... with child,” she whispered.
There. It was out. She was lighter for it and freer than she’d been in a long time. A burden shared. Will, however, sagged, his brawny form reduced by hearing of his unborn child.
“But... it was—we were barely two months...” Will’s tongue stumbled and he went starry-eyed and mute.
Nothing silenced a man like the shock and wonder of fatherhood. At least that’s what Morag had said to her. It took eight long years to finally see for herself.
She laughed softly. “We were worse than rabbits, though I suspect your seed was planted our first time together.”
Will’s gape was comical. Eyes wide, jaw loose. Speaking of their assignations unburdened her.
“We weren’t as secretive as we thought,” she said.
Was it possible to hide young love? Its beacon shined stronger than a lighthouse on a clear night. Only the daftest person would miss it.
Aunt Flora had been her chaperone across Scotland along with Will and another outrider. A patient clansman drove Aunt Flora and all Anne’s worldly possessions. With Anne on her horse, the cart trailed far behind. She’d never been so unrestricted. Freedom was an elixir served to her by a handsome, attentive highlander. Aunt Flora was a dear. Talented with young children and healing tinctures, she excelled in many things. Escorting willful maidens was not one of them. The old spinster napped daily and slept soundly. Aunt Flora lacked the stern fiber God gave her sister in spades.
